Working Out with My Futa Trainer

Pushed to the limit…

Griffin’s gym membership has been collecting dust since January. That’s all going to change today—but it might be harder than he thinks to lift all that weight over his head. But then he runs into the stunning Helena, a personal trainer who’s hungry for clients like him, and she might help him find all the motivation he needs.

Helena is going to grind him under her heel in front of the whole gym, and he might just get a special surprise in the showers if he performs to her liking. Is Griffin always going to be the laughingstock of the gym? Or will he be able to handle Helena’s demanding regimen?

This 6100 word, futa-on-male, public, MILF, feminine man, older woman younger man, humiliation, foot fetish, first time, workplace erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


She lifts the bar up and back onto the rack without breaking a sweat.

I realize that I’m gasping for air.

“Jeez,” I sputter out like a car on its last legs, “thank you. I was getting really worried for a second there.”

My gratitude lands on deaf ears.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands in a voice that’s loud enough to attract the attention of the group of guys at the free weights rack.

“I… I was just trying to uh, bench.” I can’t even look her in the eye, but it doesn’t matter.

“You really could have hurt yourself,” she continues. “Do you know what could have happened if no one was here to cover your fuck-up?”

I try to find an answer, but my ears are filled with the sneers of the guys watching us. I know my face is turning a deep scarlet, but I can’t do anything to stop it.

There was a bowl of Halloween candy on the counter in my apartment, and it was begging me not to go. Maybe I should have listened.

“I’m really sorry,” I say, my voice barely making it to her ears. “I guess I underestimated how heavy it would be. The videos made it look so easy. It’s my, uh, first time here. I didn’t wanna bother anyone by asking for help.”

She doesn’t say anything for a minute. I glance at the free weights guys but they have already lost interest in me at this point. When I look up at her, she’s shaking her head. As embarrassed as I feel, I can’t help but feel very attracted to this woman. And it’s not because she’s pretty. Even though she is. It’s her figure. She’s built like someone who could climb a mountain and still have the energy for a sex romp–why did I get that image?–at the top. Is it possible to be muscular and curvy at the same time? Like a soccer mom who never lost her figure. If I have to listen to anyone today, it would be her.

“You’re kind of pathetic, aren’t you?” she asks.

She doesn’t wait for me to answer. Which is good, because I don’t know if I agreed.

“You don’t look like you’d know a chin-up from a pull-up.” She offers her hand. “Helena. I’m a personal trainer here. And by the looks of things, you could use someone like me.”

I shake her hand and laugh the little laugh that I can muster.

“Griffin. And yeah, I guess so.”

Helena pulls me up from the handshake. She looks me up and down. I feel more self-conscious than I did walking into this place, but I can’t read her face. I wonder if it’s all just pity for me.

“I’d do more than guess if I were you. Today’s your lucky day, though. Every gym member gets one free session, and we’re all competent so I know you’ve never had your freebie.”

I hesitate to find the words. It’s bad enough that she had to save me from an inanimate bar of metal, but I’m hopeless around women I find attractive.

“Thanks,” I say, “but it’s okay. I mean, I don’t want to be a hassle, and I was hoping I’d figure it out myself, and uh, maybe I’ll just hop on the treadmill.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not going to put on any muscle flopping around on the treadmill.”

“I know, but…”

“Do you? Look, it’s obvious you don’t know what you’re doing,” she says, “but you just collapsed under 85 pounds of weight. Why don’t you be a man and give me a try? What do you have to lose, anyway?”

I sigh. She’s right.

“Okay.” I tense up what little muscle I have. “I guess it won’t hurt.”



“It hurts, very much.”

My arms shake as I struggle to do push-ups, something I haven’t had to force myself through since I was in grade school P.E. class. I’m in the limbo between straight arms and bent arms and my body won’t let me go either way. I can’t do it. All the air in my lungs is pushed out of me as I crash down to the floor again.

“If you spent more time focusing on your breathing than complaining, maybe you wouldn’t fall down so much.”

Helena rolls me over with her sneaker and plants her foot on my chest. Where her yoga pants end and her socks begin, there is the slightest hint of her ankle peeking out into the world. It’s a slender thing, and I find myself wondering what the rest of her foot looks like.

It’s not really something I like to think about, how I have a thing for feet, but right now I’m taking any escape I can get from floundering on an old mat on the gym floor.

“Hey, eyes up here, Griffin.”

I blink up at her in surprise.

“What’s wrong, why are you being all weird?”

She prods me with her shoe again, and I just shake my head, sneaking another glance at her ankle.

“N-nothing. I’m all good. I can try again.”

She narrows her eyes. She slides her sneaker down the front of my shirt. I can feel the ball of her foot pressing down on me. She reaches my bellybutton but she doesn’t stop. I realize that Helena isn’t looking at my face anymore. She’s looking at my shorts.

I do my damnedest to fight against my body, but I don’t think I can stop what’s coming.

“Um, I think I’m ready to try again,” I stammer.

Her sneaker pauses on my hip. If she brought her heel down flat, she would be standing on the body part I’m trying to keep from reacting.

And just like the bench press and the push-ups, I fail.

My cock twitches in my shorts.

I get ready to apologize, but she quickly steps off of me and turns me over again.

“Get into starting position again,” she says. “This time, we’re going to try something different.”

I plant my hands on either side of my body and push up to my newest, most-hated enemy: the plank.

“Stop letting your torso dip down. You look like a reverse camel. Engage your core like you mean it, Griffin.”

Okay, so after raising my back, now I’m in a plank position.

Already, my abs are fighting to be let go from this prison.

But then Helena stands just in front of my head. I’m looking down at her sneakers, clean and white yet decorated with lines of neon color.

“This time, every time you go down, I want you to get as close as you can to my shoes.” She bends down–damn, she’s flexible–and adds, “Close enough that you can kiss them.”


“Don’t look up, you’re going to ruin your form. You heard me correctly. I never misspeak. Now be a good boy and do what you’re told, because I can always start yelling at you.”

I can only hesitate for so long before my arms completely give.

I bend down at the elbows, keeping my eye on the–prize?–goal.

“Keep your elbows tucked in,” Helena says above me. “We’re trying to work on your chest, not rip apart your elbow joints. Come on, how did you reach this age without someone teaching you how to do it right?”

I don’t have a comeback for her because I’m too busy straining. On one hand, I can’t believe how weak my arms are. On the other hand, she just asked me to kiss her shoes. Maybe that’s what I deserve for being so weak.

I close my eyes as my arms start to shake again, going lower, lower, until my mouth connects with something dry and fuzzy.

I open my eyes. Her laces. Holy shit. I give her sneakers another kiss and grunt in effort as I push myself up.

“Holy shit,” I say in disbelief. “I actually did it.”

“You did one, Griffin. No cause to throw a party just yet. Give me seven more.”


My knees drop onto the mat, and my shoulders droop.

I say, “I don’t think I can do that many.”

When I look up at her again, she’s started to take off her shoes. My eyes widen. She takes off her sneakers and her socks, and I find myself staring at her bare, wrinkled soles. She stands in front of me again.

“There. Is this going to push you to try harder?” she asks.

Her toes are painted an electric blue, like a line of candies waiting to be eaten.

