Inspred by Marcy Sheiner's posting
of a part of her story "Michelle, Ma Belle," from Crossdressing: Erotic Stories,
here's a bit of hers and some of the others. Thanks to Charlie Anders,
author of The Lacy Crossdresser
and host of Writers With Drinks,
for telling me about Marcy's story in the first place! We'll have some reviews and interviews soon as well. I'm really proud of both the diversity and hotness in this book, and don't think either should be lacking at the expense of the other.
"Michelle, Ma Belle"
by Marcy Sheiner
Many years ago, before I knew what a transvestite was–I had a vague notion it had something to do with a sex change–and before I’d explored the far reaches of genderbending, I inadvertently stumbled into a relationship with a cross-dressing man.
Michael and I had been going out for several months, and had become fairly open about our sexual fantasies. But it took nearly a year before he revealed his biggest secret–the contents of his bottom dresser drawer. He was terrified of being ridiculed, but my reaction was mostly jealousy: I fairly drooled over his collection of expensive camisoles, garter belts, pushup bras and lacy stockings. Relieved, he told me that for years he’d been dressing up in secret, sometimes calling a phone sex service to describe his outfits, asking the operator to treat him like a woman.
This was fascinating stuff to me. Since I’m bisexual, the notion of my man dressed as a woman excited me. But it turned out that, though Michael had all the right accoutrements of femininity, he was a total klutz when it came to hair and makeup. He wanted me to teach him how to look ultra-femme...Read more on Marcy's blog, Dirty Laundry
by Tulsa Brown
Rory opened his eyes. For a second he just stared, eyes darting from my face to my breasts to the erection I still tugged between my legs.
“Oh, girl,” he breathed. “You’re so fine.”
Oh, girl. The words ran through me in an electric current. I squeezed myself, my cockhead surging in a sweet throb on top of my delicate fist. Rory unzipped, clumsy with want, fumbled with his shirt and sent a button sailing. It rolled in a spiral on the ugly burgundy carpet. Then he gathered me up and swept me down to that carpet, too.
He was vast, dark, undulating, a powerful wave of a man. I was the red sunset dancing on his surface. On the club floor between the tables, I lapped at his chest and sucked hard on his nipples, feeling his low, hungry sounds vibrate against my lips. He touched me with a rough, working man’s awe, as if he were afraid he might break something.
“It’s my real hair,” I said. “You can pull on it.”
Emboldened, he wrapped the silky length around his fist, tight enough to make my scalp burn. But it wasn’t pain--as soon as he stepped into a wide-legged stance in front of my mouth.
“Just Like a Boy”
by Debra Hyde
The doorbell sounded and I met Matthias at the door, bringing my confusion with me. When he saw me, a “this is perfect” smile washed across his face. He was pleased with what he saw and he wasted no time in showing me. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and planted a rough kiss on me. He pried my teeth apart with his tongue and devoured me. His free hand went right for my crotch and grabbed what little he found there. He rubbed his hand up and down my little bulge.
I should’ve blushed at first touch, but before I could react, Matthias moaned with such lust that his response stunned me. He was getting off on the prick in my pants! I mean, I was prepared for being a faggot boy, but somehow I’d failed to realize that the man who loved cunt--my cunt--would be queer too by virtue of getting hard over my dick.
But hey, what worked for him worked for me, and I humped Matthias’s hand with my boy cock as thoughts of a rampaging ass fuck raced in my head.
Matthias pulled away from me and laughed. “Forget that, kid,” he said as he dragged me by the neck over my hall staircase. “Kneel,” he ordered. As I did, he sat on the stairs, planting himself so his crotch was mouth-level to me.
by Helen Boyd
Laura and Sally were getting completely carried away, not taking any of it too seriously but things were getting a little crazy. Sally had stepped out of her jeans, let her sock fall, and stood in nothing but a pair of white boy-cut panties. She was the classic tomboy, small-breasted but blonde, pretty but athletic. And Laura of course felt like the girliest of girls now, with her cleavage heaving and high heels and the luxurious satin on her legs. Sally jokingly grabbed Laura’s ass the next time she kissed her. It was all so dumb and theatrical but the boys on the couch were actually getting turned on by it, which made the girls laugh harder and harder and act more and more outrageously. “You want a little bit of this?” Sally asked James and turned Laura around, bending her at the waist. Suddenly it wasn’t so funny to Laura, as she felt herself get incredibly wet nearly instantaneously. To have Robert look at her that way was something she desired so much, and knowing James would take the lead would maybe free Robert up to be more obvious about his desires. Besides, James still had those damned gloves on.
