Transgender Fiction Novels & Stories

"Just complete the story. Catch the culprit and you can come back–as simple as that." "Its not that simple." Anastasia said to herself. "Now that I think about it...our story has so much similarities." She said in a whisper. The only difference is–in Madame Lericia's story, the author was the transmigrated one while the reader was the transfered one. While them, the author was the transfered one and her, the reader is the transmigrated one. Madame Leticia heard that and gave her a genuine smile. "Trust me...its different, we're different." She said earning a confuse look from Anastasia.

But it couldn't be that stranger. I couldn't give him what he wanted. I would find someone else. My type. The toilet didn't help me. Neither did the night air. It didn't do anything to cool me down. Nothing could. The world tilted before my eyes. I headed back to the bar for my jacket. My body yearned for release as my cock throbbed painfully inside my pants. And I hated it. I hated how weak it made me feel. I needed something. Someone. Anything to anchor me before I would finally tear my helpless self apart.

This of course reduced the stress of never being able to crossdress at all but increased the longing for wanting to do it more openly and more often. One of the aspects of my longing is that I will often imagine myself as some woman that I see on the street or in some other normal situation. Dr. Lane refers to this as gender transference; I call it a "wanna-be crush." Most men would see a hot, attractive woman and fantasize about being with her; I fantasize about actually being her. Sometimes it's just to feel the sexy, feminine clothes she's wearing, but often I imagine getting laid by one of those male admirers.

I whined, as Meredith finished luridly describing the loud and acrobatic sex they had back in the Qatari's hotel room. "You shouldn't be jealous," Meredith concluded. "Because I don't understand why you can't just loosen up and take what you want, too. The good ones are out there!" But Meredith was missing the point. Perhaps it was a testament to our friendship that she sometimes forgot that I was different from just "one of the girls". My dating and hookup life wasn't limited by my confidence (or lack thereof), or the size of my boobs or spank-ability of my ass. It was my penis. Despite our friendship, Meredith still didn't understand the balancing act that transgender women like me went th

“The one where he snaps.” Evander typed furiously as she stripped, then bent her over the vanity. He took her hard from behind, one hand fisted in her golden hair, the other between her legs. The mirror reflected their joined bodies—her breasts swaying, his face twisted with raw need. “Mine,” he growled, the word slipping out unbidden. Elowen met his gaze in the reflection, pushing back against him. “Then make me believe it.” He did, pounding into her until they both shattered. But as they caught their breath, Evander felt the line dissolving faster. Reality and fiction were bleeding together, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop the hemorrhage.

He had a high sex drive, but lately, he had felt himself drawn to his own gender. And while he had not yet tried anything beyond drunkenly making out with some guy as a stupid party game dare, he had not yet put his desires into practice. But fortunately, he had his trusted Fleshlight. He rifled through his duffle bag. *Where was it? Fuck! I forgot it back in my room back in the collective!*

And then pens started moving. By the end of the week, Ethan had read over twenty stories. Each one gutted him. A trans girl’s poem about her childhood name feeling like a haunted house. A nonbinary student’s short story about a tree that only grew crooked when no one was looking. A gay student who wrote a letter to a father who never spoke again after he came out. Ethan wept alone in his office after reading the last one. And when he got home, he didn’t speak much, just hugged Nathan tightly, burying his face into his chest like the world was too heavy again.