Without words, I get back into plank and do my first push-up.

I almost don’t feel the struggle as I get my first taste of her toes. I breathe in deep, and I am awarded with a sweet and spicy smell of Helena’s sweat.

I push, with a renewed vigor in my arms.

“One,” she says, with a tone of impatience.

I’m trying, Helena. I’m trying really hard.

Number two. Another kiss of her pretty feet.


Three. I want to lick her, but she didn’t tell me I could do that.



“What’s wrong? Go all the way down. Full range of motion, Griffin.”

I hear laughing again, coming from behind me a ways. I think it’s the same group of guys, but I can’t be too sure because when I look under me in between my legs, I can only see the little tent I’m pitching in my shorts.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You’ve done three already, you were doing so well. Are you just going to let them laugh at you like this? Do you like being made fun of?”

“No, it’s not that. I…”

I am finding it exceedingly difficult to say, ‘I’ve got a hard-on.’

It turns out I don’t need to.

Helena kicks me over again, and suddenly I’m on my back with my flagpole displayed for all to see. I hear them burst into laughter, and it would be enough to make all of me shrink down into nothing, but Helena steps on me.

No, not me. My cock. She lays my hard-on down flat on my belly with her foot. My tip is pinched between her first two toes. My entire length is under her sole. If there wasn’t a layer of clothing separating the two of us, I don’t know if I’d be able to take it.


Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


Mrs. Johnson’s Sissy Harem

This is not your everyday hazing ritual…

A secret society on campus? Exclusive orgies at a secret location? It’s the story of the year, and Bobby’s going to be the one who pens the article. Infiltrating the candle-lit initiation ceremony was only the first step, but in order to continue going undercover, Bobby has to strip down and change into something more comfortable. Hair and make-up and all.

The leader of this secret society might have an entire stable of sissy men vying for her attention, but she has her eye on the would-be journalist. She’s not going to make it easy for him, though. Bobby is going to have to become a hungry, little submissive and beg for it. It’s going to be a long night for Bobby, and once he takes his first wild ride, there might be no going back.

This 6000 word, futa-on-male, reverse harem, feminization, crossdressing, first time, oral, MILF, college, older woman younger men, femdom chastity, humiliation erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another one of my sexy stories!


Sailor’s car takes us to a house. An ordinary house, with ordinary windows, and a striking red door. It’s on fraternity row, except there aren’t any Greek letters on the face of the building. It was always one of the few unlit lawns on this street. But it’s not that way tonight. Tonight, the lights on the second floor are on.

As I follow the others up the steps and into the red door, I am fully aware of the chastity device locked around my cock. Every bump in the road made me brush against its confining plastic walls, and the sensation was equal parts exciting and maddening. I couldn’t even poke a finger through to touch myself. It’s like it was made with my exact size in mind.

There is scant furniture on the first floor. As if I needed any more convincing that this place was where all of those rumored sex parties were going on. I bet the bedroom’s dressed to the nines.

They know my real name. They must know that I write for the campus paper. So once I do write about it, the Sisterhood is going to know it was me, all me. But I’m taking that chance. I might not have any pictures of this, but this crazy dream is a memory that the waking morning won’t be taking away.

Besides Schoolgirl, Sailor, and Librarian, there’s also Nurse, Cheerleader, and… ’80s Fitness Instructor? He has a leotard, leg warmers, and a headband on. I’m going with ’80s Fitness Instructor. They had me practice changing my voice on the ride over. Apparently, their leader really likes it when you throw yourself into being a woman instead of just wearing the outfit.

I have to get into her good graces if I’m going to be reporting on everything.

They lead me to the bedroom. Sailor opens the door and we find the leader, still in her robe, scrolling through her phone. At the sound of us coming in, she looks up. I still can’t see her face, even in the soft light of the bedroom, but I get a better look at her.

She’s a curvy woman, and tall. She has red nail polish on her toes and fingers, matching the nails of the men who brought me here. Her legs are bare, the robe thrown onto the bed like a cape, and I can see her cock poking out from under the edge. Her breasts are heavy with weight. The thought of sucking on her nipples… My cock strains against its little prison.

“It took you all long enough,” she says. That damn voice. The leader aims her cowled head in my direction. “You did well, though. I think it’s time to reward you.”

“Oh, mistress please,” Cheerleader says. “We would love that.”

“I know you would,” is the boss’s reply. “Don’t speak unless I tell you it’s okay. For that, you’re kissing my foot tonight.”

Cheerleader’s eyes are cast down to the floor. “Of course. I’m sorry I spoke out of turn.”

He gets on her hands and knees and crawls to the woman on the bed. My thought is out before I can contain it: his butt looks great in that striped skirt. Cheerleader takes his leader’s foot in his hands and starts worshiping it. He kisses her sole, sucks on her heel, licks her toes.

The leader points to Fitness Instructor and then to her other foot. Without another word, Fitness Instructor follows Cheerleader’s lead. As they worship at the leader’s feet, I can see them both get hard under their panties.

Next, Nurse is ordered to suck on her nipples. He are gentle with the leader’s body. He even makes little appreciative noises as he suckles on her breasts. Manhandling is definitely not a word I can use for what I’m watching.

But it is getting hot in here. And I don’t think I can blame it on the costume I’m wearing, either.

Nurse takes off the leader’s robe, allowing the rest of us to look at her naked body. But not her face. She’s got a half-mask on that covers her nose and eyes. She smirks at me like she knows how disappointed I am. But I can see enough to know that she’s a blond with hair that deserves to be in a shampoo commercial. I think back on all of the blondes that work at the school. But I still can’t figure out who this woman is.

She throws her head back in obvious pleasure as she is being worshiped by three different men, all of whom are doing their best to make her experience as sensual as possible. It’s interesting to watch. It’s like they’re competing with each other.

I’m getting so hard. Or at least I’m trying to. The chastity device amplifies my frustration a hundredfold.

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo…” The leader’s finger lazily points from Librarian to Sailor. The Sailor is chosen, and he doesn’t even need to receive orders. He knows where he’s going.

Sailor’s mouth closes over the leader’s cock, which grows from its half-hard form to a fully erect one inside Sailor’s mouth.

“Thank you for choosing me to suck your cock,” Sailor says in between hungry slurping noises.

“You’re such a cock-hungry slut, aren’t you?” the leader asks, as she strokes Sailor’s wig. “You take that dick like the little bitch that you are.”

“God, yes, I’m your slut, Mrs. Johnson.” Sailor slaps the cock against his face. “Yours and yours alone.”

My eyes widen. Mrs. Johnson? The English professor? My English professor? I can’t believe it.

I knew that voice sounded familiar, but… I still need to see her face. I need to know for sure.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, adding, “Mistress?”

She smirks again. “You don’t learn as quickly as I thought you would. What did I say about no talking?”

“I’m sorry, I was just–”

“What did I say?” She doesn’t even raise her voice.

“Not to speak out of turn.”

“So don’t.” She nods at Librarian. “Help him watch.”

I question what that means exactly before I find out: Librarian’s lubed finger invades my asshole. It feels weird at first but then it’s like Librarian finds the secret button in all men no one can touch. It feels better than jacking off. I’m desperate to touch myself, but my boner is contained by the chastity device. I watch these men, dressed as women, please this perfect model of a woman, and I can’t do anything about it.