It was only natural for Sally to spank her nextæhow could she not?--and the heat she felt on her ass turned her on even more. She wasn’t wearing panties--she had gone without to surprise Robert at the end of the night--and instead she was surprising herself.
“More Than Meets the Eye”
by Stephen Albrow
My suit is by Giorgio Armani, but my underwear is by Victoria’s Secret. The boss wants me to play hardball today, to be at my most masculine, so I need something soft and sensuous against my skin, to keep me in touch with the real me, with Suzy. I spent two hours in the shower this morning, shaving every last trace of hair from my body, while going through the numbers in my head. The boss wants to secure the takeover deal for 2.5 million at the most, but I reckon I can snare them for 1.75, if I push hard enough. Yeah, I’ve got to be a tough guy today--at least, on the outside. Today I’ll be a tough guy in white satin bra and panties, with matching garter belt and tan-colored stockings. (Fully-fashioned, naturally!)
I blend in with the boardroom easily enough, with its ultra-masculine oak-paneled walls and high-back leather chairs. There are ten of us seated round the negotiating table, five of them and five of us. We’re all wearing matching charcoal-grey suits, cos that’s what the well-dressed man is wearing this year. Only one person in the room breaks the dull grey monotonyæthe power-dressed lady sitting directly to my right. She crosses her legs, which makes her skirt ride up and reveal several inches of stocking-clad thigh. Her stockings are the same shade of tan as mine, but hers aren’t fully-fashioned. She’s on their side and she talks quite a lot. Her and my boss make all the introductions, while I wait patiently for my moment--the moment when the number-crunching begins.
“Tough Enough to Wear a Dress”
by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Kate closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, I could tell she’d seen a vision. “Not a tuxedo, exactly,” she said. “A man’s vintage suit, but one custom-made for your body. Very Marlene Dietrich.”
What I knew about contemporary fashion could fit on a penny, with room left over for something actually interesting, like a hot woman’s phone number in very tiny type, but I know my old movies. I nodded eagerly. Marlene in a suit, looking all hot and gender-bending, was my idea of the perfect evening look.
“There’s just one condition,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “The suit’s got to make its first appearance on a date with me. It just seems a shame to waste it on a crowd that won’t fully appreciate it—or the butch wearing it.”
“The Sweetheart of Sigma Queer”
by Simon Sheppard
“That was it. I didn’t see Bret again before I left for winter break. I figured that he’d gotten himself some pussy and forgotten about me. But only a few days after I got back to campus, he came over to me, looking a little shy—which on him looked just plain strange—and said, ‘Want to go for a pizza or something? My treat.’ And so he started using me on a regular basis, in my room when Tony was gone, his room when his roommate was out. Once I even sucked him off in the men’s room at the library, but without the lingerie it wasn’t as good. Tony kept fucking my face, too, I guess when he couldn’t get otherwise laid, but it was Bret I really wanted. It wasn’t because of who he was, really, it wasn’t even his looks. It was because of, well, me. I needed him. I wanted to be pretty for him. I wanted to be pretty so someone would love me.”
He looked in my eyes with an expression so pure, so vulnerable that it made me ache. It made me want to come. It made me want to screw him.
“Finally, one night, it happened. Tony was spending the night at his latest girlfriend’s house, so I invited Bret over. He brought a fifth of Cuervo and a teddy, garters, and stockings. ‘I want you to look like a whore,’ he said, then took a big gulp from the bottle.
