Cross Dressing Stories Novels & Stories

Side by side, Christina and I strolled through the gallery, taking in the vibrant artwork. Christina's love and knack for art were off the charts. She had a way of uncovering the hidden tales in each piece from angles no one else seemed to see. "Erick, check out this painting." She gestured towards an oil painting named 'Nirvana', her eyes alight with excitement. "It's a phoenix rising from the ashes, feathers scorched but eyes blazing with hope and strength for what's ahead. It reminds me of you." Her words caught me off guard, and I turned to her.

“Black Crimson has an extremely distinctive style. If you have someone else paint for him, it’s just going to be written off as a fake.” “No,” Hayden assured him. “It’s not.” When everyone merely frowned, confused, I groaned and rolled my eyes, willing him not to stick out his own neck or admit anything stupid. “No way,” I told him, slashing out a hand. “I’m not down with that plan.” But he didn’t have to say anything. Because Camille suddenly gasped. “Oh my God,” she murmured, gaping between me and Hayden with sudden realization. “Black Crimson isn’t just one person. You guys are like the Brothers Hildebrandt.” She spun to address my brother. “Aren’t you?”

I smiled letting my lust sneak through. "Hold on," Timothy grinned. I was in trouble. "When I helped Cáel move in I saw he had a huge box full of women's clothes - not in his size. He's not a cross dresser." Gee - thanks Timothy, you right bastard. "What is a cross dresser?" Aya piped up. I groaned. "A cross dresser is a man who dresses up like a woman," Nikita provided. "A Drag Queen is a man who dresses up like a famous woman/actress/singer. A transvestite is a man who dresses like a woman because they want to be a woman."

My eyes fluttered open to darkness, a seering pain slicing through my head as I shut my eyes with a sharp hiss. I tried again but darkness… then I felt it, wetness and cold. The events of whatever the fucking time it all happened, came crashing down! Shit! Big Cee and I had stolen some stash from a big mogul at the club… just realizing right now, that it was the biggest mistakes of our lives. We had fucked around with the wrong person! This man had found us in a matter of minutes if I am not exaggerating and the rest is history.

I was a temptation he could no longer resist. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His breathing was uneven. "Take off your dress," he said softly. A request. A command. A confession in itself. I reached for the hem. I didn't speak. I didn't need to. The dress slipped off my shoulders and fell in a whisper to the floor. His gaze didn't roam. It settled—anchored—on me, like I was something sacred. Something stolen from heaven. He sat on the couch, legs apart, arms resting on his thighs, like a man fighting a war inside his own skin.

I walk into the cool premises that’s scented with candles and incense, a very huge difference with the disgusting smell of sweat and heat outside. My short black dress that shouldn’t be seen on a pastor’s wife clinging to my body like a second skin and screaming nothing but sin. The thin mesh of the material is damp with sweat from the blazing heat outside outlining my full breasts and wide hips. I intentionally ignored wearing a bra and panties, I’m here for confessions and deliverance after all and what better way to do it than without underwear. As if being told someone is in the premises, two people suddenly appear from a hidden door behind the altar. Priests to be precise. People that h

Fuck that. I swing my legs out of bed, the coolness of the floor snapping me into motion. I throw open the closet and pull out the tightest black top I can find—low-cut, unapologetic. I shimmy into my black dress and strap on my red-bottom Louboutins with enough force to make the heel snap. But it doesn’t. Shame. Would’ve been poetic. If I’m going to be Nathan Cross’s pet project, I’m going to bleed him for it. One dollar at a time.

He drags the heavy metallic door to something I suspect to be a garage… Oh, no! I freeze. Watching the dangerous weapons in the almost dark room. St. Andrew’s cross. Chains and carabiners. Spreaders bar. Floor-to-ceiling mirror. A table with dirty costumes; masks, dildos of thick sizes, vibrators… gags, blindfolds, whip… Red unholy candles. Thick bumps sprout on my naked body, not out of the fear that kills. But the one that destroys every inch of your body till you're loose.

“No Cass. I’m tired of everything happening to me. I want something that’s mine. Something creative. Something that doesn’t revolve around mates, councils, kings, or accelerated children who quote statistics at me.” Aretha’s mouth curves into a slow grin. “Say no more.” “I want a fashion house that isn’t just about clothes,” I continue, my hands moving as the vision forms. “I want movement pieces. Dance-inspired designs. Clothes that flow when you breathe, when you fight, when you shift.” Cassain watches me like I’m glowing. “And the publishing firm?” Aretha asks. I inhale. “Stories that don’t get told. Supernaturals who aren’t royalty. Omegas, Survivors. People who don’t get a voice because

Ironically, he had the same weird and fetish sexual orientation with Eugene, and Rosita would never know. Jude, deep down inside of him, wanted to experience all the dirty sexual adventures he could ever think and imagine of. He inhaled deeply. He wore his clothes, excused himself, and went out. Not to do anything meaningful but to regain his confidence as a man. The confidence that Rosita has taken away from him. He was going to bang her like he has never done before.