But squirm from Librarian’s touch.

“Please,” I whisper. “Stop that. I can’t… It’s too good.”

Librarian doesn’t stop. I’m not in charge here. Mrs. Johnson is. My knees start to shake.

“Tell me that you want to be a good little whore.” Mrs. Johnson’s eyes bore holes into me. The sound of Sailor sucking her off is all I can hear.

I don’t say anything. I am afraid. Afraid of what’s going to come out of my mouth.

“Say it,” she orders.

“I…” My erection is rock-hard and it has nowhere to go. “I want to be your good little whore. Please.”

“You’re mine, and mine alone. You’re my bitch, and no one else can fuck you except me. Say that.”

“I’m yours. Yours alone.” I use the voice we practiced in the car. “I’m your bitch, mistress, and you’re the only one who can fuck me.”


“I’m your bitch. Oh, God.”

Librarian’s finger is all the way up my ass.

And then he stops.

They all stop.

“Come here,” Mrs. Johnson says. Her finger beckons me closer.

I can breathe again.


I like to think of myself as a confident guy. I can hang with the guys, I can stare someone down, and I can take a punch.

I know that last one because I’m too stubborn to dodge.

But all of that bluster, all of that machismo–it disappears in front of this woman. What I can see of her face is emotionless. There is no reality that exists where I am a threat to her. Whatever I have, she has more a hundred times over. The curves of a woman, the low-hanging cock of a prize bull. The affection of her men and the authority over them. I can feel the man in me start to shrink away, and be replaced by a girl who wants to please her master.

And I haven’t even seen her face.

She snaps her fingers, and Librarian places my phone in her hands. I watch, helpless, as she punches in the number code to unlock the screen.

She swipes through my pictures, many of them just black voids with the occasional torch light or a blurry figure in a robe. The leader shakes her head.

“Oh, Bobby,” she says. Not disappointed, or angry. But amused. “These pictures aren’t going to do at all for your little article, are they?”

My heart stops. “How did you know about that?”

“Mike told me.”

My mind starts running at a breakneck speed. I was never undercover to begin with. Mike knew what was going to happen to me.

“Why?” I ask. “Why would he do that? Why would you agree to this? Why me?”

“Normally, I like dangling the carrot in front of my pets, but I like how that pretty face of yours looks whenever I drop bombs on it. Let me do another one.”

Sailor resumes his cock-sucking duties, and Librarian joins him. I’m entranced by the way both of their tongues work on the leader’s cock. I feel an utter need to join them. To take part. She continues.

“Once upon a time, there was a little party going on in your dorm. It was the first time you met your friend, Mike. While you were drunk off of your ass, you bumped into your dresser and knocked it over. Ever the peacocking man, you tried to get it upright again, but the top drawer fell off. Well, what was inside but a great number of women’s panties.”

I couldn’t look her in the face anymore.

“Of course, you explained it off at the time as… what was the word you used? Conquests? Such a boyish thing to say. But Mike, my beautiful Mikayla, spotted tags on one pair. Meaning unless you lifted it from a girl’s bag before she even got a chance to wear it, you had to have bought it. Now, what would a man like you need a pair of panties for? Mike was puzzled. And saw an opportunity to gain points with me. He spied on you, Bobby. Until one night he hit pay dirt and found you wearing them. Posing in the mirror. And then you lived happily ever after. Until now.”

I hear a clicking sound. The sound my phone makes when it takes a picture.

My head shoots up, and she is showing me the picture she’s taken of me in my maid outfit, the chastity device peeking out from under the skirt.

“I think your name is Bridget now,” she says with a smile. She throws my phone onto a nearby pillow and pulls a key out of the nearby end table. She unlocks the device keeping my cock trapped, and it falls to the floor with a hollow clunk. All at once, my hardness shoots forward, nearly hitting her face.

She looks up at me.

“I bet you want me to put that into my mouth,” she says, the hot exhale of every word hitting me. She licks her lips, and if I was an eighth of an inch closer to her face, her tongue would have lapped up the pre-cum dripping off of me.

“Yes, mistress.” My voice is a whisper now.


Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


New Release: Bent Over by My Futa Boss

The new hire gets a special training session with his talented boss…

Isaac hopes his new receptionist gig will be a stepping stone to a career as a salesman, but there’s one problem: he doesn’t know the ABCs of selling. Fortunately for him, his new boss Ngozi, a fierce black Amazon of a woman, would be more than happy to give him a few pointers about turning his cold pitch into a hot sale. And Isaac is more than willing to learn.

But when Ngozi’s first lesson reveals she has a whole lot more going on under the hood, will Isaac be ready to step up to the plate and take her on toe-to-toe? Or will he forever destined to be at the bottom?

This 5400 word, futa-on-male, workplace, interracial, hot wife, MILF, feminine man, workplace erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


“Well, aren’t you a sweet little thing?” my new boss says after I introduce myself. “Glad to finally meet you. Linda told me all about you. You’re going to fit right in. Go ahead, come in, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She shakes my hand, quite firmly, and I notice the huge wedding ring on her finger. It looks like it’s housing a diamond bathed in pink light. She catches me staring at it, and she pretends to fan her face with her ringed hand.

“Yeah, you can tell he really loves me, huh?”

Ngozi Day is easily two heads taller than me–although I’ve always been a little on the short side for a guy–and is built like a runway model. She also looks like she’s one of those women who have a social media account where they just post pictures of themselves doing yoga and every man with an internet connection comments about how much they want to fuck her. By which I mean to say, she is very, very fit.

Her dark skin shines even in the drab light of the office, and the way her wild hair bounces around her hoop earrings makes my heart skip a beat. She brushes a bunch of hair behind her ear with a pedicured hand. The dark red nail polish is as inviting as her smile is. She points to cubicles in succession as we walk alongside each other down the hall.

“That one’s Jerry’s office. You don’t want to direct anyone who isn’t a previous client before 11 am. His prime time is after he’s stuffed himself with lunch. Oh, and this desk belongs to Zara. You’ll like her. Sweet as can be, but god damn, she knows how to close.”

I try to take in all of the information that she’s giving me, but I can’t help but be distracted by my new boss. My hormones are throwing a party inside of me. Ngozi is dressed like someone who knows they’re sexy and isn’t afraid of looking like it. Even at work. Her dress hugs the lines of her body, from the top of her mane of hair to the bottom of her high heels. And those legs. God shaped those legs.

Whenever she thinks I’m looking at the cubicle she’s pointing at, I’m really ogling her cleavage. I try to shake myself out of it, because the last thing you need to do on your first day is undress your boss with your eyes.

“…but besides that, what do you think?”

My mouth hangs open. It’s hard having this woman give all of her attention to you.

“Well, I uh…” I pretend to do an understanding nod as I look back at all the cubicles. “I probably should have written all that down. I brought my notebook, and…”

“Oh, you were going to take notes today? Oh my God, that’s so cute.”

She places a hand on my side, giving me a little squeeze. I find it a little personal, but I’m not complaining. I’m surprised I don’t prematurely ejaculate right then.

“Anyway, this is our last stop. The break room. No one else is due to come in for another hour. Why don’t we talk a little more?”

