Transgender Stories Fiction Novels & Stories

“Please, Vincenzo. Fuck me. Breed me. I can’t take the teasing anymore. I need you inside me.” He kept edging me for what felt like forever. The vibrating plug went in next, buzzing against my prostate while he sucked me slow, pulling off every time I got close. I was crying, begging, tears leaking from my eyes. “Vincenzo…please…let me cum. I’ll do anything. I’m yours. Just fuck me already.” He finally yanked the plug out, flipped me onto my hands and knees, and slammed his thick cock inside me raw. “Fuck yes…” I screamed, pushing back hard. He pounded me deep, hips slapping loud against my ass.

Warning: This is GAY sex story, please skip it if you are not into LGBT content. "Oh God! Professor Cross! Please!" Peter's desperate cry echoed through the locked office as Professor Damien Cross pounded into his ass with relentless precision. Peter was bent over the massive oak desk, his pants around his ankles, his shirt pushed up, completely exposed and vulnerable. And he'd never felt more alive. Damien's fourteen-inch cock stretched him impossibly wide, filling him so completely that Peter could feel it in his stomach. Each brutal thrust pushed Peter forward on the desk, papers scattering to the floor, the wood creaking under their combined weight.

But no one knows about the other side of me. At night, when the house is quiet, I hide under my covers with my phone and read the kind of stories that would make my mother faint. Dark. Filthy. Full of dominant men who take what they want. Girls who beg for it. Degradation that makes my thighs press together and my heart race. I touch myself to those stories, whispering things I would never say out loud, and then feel crushing guilt the next morning. I’m supposed to be pure. Innocent. The perfect daughter.

She didn't want to sound harsh, but frankly, they were in a tough time. "I know. That's why I also asked us to talk. There's something I wanted to ask." Flo said, agreeing. He didn't take her words as offensive because they were the truth. Flo's comment, "If you're really from a different dimension," piqued Aesthelia's interest."In what circumstances made you transmigrate into this world?" "It was really meant this way, I transmigrated here after reading a novel," Aesthelia said. Flo looked taken aback. The fact that they are fictional was something he never imagined. Aesthelia knows what he's thinking and will explain more later. The Multi-universe and so on.

My life slowly came back on track as I resumed my classes for the final year exams and was working hard to manage everything. I used to write short stories for the website when Warren approached me through an email to write a book that he will publish. I was not sure if I was good enough to be published, but Warren showed great confidence in me. The first story I wrote was about the hardships my grandmother faced. It was a tragic story of a selfless woman who killed herself to save her daughter from the clutches of the brothel and the sad reality of women in the eighties.

Witches aren’t afraid of being misunderstood. The site is a forum for anonymous storytelling. I’ve been scrolling through it for weeks, posts from strangers that feel like confessions whispered in the dark. Survivors of things no one else believed. Wives writing about marriages no one would envy. People who carry entire wars inside their bodies and still find the words to put them down. I click “New Post” and my heart pounds in my ears. Title: He Married My Womb, Not Me. I don’t overthink it. My fingers start moving.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

I consoled him and gave him some water. “She locked me up in the store room” “WHAT? IN THE STOOR ROOM? HOW DID YOU COME HERE! Tell me everything.” I questioned. “I was locked inside since morning and when she opened me up, I ran and hid here. She warned me that she’ll lock me again if I told this to anyone.” I stood up and as I went forward Zac held my leg and started to cry. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to get locked please.”

“Women in this world…they are not seen or understood as capable of this sort of thing. It will be me that’s the villain in this story – at least on the family’s surface. I’m just…telling you how it is. I don’t agree with it but…that’s the story they’ll tell.” I sit back hard against my chair then, my hands loose around the scraps of paper in my lap, quietly contemplating this. Thinking that I lost a great deal of my identity the moment that Nico carried me out of that strip club – that I became an object to be hoarded, and kept safe, and locked away, and traded, and held hostage… That it’s never really been about the life I wanted or where I wanted to go or how I wanted to live. Hell…I didn’

His stories made her so aroused she'd begun masturbating nightly, imagining herself in half of what she'd read. On an impulse, she'd sent him an email, confessing how much she enjoyed his stories about younger girls and mature men, asking what provided the stimulus - if he'd really had those kinds of experiences. He'd answered back two days later, thanking her for her compliments, and saying how nice it was to get positive feedback from readers.