That’s the nature of this arrangement. In that moment, my body isn’t mine. It’s his. And this is the kind of trans sexual domination I’ve come to crave—not the theatrical kind with chains and screaming, but something deeper. Quieter. More final.
I had arrived in Bergamo a few days earlier, renting a discreet apartment in a quiet residential area. Everything was just right: soft lighting, neutral scent in the room, the bed made perfectly with clean, cold sheets.
I prepared myself as I always do when he comes. One hour before his arrival, I showered thoroughly, shaved every inch of my body, and covered my skin in almond-scented oil. No underwear. Just black fishnet stockings with lace at the top—his favorite. Gloss on my lips, eyeliner slightly smudged on purpose, because he prefers it that way. I wore a short black robe and nothing underneath. High heels. Spine straight. Legs tensed. Ready to be used.
I’m not just some random whore. I’m not even just a trans girl. I’m a product. A living sex object. A body to be unwrapped, opened, penetrated. He knows it. I know it. We both like the rules.
At 9:00 p.m., I stood at the window, smoking slowly. Outside, the Bergamo night was still. Inside, I was already soaked. I slid my hand between my thighs to check. Yes. Wet. Warm. Expecting. At 9:03, I heard his steps on the hallway floor—calm, firm, familiar.
He unlocked the door with the electronic key I had given him. He stepped inside without a sound. Long black leather coat, clean boots, sharp eyes. He walked directly to me and grabbed my chin with one hand.
“Stand up,” he said, quietly but without a hint of hesitation.
I rose slowly, trained in elegance. The robe fell to the floor. My body was fully revealed—smooth breasts, firm thighs, a shiny, erect glans above my tightly fitted stockings.
He touched my abdomen, slid his hand down, and cupped my balls.
“Are you excited?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I’m all yours.”
He nodded, calmly. Removed his gloves. Took off his coat and hung it up neatly. Underneath, he wore a tight black dress shirt and tailored trousers. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper. His cock was already half-hard—thick and warm.
I knelt in front of him, ready to take him in my mouth. But he stopped me.
“No. On the bed. On all fours. Face down. Ass up.”
I obeyed. Crawled onto the bed, knees wide, hands gripping the mattress. My lubed, eager hole was presented—open, vulnerable, waiting.
He approached. Tore open a condom and rolled it over his cock in a single, practiced motion. Then he spit on my asshole, rubbed the opening with two fingers, and pushed in. One firm, full, unforgiving thrust.
I gasped. He grabbed my hair and pressed my face into the pillow.
“Quiet,” he murmured. “This isn’t for you. It’s for me.”
And he started to fuck me. Steady, strong strokes that filled me completely and owned every inch of me. I moaned through the pillow, sweat breaking across my back. He was using me, and I was melting from it.
He didn’t speak. He barely made a sound, breathing through his nose like a machine. I wasn’t a person to him—I was a hole, a warm place to unload. And that turned me on more than anything.
My ass stretched around his cock, pulsing and clenching. Every thrust made my eyes roll back. I wasn’t in pain. I was overwhelmed with pleasure. I cried softly—not because I hurt, but because I was his.
This was trans sexual domination at its most honest. I was being owned.
After maybe ten minutes, he pulled out. He stripped off the condom and threw it into the trash. Then, gripping my waist, he flipped me onto my back with strength and ease.
“Spread your legs. Look at me while I fuck you.”
I obeyed. My cock was rock hard, but I didn’t dare touch it. That wasn’t allowed.
He slid on a new condom and pushed into me again, this time slowly, deliberately. His eyes never left mine. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t romantic. He was simply focused—fucking me with precision and complete control.
“You’re a whore. My whore.”
“Yes,” I whispered, “I’m yours. Do anything you want to me.”
His rhythm slowed. Each thrust became deeper. Then he stopped. Pulled out. Peeled off the second condom and dropped it on the floor.
“Where do you want me to cum?”
“On my balls… please…”
He stood over me, stroking himself. The first stream hit my balls. The second landed on my belly. The third coated my cock.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t move. I felt beautiful. Used. Marked.
But it wasn’t over.
He stepped forward. His cock still glistening, still warm. He pressed it against my lips.
“Clean it.”
I knew what he meant. I opened my mouth and took him in—gently, respectfully, without teeth. I licked him clean. Every drop. I sucked until there was nothing left but the taste of sweat and power.
When I finished, he wiped himself, zipped up, buttoned his shirt, and put on his coat.
At the door, he turned.
“Don’t wash,” he said. “Let it dry on you. I want you to sleep in my cum.”
And then he left. No goodbye. No glance back. Just the finality of the door clicking shut.
I stayed there, legs spread, body open, soaked in his seed.
My asshole still throbbed. My skin still tingled.
I was empty, and I was full.
I was his.
That night in Bergamo wasn’t just sex.
It was ceremony.
It was ownership.
It was true trans sexual domination.