She shows me in, and I start taking deep breaths because I’m not going to be able to take a cold shower anytime soon.


“So what do you want to get out of this job? I assume you don’t want to be a receptionist forever, unless this is one of those ‘side hustles’ that you young people are always going on about.”

Ngozi looks at me over the rim of her mug as the steam wafts up and over our heads. We are on opposite sides of a table that is much too wide. I much preferred being right next to her, but at the same time, I can barely look her in the eye as it is.

“Yeah,” I say, taking another sip. The mug is almost shaking in my hand. “I don’t know if Linda told you, but I told her that I wanted to eventually promote up to be a salesman someday.”

“‘Someday?’ You’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t put a number on it, honey.”

A nervous chuckle betrays my lips.

“I was thinking, like, a year.”

Ngozi leans over the table. Her breasts spill out over the firmness of her arms, but what keeps my attention are her dusky eyes.

“That’s more like it. Young man like you, that’s ambitious.” She licks her lips. “So tell me, what’s your sales experience?”

“I don’t really…”

“Call centers? University alumni donations? Selling weed to your dorm mates? I’m flexible.”

A sudden image of my boss doing the splits flashes in my mind. I’ve been called wimpy before, but I definitely know that I’m a man.

“None,” I manage to sputter out. “I mean, no sales experience.”

“I see.” She leans back in her chair again, crossing her leg over the other one. The hem of her dress has ridden up a little bit and I can see a bit more of her chocolate thigh. I can tell that I’ve deflated her a little bit, though.

“But I’m really willing to learn!” I add.

She seems to consider this as she eyes me. I fight to maintain eye contact with her.

Until, finally, she smiles at me.

“I believe that.” She puts her coffee to the side and crosses her arms. “You know what, you seem like a smart young man. This receptionist gig is kid’s work. You don’t need training for that, do you?”

“S-sure,” I say. Another sip of coffee to fill the gap in the conversation. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible, if I can.”

“Oh, we definitely can.” She throws her halo of hair behind her head and tips her head in thought. “It’s decided, then. Forget the receptionist training. I’m going to start putting you through salesman training myself. How does that sound?”

My mouth freezes in a smile. It’s only my first day and I’ve already secured alone time with my super hot boss. Well, that and professional development time.

“That sounds great!” I take out my notebook and pop the cap off my pen. “Where do we start?”

She laughs. “You can start by putting the notebook away. You need to come across to the client as confident and knowledgeable. The second you hesitate, or stammer, or go ‘um’ then you’ve lost the sale. It’s a lot like dating. Are you seeing anyone right now?”

I look into my coffee and see my reflection. “Not right now, no. But I mean, I want to focus on my career and–”

“See, just like that? Don’t give me an explanation unless I ask for it. It makes you look weak, and honey, you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

I nod, knowing how right she is, and I try to withdraw as deep as I can into my shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, honey. This is where I come in.” She takes the chair next to me and leans in close. I can feel the tip of her heel resting against my shin. “You just have to really want it. Pretend you’re trying to get me to date you. Sell yourself to me.”

“I…” Is she for real? “Like, a list? Of making myself look good?”

“You don’t need to worry about looking good,” she teases. “Except for that tie, it’s a little wrinkled. But it adds to your charm. Looks only get you so far. You have to make me believe that I’ll like being with you.”

“Okay, well… I uh, I’m a good cook so I can cook for you if you don’t feel like going out. And, uh…”

“That’s a good start, keep going.”

“And I like trying new things, as long as that thing isn’t sky-diving, and I like reading and meaningful conversations and hiking.”

She looks into my eyes. I look back into hers, and I suddenly notice how dry my mouth is.

“Do you have a big cock, though?”

I can’t believe my ears.

“It’s okay. Go ahead. Whatever you say, just say it confidently.”

“I think it’s a good size.”

She sees through my lie. “It’s okay, honey. At least you have a cute butt.”

I must be blushing hard, because she puts her arm around my back and gives my shoulder a squeeze.

“You’re doing really good. Sometimes you have to push past being uncomfortable. Let’s introduce a complication to our little scenario.”

She stands up, and without warning, Ngozi lifts up her dress.

I stare at a thick, black cock, hanging between her legs.


Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


New Release: Dancing with Auntie Futanari

Crashing the wedding from behind…

Adam is trying hard to be excited for his dad’s second wedding, but he’s worried about what this means for the future. That all changes when he meets Rachel, his stepmother’s sister, a woman with a very friendly smile and a very unfulfilling marriage. The two hit it off, but can they take it anywhere past a forbidden kiss? Especially if Rachel is hiding a big secret under her dress?

Adam and Rachel might not be the ones tying the knot, but that won’t stop them from turning up the heat after the veil is raised. Desire is heavy in the air at this wedding that pulls out all the stops. This 5800 word, futa-on-male, cheating, oral, first time, taboo, romantic erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


Outside the window, the hotel crew is busy arranging white, plastic chairs into precisely angled rows facing a wooden arch decorated with white roses and draped with gold and emerald streamers. Cards proudly stating whose butt is to go into which seat are lovingly laid upon plush cream pillows. The backdrop is just right for a wedding: a proper beach, punctuated by the sand, the horizon, and the carefree yelp of seagulls.

And that’s just the ceremony area.

I turn and watch Dad still meticulously running his fingers through his hair, using pomade like a sculptor uses a chisel. I’m still working on getting the front tail of my tie to be longer than the back tail.

“There’s a lot of sag in those shoulders, Adam. One could almost think you were forced to attend your own father’s wedding. Aren’t you excited? It’s a whole new adventure. For the both of us.”

“Of course I’m excited,” I lie, “but you’re going to spend your honeymoon moving into a new house together. Don’t you think everything’s moving a little too quickly?”

“When have I ever moved too quickly?” Dad replies with a mischievous grin.

It’s an inside joke between the two of us. In the last year alone, my father has started a new business, converted to Buddhism, bought a boat, and then bought nine books about living life minimally. It feels like he’s taken it upon himself to be the main character in the movie of his life, and even though I give him shit for it, I admire that about him. To put it into perspective, I’ve been a bartender for the last three years.

I sigh, but regardless I get up and open a drawer to pop open my pre-wedding surprise. Dad whirls around at the sound of whiskey pouring into the glasses–already monogrammed with his and my new stepmother’s initials. The liquor is as deep and brown as the earth, and smells like a firebrick oven.

I hand him a glass, and he’s beaming so much, you’d think it was my wedding.

“It’s a little smoky, because I know you like smoky, but it’s also got a real fiery kick to it.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, no backing out now?”


Our glasses clink, a tiny noise in the storm. We down our drinks in one mighty gulp, and it turns my taste buds into a music festival.

Dad whoops as the whiskey coats our insides in the only way good whiskey can. He looks at his glass in amazement, like he couldn’t believe anything like that could be served in mere glassware.

“That almost tasted like barbecue sauce.”

“Oh yeah.” I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror, a picture that has been constant since I was a kid. “You want another one?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. I see his eyes water a little bit and I’m about to chastise him for crying (because if he starts, I’ll start), but then he places his hands on my shoulders.

