Transgender Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

My clit throbbed under my thumb while I pushed two fingers inside curling them to my satisfaction. Tonight I wanted more. The tips I had made from the other streams had already paid for the electricity and left some for groceries. So I locked the bedroom door, dimmed the lamp until it was almost dark in the room and I started the private show Regular47 requested. Just him and I. I left the voice changer on but turned it lower than usual so my real voice slipped out in places. “Hey stranger,” I murmured. “You’ve been good to me tell me what you want tonight.”

I'm not even sure how or when I let out the heavy sigh that escaped my lips. He's not coming. I sigh, looking down at my outfit that now looks ridiculous in my eyes----- I shouldn't have bothered with this. ... I should have known that people messaging you to fulfill your fantasies only happens in books. Sighing again, I stand up from my bed and bend down to take off my thong, pulling it off my leg and angrily tossing it at my wardrobe while walking towards it. Who knows if this was a set up? I think as I remove my lingerie and pull open my wardrobe, dumping it there and taking out a big t- shirt before closing the wardrobe back.

Now I'm naked, just standing there watching myself. My dick hangs soft, with my balls below. I run my hands over my chest, feeling the smooth scars from surgery. This is me, Jordan, a trans guy owning his body. I turn to the side, checking out my hips and thighs. It all feels right. I wanna feel everything, touch every part until I explode.

A mistake which I couldn't change. Within blink of an eye the sharp knife got in contact with her tongue and blood oozed out of her mouth making her let tears of pain and sorrow to flow like a river. (Kiara's pov when she transmigrated into the Novel - Present) Just remembering Anastacius makes me feel like my tongue will be ripped into pieces. Yesterday I cried while writing the parts I remember from the Novel.

“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.

I wаѕ, but not fоr thе rеаѕоn they thоught. THE END Thank you for joining me on this intense journey through Lost in Lust.️ If you enjoyed this story, I invite you to explore my other novel, “Wild Pleasure”️ A very sexual erotic novel. Nuzel.

Jennifer: Shrug emoji. I decided to take a different tack. This time, rather than pick safe, general stories, I chose a bunch of different categories and sent my favorites from each. One was romantic, about a couple falling in love. The next was about a wife who sleeps with another man. Another had a husband bringing in his best friend for a threesome. I chose one that had some bondage (not my thing, but I picked a story that was highly rated). I sent a Lesbian story and a Gay male one (again, I relied on the ratings). I linked a story about watching two people have sex in the woods, and one about a girl riding a sybian for the first time. I skipped two categories: nonconsent and incest. As

My name is Jennie Dawson. I was just an ordinary college girl whose biggest achievement was pulling all-nighters to read smut novels. Then one night I dropped dead at my desk… and woke up inside the very book I was reading, as a pretty background character who happened to share my name. The heroine, Nancy Porter, was a transmigrator with a system. Her mission was to seduce my brother and turn him into her devoted plaything, living a life of indulgence with her day and night until she could finally return to her world.

They balanced each other in ways neither had expected when they answered the same Craigslist ad. Mia had never dated a woman. Never even kissed one. She’d had boyfriends in college, lukewarm and forgettable, and told herself she was straight because it was easier than questioning. Harper, on the other hand, wore her sexuality like comfortable jeans—openly lesbian since sixteen, no apologies, no hesitation. She dated casually, brought girls home sometimes, and Mia would politely disappear to her room with headphones on, pretending the soft moans through the thin walls didn’t make her thighs press together. But lately, the pretending had started to crack.

She closed her notebook immediately, giving me her full attention. "I want to write," I continued, the words gaining strength as they came out. "Fiction. Intense stories, dark worlds, romances where women like me can exist without being defined only by the pain they suffered. Characters who are more than their scars, who can use what they’ve lived as power instead of just as weight." Dr. Vance stayed quiet for a moment, and I recognized her silence — not the controlled professional one of someone formulating a therapeutically appropriate response, but the one of someone genuinely moved by something.