Crossdressing Books Novels & Stories

Just to remind me he was still out there. But it didn’t. Because Nathan Cross doesn’t chase. And I don’t beg. Not anymore. So, I slipped into a routine. Mornings started early. I’d wake before the sun reached the penthouse windows and take too long choosing what to wear. My closet—built on his black card and my rage—was filled with statements. Not his. Mine. Structured coats, architectural dresses, oversized blazers in colors no one with something to prove would dare wear. Every piece whispered one thing:

For no reason, I got excited. I read the note. ["Wear the red dress in your closet. The mask too. Be ready at 9 PM. -D"] I walked to the closet and found a red dress that barely qualified as clothing. It was sheer in places, cut so low my breasts were practically spilling out, and so short that if I bent over even slightly, everyone would see I wasn't wearing underwear. Because of course there was another note. ["No underwear."] Next to the dress was a black masquerade mask. It looked elegant and mysterious.

Ep 1: EVERYTHING BUT SEX Sophia leaned back in the leather chair of the quiet downtown bar, crossing her legs slowly. The black dress she wore hugged her curves just enough to feel powerful, but not enough to look desperate. She needed this meeting to go perfectly. Gabriel Voss sat across from her, looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine instead of in a contract negotiation. His suit fit him like it was made for his body alone.

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

I was defeated. She cleared my desk, dropping every book and bible to the floor, I fought the urge to pick them up as I sat her up on it. She smiled, putting her arms up. I pulled the dress over her head, leaving her exposed. Her nipples hardened from the cool air, and I moved closer, brushing my fingers over them. As a teen, I had my fair share of women, but none of them struck me this way, not even the woman I spent years married to. I dropped my pyjama pants and fisted my cock, it was so hard it was pulsing, leaking with pre cum. “Put it in,” Grace ordered, her voice laced with every ounce of sin I wanted to taste.

Curiosity was eating at her. With an effort, she made herself focus on the other titles. He had books on negotiating, battle tactics, history, agriculture…boring. Didn’t the man read any fiction? There was a book on stained glass that looked mildly interesting, but she kept scanning the shelves, hoping for something more enticing. Her search was rewarded. There, right in the middle of his shelves at eye level, was an entire shelf of books devoted to lovemaking. Wiley’s eyes boggled as she read the titles: An Illustrated Guide to the Sensual Arts. A Woman’s Climax. Emotional Need and the Sensual Virgin. There were dozens of titles.

Chapter 4: Bonds Unbroken The Venetian night wrapped the city in a cloak of shimmering lights and gentle canal whispers as I stood alone for a moment on the expansive terrace of the Rossi penthouse. The cool breeze carried the salty tang of the sea and the faint melody of a distant violin, but it did little to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside me. My body still sang from the relentless passion of the past days, every subtle ache and fading mark on my skin a testament to how deeply the three Rossi brothers had woven themselves into my life. The red gala gown from earlier lay crumpled inside like a shed skin of my old identity. Now, clad only in a sheer black silk robe that clung to m

Elena’s POV After I finished dressing, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, barely recognizing myself. The black, short, side-slit dress hugged me like a second skin, clinging to my curves as if it had been stitched just for me. The neckline dipped low, teasing the top of my breasts, and for once I didn’t feel like a plain secretary. I felt like… someone else. Someone bold. Someone who belonged on his arm.

Soft jazz mingled with the low hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional clink of thousand-dollar champagne flutes. **Damien Cross**, 34, stood near the windows with a glass of aged whiskey in hand. Tall and powerfully built, his broad shoulders filled out his tailored black shirt perfectly. Sharp jawline, piercing dark eyes that missed nothing, and the quiet confidence of a self-made tech mogul who had built an empire from nothing. On paper, he had everything—wealth, power, women throwing themselves at him. Yet tonight, the restlessness gnawed at him. The same polished conversations, the same empty flirtations. He needed something real. Something raw.

Blinding. Something collides with the back of my skull and my world tips. I collapse forward, hands scraping against the floor, vision flickering. The voice changes. Now female. Cold. Detached. “He talks too much.” My blood sings in my ear. My body is failing me, limbs heavy as lead. The man speaks again, voice lower. “He’s remembering, that’s the problem.” I try to lift my head and everything spins. Then I feel it–something brushing my face. Fabric. Tight. Restricting.