“Whether as a son or my Best Man, I couldn’t ask for a better you, Adam. You’re probably more nervous than I am, but I just need you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a wedding, bucko. Try to have a little fun?”


It is amazing how quickly the white seats fill up. Mostly with Karen’s brood. If there’s one thing I know about my stepmother’s family, it’s that they’re a very loud people who have a very high opinion of themselves and their interpersonal drama. It’s like watching three soap operas going on at once and they’re all competing with each other. Not that our family is perfect, but they only get like that when they’re drunk. Which should be roughly an hour after the lovely couple says, “I do.”

Still, Dad stands under the arch, oblivious to the madhouse he stands in the middle of. I take a deep breath.

The other groomsmen seem to have been paired up with their respective bridesmaid. I hear that some of them are planning to dance their way down the aisle, and I feel embarrassed for them already.

I’m going to be the last one to walk out, so all I have to do is not trip on the carpet and I’m set. I just have to find the Maid of Honor.

That’s when I find her.

She’s standing alone, an older woman with her hands crossed in front of her waist clutching some flowers. The emerald dress to my (adequately tied) green tie. She’s like the eye of the storm compared to the rest of the wedding party, and as I look at her, all of the other noise seems to be muted out. When she spots me looking at her, her brows furrow, and as realization sets in, a tentative smile grows into a wide, happy one. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but attraction at first sight definitely exists.

I figure she must be Karen’s best friend or something.

I offer her my hand at the same time that she spreads her arms out for a hug. I blush as I change my approach to a hug and she extends her own hand. She laughs, and it’s bright and non-abrasive and reminds me nothing of my future step-mother’s family. She takes my hand and shakes it, simultaneously pulling me in for a hug with her other arm.

“That was about as awkward as you could ask for,” she says. She fingers the chain necklace around her neck.

As quiet as she seemed to be, there is a confidence supporting her voice.

“Tell me about it.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “Maid of Honor, I presume?”

“That’s me. Nice to finally meet you, Best Man. Are you as excited for Bride and Groom as I am?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” It figures that I mean someone cute at the wedding and stick my foot into my mouth repeatedly.

The rest of the bridal party gets in line and Mendelssohn’s Wedding March starts to blare out over the speakers, which is our cue to get into serious mode. She hooks her arm around mine, as we join the queue. One by one, the pairs walk down the aisle, their previous plans to do something silly dashed by the heaviness of the moment.

“It’s okay, I was just giving you a hard time,” Maid of Honor says into my ear.

She pats my arm and gives me a reassuring look. I smile back.

“I’m Adam, anyway,” my whispers nearly drowned out by the March. “I’m Groom’s son.”

She giggles.

“I’m Rachel. Bride’s sister.”

I spend the entire time glancing over at Rachel, her silver chain necklace, and the bundle of summer flowers in her hand, paying only a token amount of attention to the actual ceremony. Sorry, Dad. I hope it doesn’t come across that way in the wedding photos.

The crazy thing is, I think Rachel does the same thing.


“I think all I have to say, the core idea I’m trying to get across, is that when I look at you, Eddie and Karen…”

Uncle Todd takes a deep breath and then coughs, which does nothing to steady his slur or his swaying in place but does accomplish him getting his germs all over the microphone. He takes another swig of his beer.

“When I look at the both of you, I can believe in love again. Just take it from me, a man who’s been married three times already.”

My look of wide-eyed shock makes Rachel laugh, another line in the quiet conversation she and I are having without saying any words. She and I are sitting across from each other at the head table, where the newlyweds are having to endure everything between touching well wishes to embarrassing, inappropriate stories. I love weddings with open bars.

The ballroom Dad reserved is as extravagant as the ceremony, if not more so. There is a handmade centerpiece on every table, bits of nature tastefully arranged by someone with a hell of a lot better aesthetic sense than I do. The flatware is flanked by utensils with emerald handles, and topped by gold napkins folded into cranes. Or triangles? Between this wedding and the new house I wonder if Dad and Karen have any money left.

I raise my glass of champagne to Rachel as the inebriated audience applauds Uncle Todd’s speech, or declaration about how the internet is ruining America, either description would be accurate. She raises hers back, and our gaze lingers on each other as we take sips of the bubbly drink. The smile never leaves her eyes. She sets her glass down, and sadness flashes across her face and she looks away from me, suddenly intent on listening to the next contestant on the microphone.

There’s a little nagging voice in the back of my mind. It tells me that Rachel is Karen’s sister, and that maybe I shouldn’t lock eyes with the bride’s sister. Especially if my father is the groom.

Rachel’s voice probably just told her the same thing.

The main course and the dessert seem to take forever. All I want to do is get through the whole cake thing, and then enjoy the rest of the night in a hotel room I couldn’t afford without strict budgeting. Maybe I’ll order a movie, order some room service beer, pass out, and by the time I wake up, I’ll officially have a new step-mom.

Eventually, Dad and Karen’s song starts playing, the lights dim, and the happy couple gets up and send shock-waves throughout the ballroom that sound strangely like people going, “Awww!” More applause and cheers close the first dance, and more and more couples start to fill the dance floor. I watch, helpless, as Rachel leaves the table. Her purposeful steps lead her to one of the other tables, where she’s grabbed an older man by the hand and cajoling him to go dance with her.

That’s when I notice the ring around Rachel’s finger. It turns out I’m the only one in this story who hasn’t said “I do” to someone. I feel like an idiot. I couldn’t plop myself down on my bed soon enough.

The man resists, and from here I can hear Rachel. She’s not exactly pleading with him. She’s trying to make it look like it isn’t a big deal. Even when the man, Rachel’s husband, flat out refuses, the humor gone in his face, the light-heartedness remains in hers. He turns away and resumes whatever idiotic conversation he was having with the table.

She glances at me at the end of it all, and feeling shame for the both of us, I look down. When I look up again, she’s walking to the other end of the ballroom, a table that everyone else has abandoned for the music. Her face drops, and I can’t see her anymore, hidden by the stupid–but extremely well-done–centerpiece. I’ve never hated foliage more.

I finger the room key in my front pocket.

The little voice asks, “Wait, what are you doing?” as I ask the bartender for two, strong cocktails.

It insists, “No, think about what you’re doing!” as I walk over and tap her on the shoulder with one of the drinks.

“Hey,” I say, offering her the second glass when she looks up, “you wanna go for a walk or something?


Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


New Release: Seduced and Filled

The adventure ends in an explosive release…

Cora has escaped the far-reaching futa organization, but her deep desire to be filled keeps the captors who turned him into a her at the forefront of her mind. That’s not to mention that if the organization’s plans come to fruition, the whole world’s men might share Cora’s fate.

A hot reunion is in the works because Cora, her army of transformed men, and her friend Barry are planning to slip inside the organization’s headquarters. The plan includes half of them opening up and offering themselves as a sexy and willing distraction while the others sneak in.

But there are futas everywhere, ready to whip it out and give intruders a warm welcome. Is Barry willing to risk himself for the cause? And will Cora be able to save herself and the world?

This 6200 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-male, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, group, voyeur, interracial, pregnancy erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


The spray of the shower sprays me gently in the face and fills the bathroom with a fine, sensual mist.