“‘A pretty whore,’ I told Bret, hardly believing I was saying it. ‘Your pretty whore.’
by Andrea Miller
Without hesitation Jacqueline threw her arms around my neck, showing me how everything about her was deliciously soft—the crush of her breasts against mine, the tickle of her angora sweater, even the fuzzy smell of peaches on her fingers. I realized I was going to enjoy fucking her for more than just the ironic revenge of it and in the same instant she realized she was attracted to me. I could tell by of the way she instinctively touched the back of my neck then quickly stiffened.
I don’t know what it was Jacqueline liked about me—the hair, the cologne, the lean press of my bones or something else altogether. Maybe something perverse like curiosity of where her lover had been. All I know is that hug marked the beginning of months of seduction. Months of standing too close, of double entendre, of private jokes. I remember once being inches away from her in the storeroom. Hemmed in by books—yes—though mostly that close just because we wanted to be. Jacqueline had her face turned up to me and her lips parted, ready to be kissed. I leaned in like I was going to oblige her and then I quickly turned away. My mouth was watering for her, too, but I knew it was better this way. To make her wait until wanting crushed her guilt, made her reckless. And it was another month before she was that hopelessly ensnared and an opportunity arose—dished up in fact by Tori, who forgot to pick her up one night.
“Jacqueline, it’s dark and wet out there,” I said. “Let me drive you home.”
“Like a Girl”
by Alison Tyler
My breath caught. Each time Logan’s hand pumped my cock, he pressed the base of the toy back against my clit. And each time I felt that connection, I thought I would climax. He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn or say a word. He kept going, pausing only to add a bit more spit to his palm, so that I felt he was greasing me.
Caleb froze. I’m sure something flippant was on the tip of his tongue, but maybe he caught a look at Logan’s face, and that stopped him. He was able to shut the door behind him, and then he stood totally still, and I knew he was waiting for instructions.
“You’re going to come for me, boy?” Logan murmured, crooning to me, but teasing somehow. Taunting me for dressing like this in the first place. He’d told me to buy an outfit for Cal. He hadn’t told me to dress up myself.
My knees would have buckled if Logan hadn’t used one hand to pin my shoulder against the wall, holding me in place easily as the shudders worked through me. The orgasm was almost frighteningly intense. Embarrassingly so, as I was being watched fiercely by the two men in my life. And then it was over, and Logan let me go, and I hiked up my jeans and sank down to the floor, letting the wall support me now.
by Lisabet Sarai
This gaudy finery doesn't interest me. I'm focused on the undress uniform, the sea blue tunic and trousers with the ruby-red piping spelling out ER, Elizabeth Regina, across the chest. The jaunty hat with its circular brim. It's a chilly October night, and my uncle must be wearing the winter weight uniform. The summer uniform is wool too, but light, almost like linen. I reach out a finger and trace the bright trim around the cuff. It feels as though someone is trailing his fingers through the folds of my cunt.
Finally, impatient, I pull my jersey over my head and toss it on the floor, then undo my zip and step out of the skirt. Phil releases an appreciative wolf whistle. I hardly notice. I reach for the tunic, pull it from the hanger, slip my arms into the sleeves, fasten it up to my neck. It's loose, of course. Every time I move, the finely knit fabric brushes over my swollen nipples, fanning the smoldering heat in my cunt into new flame. The cuffs fit snugly. On the shelf I find a pair of spotless white gloves. I pull them on, then consider the trousers.
My cunt is soaked, dripping with desire. In my fantasies, I'm always bent over, my Beefeater's trousers pulled down to bare my bottom to the men waiting behind me. Geoff's pants are way too long, though. Plus if I bring them anywhere near my raunchy wet pussy, they'll be soaked and stained by my juices, and possibly spoiled forever.
That thought by itself almost makes me come. But I cling to a shred of common sense and pass the trousers by. Instead, I reach up to the shelf and pick up the hat. I plant it on top of my tangled red-brown curls. My hair's so thick that it's a perfect fit.
Labels: Crossdressing anthology, erotica