It’s funny. I close my eyes and my thoughts are still undeniably me. I have a secret love for ’90s gangster rap and fantasy novels. I firmly believe that pineapples have no place on a pizza. And I wish I had more time in my day to play video games.

Then I run my fingers down my body, and my hands brush over my slender shoulders, across my nipples (which are suddenly a hundred times more sensitive than they were before), down my flat belly, and finally to the tender folds of my womanhood. As I touch myself, I feel like I could get lost inside of my own sexuality.

I used to be Cole Porter, but then I was somehow changed into a woman by the strange powers of a golden idol. All because I had to stick my nose into the business of an even stranger organization made up entirely of women. I chased them to South America and back to find answers, but all I have is more questions.

Isabella, the leader of that organization, is the person who gave me my new name. Cora. I suppose I should be ashamed of it, right? But I can’t help but feel that Cora is who I really am now.

I don’t even call my body my “new body” anymore. This is me.

I give a cursory effort to drying my body as I step out of the shower. Barry’s modestly-sized apartment is abuzz with noise and activity. It’s never been that way in here. Barry prefers not having roommates, and he can have that preference because he managed to snag an internship that pays a king’s ransom. But now he has thirteen new roomies. Me and the other transformed women, a group of a dozen I freed from Casulo, have been trying to track down the organization, keeping an eye on missing news reports, scoping out the museum, and getting into the occasional argument about what to do next.

We settled on surviving. Until today.

I open the bathroom door and almost knock Barry down. He mumbles an apology, which disappears in his throat. I roll my eyes when I realize why. I might be comfortable in my body now, but I still forget that wrapping a towel around my waist has new ramifications.

“Barry, Jesus dude,” I say, crossing my arms. “It’s a fresh coat of paint, but it’s still me. You really have to get that through your head.”

“Sorry!” He looks away, then second-guesses himself and maintains eye contact with me. “I mean it’s one hell of a paint job. And now that you want me to call you Cora, too…”

He shakes his head and looks to the floor. “You just had everyone worried. Me included. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks so I don’t think I’ve told you that it’s good to have you back. Circumstances notwithstanding.”

I have to smile. Same old me, same old Barry.

“It’s good to be back. You know, a better friend probably would have called the police.”

“I panicked.”

“For an entire week?”

He shrugs, a sheepish and guilty smile on his face. “For all I know, those ladies could have whisked you off to some sex paradise. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

I jokingly punch him on the shoulder. “Well, you wouldn’t be half wrong there.”

I pull a dry shirt over my shoulders and jump into some sweatpants. I let out a deep breath, hesitating before walking out. Barry returns the punch and practically pushes me forward.

“Come on,” he says. “I’m going out there with you. You don’t need to go all Rambo anymore, you’re back in mother-fucking America.”

“Technically Rambo was still alone–”

“Not now, Siskel.”

The both of us stride into the living room, where the rest of the women have amassed for my announcement. Some of them are like me, settling into their new lot in life and actually feeling right for the first time. The rest had lives before this. Girlfriends, wives, families. While there might be a faint hope in some of them that there’s a way to reverse what had happened to us, we all agree on one thing: it might not have been our choice to become who we are now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make our own choices going forward.

I pull down a projection screen I installed the busy night before and kicked my laptop out of its slumber. A rough floor plan of Isabella’s mansion filled the screen, concocted from my own hazy memory and the original architect of the property. Life hack: posing as a student for any number of things can really go a long way. I point a laser pointer at the front door.

“This is where our first team–”

One of the girls, Sandy (who used to be a trucker named Nathan), raises her hand and says, “We’ve talked it out and we want to be called the strike team.”

I sigh. “This is where the strike team is going to enter. I’m going to need you guys to make it look good and convincing. You keep as many of them as you can occupied, and the rest of us will come in through the side door over here. When you get the signal, that means it’s time for us to get the hell out of Dodge.”

A round of nods circles the room, ending with Barry.

“You know,” he says, “I’m not getting my deposit back after they see what you did to the wall.”

I pick up the closest thing–a pillow–and chuck it at his face, and we all laugh, but I keep one wary eye on the map. There are parts of me that ache at seeing Isabella again.


“I have never been so thankful for rich people’s need to have really tall fences between each other’s property.”

Barry looks over his shoulder again, as if this time there will be a neighborhood watch dog looking at him disapprovingly.

“Isn’t your family rich people?” I ask, paying only half attention to him as I peer into the window. Isabella’s mansion is bigger than it was in my memory, and there are a lot more guards than my first night here. “Anyway, stop moving around so much. I can’t hear her.”

A crescent moon shines over our heads. It offers little light for anyone who happened to be looking down the side pathway of Isabella’s gated property, but as an added measure of security, the entire second team is dressed in black. As for the strike team…

Sandy’s voice crackles into my ear.

“…and we’re so, so sorry. We didn’t want to run away at all but she threatened us to go with her. We’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to return to you, but we got fed up and got that bitch blackout drunk ourselves.”

“Way to sell it, Sandy,” I mutter.

Two more voices, the women standing guard at the front doors, are picked up by the microphones hidden in Sandy’s clothes.

“It’s good to know that some of you are loyal to the cause.”

“Not so fast. Why didn’t you try to contact us? We could have extracted you ourselves.”

“She didn’t allow us communication with the outside world,” Sandy said, quick on her toes.

I held down a snicker. Sandy was the first one of us to make new social media accounts for herself. The one where she just posts pictures of herself so far has the biggest following.

“If you want,” Sandy continued, “we could prove our loyalty to you in other ways.”

A pause. I imagine the two guards exchanging glances in my head.

“Shit,” Barry whispers, “they’re inside.”

I see the two guards, a two fit women with curves you could taxi an airplane on, lead the strike team in. Sandy is smiling in the direction of the window we’re all hiding behind, though not exactly at us so the black is working. I smile at how modestly they’re dressed. One could almost mistake them for being innocent.

I hear Sandy sigh as she throws her arms around the guard in front of her. An amused smile forms on the guard’s face.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” the guard says. I can see a small tent start to form beneath her skirt. “You all have a long night ahead of you.”

“We’re just so glad to be back here,” Sandy replies. She kisses the other woman on the back of the neck.

“Get this woman a fucking Oscar,” I say.

Sandy’s hands slide down the guard’s blazer, the pads of her fingers disrupting the organization’s wrinkle-free facade, and pinch at the end of the skirt.

She continues, “And we’re even gladder to be back to these.”

The other guard uncrosses her arms as two members of the strike team start to unbutton her blazer.

The strike team works slowly, leaving dark hickeys on the two guards’ necks, planting wet kisses on their bare chests, and sucking on their fingers. They don’t take out the unsuspecting women’s cocks, not just yet. They move the night forward by inches, delaying the pleasure but still making as many sexy noises as possible. The audio porn is torture in my ears. It’s arousing watching strike team pleasure these women who have no idea they’re being watched.

“Are you sure we have to go on with the mission tonight?” Barry whispers, awe in his voice.

By now, several more women who have heard of the sheep who have wandered back to the flock gather in the room.

Sandy takes a look around the room and licks her lips.

“I don’t think we’re going to say no to more cocks.” She takes her coat off, being careful not to reveal the microphone set up within its folds, and throws it on the floor. Her dress follows not long after. “Take them out, girls, it’s been a long time since we’ve been properly fucked.”

The organization members surround them like a hungry kettle of vultures. Some of them merely raise their skirts, while the others take the time to take off everything below their waist, skirt and stockings and all. And Sandy and the rest of strike team is loving every minute of it.

The six of them are on their knees now, and even if the microphone has been buried under a pile of stripped clothes, I can still hear the divine sucking sounds of their mouths taking in the impressive cocks of these women.

More and more organization members wander in. But we can’t wait here for too long.

I turn, as difficult as it is to look away from the orgy happening just on the other side of the wall, and face the rest of the team. I notice some of the hungry looks on their faces, and I know that some of them wish they had volunteered for Sandy’s team now.

“Okay, strike team is really earning their name. It’s our turn.”

Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


New Release: Tempted and Taken

Too many questions and only one way to get the answers…

Cole, now Cora, has traveled to the steamy jungles of South America to search for a way out of his new, sexy body. But is that really what he wants? Men want him, women want him, and Cora doesn’t know about Cole, but she loves being wanted. It turns out the price for getting everything Cole wants is just a little skin, and he’s more than willing to give a sample to anyone who wants a taste.

That includes the mysterious all-futa organization hot on his tail that pulled him into this mess. Cole will have to face them in the secretive village of Casulo, but can he face two of them at a time? And what do they plan to do with the golden idol that caused his transformation in the first place?

This 6800 word, futa-on-female, futa-on-futa, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, magic, menage, exhibitionism, voyeur, DP erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


The road is muddy and uneven under us. The wheels of this thing are about half as tall as I am, but I can still feel every little rock we run over. The heat in this country is two notches away from unbearable, and I’ve been covered in sweat ever since we made landfall.

Not that the natives seem to mind.

I’m hitching a ride with the owner of this rickety ride, a re-purposed military pickup truck. He’s a fairly handsome young man, and he has pretty good English but not good enough to understand when I tell him I used to be a man. His face isn’t wide enough that I can’t see him staring at me out of the corner of his eyes. As a woman, I’m flattered. As a man… Do I still remember how to react to things as a man?

I am amazed that it’s only been three weeks since the fateful evening that my hormone-addled mind led me to a secret auction in the basement of the city museum. A golden idol, a little lady I only know as the Novodama, transformed me from mild-mannered Cole to mild-mannered but extremely attractive Cora.

Cora, the name given to me by Isabella, the woman who bought me at the auction. Also the woman who gave me the best sex of my life. I’ve thought about her cock the whole way over on the cruise from America to Brazil. That idol came from this country, specifically a village named Casulo, and I’m here because I’m crazy enough to think that I’ll be able to find answers as to why I’ve been changed into a woman and exactly what this ‘Project Erotes’ is.

My phone is off, so if my best friend Barry or, God forbid, my family has been trying to contact me, then they’re going to have to keep worrying. That’s turning into somewhat of a habit, now that I’ve disappeared from the cruise, too.

It’s been an interesting adjustment period getting used to this new body. I catch guys check me out all the time, whether they think they’re being stealthy or not. Some of them were even mid-sentence with women who were probably their wives or girlfriends. I am a liar if I say that I don’t like the attention, and I’ve certainly been using it to my advantage.

I don’t know what they tell the young men of Macapá about hitchhikers, but all I’ve had to do to ensure a ride north was to stand there on the side of the road with my top lifted. My breasts are quickly turning into my best friend and my worst enemy. I’ve already lost track of how many times I’ve tried closing the door on my own boobs. It’s ridiculous. But when I’m trying to make men do my bidding? It’s like my chest is a giant magnet and their eyes are filled with iron. I don’t even have to let them touch me. The idea, the possibility of getting to touch me is often enough.

I wonder how susceptible I was to this boob magic when I was a man.

The truck slows down, and it seems like we’re on the outskirts of somewhere called Amapá, a town with the same name of the greater state I’ve been traveling north through.

I look at my temporary driver, and return his wide smile. I confirm to myself for the umpteenth time this month that I’m not attracted to men.

“Okay, I stay here,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. Really milking the time I have left remaining in his truck. “So very sexy and pretty!”

“Aw, thank you!” I say as I grab my bag and exit his ride. I’ve mastered the ability to turn everything said to me into an innocent compliment. I give him a wave. “Bye!”

I watch him watching me as he turns into town, and I’m back to square one. I start walking north, looking up every time I hear a wheels rolling on the road. The majority of traffic is on their way south, but finally, I get a hit.

I’m in the middle of lifting my top when I realize it’s a woman sitting in the driver’s seat of a black SUV. Fancy for this side of the country. Probably has A/C. I decide it’s never too late for the old-fashioned way, and I stick my thumb out.

She stops, and the dazzling smile on her face lures me in.


My bag is heavy on my lap. There isn’t much inside, but this is a case of quality over quantity. I have two other changes of clothing, every dollar of cash I had in my bank account, and the little shock collar that Isabella locked onto my wrist before I was able to escape from her. I’ve been wearing its key around my neck ever since, explaining that it’s a promise key or some nonsense from some imaginary boyfriend.

Since everything I own under my own name (Cole or Cora?) is in the bag, the thing hasn’t left my side. I wear it on my front when I’m going through heavily-populated areas, I keep it inches away from the bathtub whenever I shower, and I wrap the straps around my arms whenever I sleep. It’s a level of paranoia that I’ve never had to deal with before.

I admit that I’m looking at my new driver a lot more than my previous drivers have looked at me, which is saying a lot. She speaks perfect English, although there is a trace of an accent there as well. It vaguely reminds me of Isabella. But I don’t think about her. Instead, I watch the jungle go by to the west and the hint of the ocean to the east as my driver and I talk.

“So,” she says, turning a thought over in her head before she speaks it out loud, “how often did your grandmother come to America?”

“Not often enough.”

I’ve been lying as often as I’ve been changing underwear ever since I turned into a woman. Cora is a blank slate. While Cole was awkward and kind of a doormat if I’m being completely honest, Cora just does not give a fuck. I don’t know if it’s because part of me thinks it’s all going to disappear when I get a chance to change back, but it’s been so freeing, and not only sexually.

I continue, “What I liked the most about Grandma–well, I liked calling her ‘Abuela’–was how stubborn she was. Once she got it into her head to do something, she would do it. I really admired that about her. Go to college? Sure thing, abuela. Marry this white man? Done. I guess that’s why I’m here, traveling to Casulo. I wanted to see her hometown and here I am.”

She laughs. “Here you are.”

She turns to me and catches me staring at her. She holds eye contact for what seems like ages, although it can’t be any more than a few seconds since we’re on the road.

“It seems very brave for a little white girl like you to be so far from the tourist areas.”

“Thank you,” I start, but she has more to say.

“But we are a proud and generous people, if anything. So proud, in fact, that I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t correct you for calling her ‘abuela.’ We speak Portuguese here. The correct term is ‘avó.'”

I feel a rock sink to the bottom of my stomach.

“Well, she… Uh…”

“And if your avó was as old as, how did you say it, old as the mountains, then she couldn’t have been from Casulo. It’s an entirely new settlement that me and my associates established only in the last decade. Most of the information on the internet referring to it is largely fabricated.”

She gives me the smile of a predator that’s cornered its prey. I try the door, but it seems like she activated some kind of child lock. I’m trapped. I feel like such an idiot.

“I don’t know why you bothered coming out this far, Cole Porter. You seem to be settling into your new body just fine.” She turns the SUV into a small gas station on the side of the road. “I know because I’ve been following you. So quick to show drivers a little taste of your body. Men make the sluttiest women, I find it amazing.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

I debate whether or not to try bribing her away from me, but something tells me Isabella and her goons aren’t in this for the money. Whatever ‘this’ is.

“Well, we’re going to have to send you back to America, of course. You gave Isabella quite the scare. You understand that we won’t be able to let you out of your cage for a while, because of this? Such a shame, but we can’t have you jeopardizing the project.”

“Project Erotes, right? What is it? What do you people want? Why am I a woman now?”

“You’ll get your answers very soon. For now…”

Her legs shift and I see the bulge rising between her legs. Her predator stare has turned into that of a ravenous beast.

“…I want to see how good your new mouth is.”


The gas station is out of the way, so it isn’t anything special. No frills. Not even a sign proclaiming the name of the place. If there was, it would say, “You don’t really have a choice.” There are a few gas pumps out in front. A small convenience store with out-of-date cigarette packs and microwavable snacks of questionable quality. It almost makes me nostalgic for home.

My driver, who hasn’t told me her name but I guess it doesn’t matter, pushes me past the main building and towards the back. None of the attendants are looking in our direction nor are they making any indication that they’ve seen us arrive. They know this woman. I shudder at the thought of how many people here are in on the organization.

The bathroom building itself looks pristine, to my surprise. There are some junk scattered on the floor next to it. Steel pipes, discarded mops, flat tires and the like. The inside is just big enough for two people. I guess if there aren’t many people using your bathroom, there aren’t very many opportunities to turn it into a mess. My driver unlocks it with a key from her own keychain. I spot the fob that locks and unlocks the SUV, and a plan starts formulating in my mind.

Not a very good plan, but it’s something.

I go inside first, and she flips on the light. If it was hot outside, it’s sweltering in the bathroom. I’m sweating like rain on the plains in fucking Spain, but my captor doesn’t look like she minds the heat at all.

“No need to be scared, Cole,” she says, stroking my cheek. “I’m going to treat you nice. I’m getting tired of calling you by your old name, though. What is it that Isabella named you? Collette?”

I am trying my damnedest not to give her the satisfaction of an answer, but all I can do otherwise is stare at the bulge rising from her jeans.

“She said that ‘Collette’ would be too easy,” I mutter. “Cora. She said my name was going to be Cora.”

“Such a pretty name for a pretty girl.” She unbuttons her jeans. I see the hint of pink, lacy panties underneath. “Look at you. I’ve seen pictures of you from before, you know. So… generic? I think that is the phrase. But now, Cora, you are a sexy little slut.”

She drops her jeans and steps out of them, keeping her sandals on. The rational part of my mind take notes of the jingle of keys when it hits the floor. Her panties can barely contain her, and my mouth is watering at the prospect of what she wants me to do for her.

“You’ve only been a woman for a few weeks, and you’re already an addict for cock, aren’t you?”

I don’t know if I am supposed to feel shame, but I don’t. I reach out and stroke her from outside her panties. She’s throbbing. Just for me.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I never even had fantasies of taking cock before, but now that I am who I am, I get so… aroused offering my body like this. People who would have never given me the time of day before are begging at my feet. I see people crane their necks to get a better look at me.”

I realize in that moment that I’ve never been able to really talk to anyone about what I am going through. I look at her, and there is a moment where compassion comes through on her face. Did she see what I was thinking?

I don’t care. I kiss her, and she grabs the back of my head and pulls me closer. Her tongue passionately writhes against mine, and her fingers find their way to where I am most wet. There is no foreplay, no taking it slow. Just desire.

“You’re so wet,” she whispers. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you.”

I plant greedy kisses down her neck and chest, savoring the cinnamon skin of a woman as sexy as she is. I pull down her panties and nearly poke my eye out with her rigid horniness. I could attach a flag to this thing and world governments would have to declare her a new nation.

My tongue runs up and down her size, the taste and the smell overwhelming me to the brink of dizziness. My fingers are furiously circling the center of my velvet folds of skin. I swear I am dripping onto the bathroom floor. I take her into my mouth, much to her satisfaction. She needs no further encouragement. She takes the sides of my head and bucks her hips into my face. She fills my mouth over and over, my moans muffled by her efforts.

I sense her trying to pull out, but I grab her ass and stop her.


I bob my head back and forth, swirling around my tongue like it was the hottest, tastiest ice cream cone, and as she starts to swell in my mouth she stops trying to hold me back.

She falls back against the wall as the first hot spurts of seed blast into my mouth. She’s cursing in Portuguese (and I learn a few new words) as she clenches her ass over and over. She fills my mouth and it only causes the fire inside of me to blaze with new vigor knowing how good I make her feel.

Before she has time to exhale, I push her away. I run to her jeans, scoop them off the ground, out the door, and lock the door in place with one of the steel rods on the floor. The last thing I see of her is the look of disbelief on her mug.

And that’s when I swallow.

Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!


New Release: Transformed and Auctioned

Changed for the better and no going back…

Cole, an unsuspecting college student, is about to dive head-first into the adventure of a lifetime. An seemingly ordinary trip to the museum takes a sudden turn when he learns about a mysterious auction and a powerful organization made up entirely of sexy futa women. His curiosity is going to do more than land him in hot water when he finds a strange, ancient artifact that changes him into a her!

Now he’s playing a much bigger role in the auction, and there’s a sultry MILF futa determined to take Cole for her own. What’s really going on at the museum? Can Cole change back to normal? Or by the time the futa’s had her way with him, will he even want to?

This 6900 word, futa-on-female, gender swap, transformation, oral, masturbation, interracial, older/younger, magic, first time erotica is for mature readers only. It also comes with a free excerpt from another sexy tale!


“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking at for this one.”

Barry chuckles. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. I was being completely serious, though. The painting in question is a Dalí painting that’s apparently depicting Narcissus, an early example of the type of personality that takes way too many selfies. According to the Greek myth, the gods punish him by turning him into a flower. Which is kind of extreme, if you ask me. If it were me, I would have given the guy a chance to get his shit together but being sensible is not on the job requirements of being a Greek god.

Barry, the only other non-artist in Art History 3B, nudges me in the side as if I wasn’t already paying more attention to him than the tour.

“That’s him on the left.”  His voice is hovering above a whisper, but it’s fine because our tour guide’s voice is like a droning airplane engine. “He’s sitting butt-ass naked in the water.”

I squint. “So where’s his face?”

“It’s… that rock-looking thing. With the hair.”

“Why is his face a rock?”

“Symbolism, dude.”

“Symbolism of what?”

I hear our guide clear his throat. I clamp my mouth shut when I see that he’s looking right at me, but it’s too late.

“Would you like to take over from here, sir?”

Several of my classmates turn in my direction and I feel my cheeks turn a deep red. I hate being called out in public.

“Nope,” I say, a little too loud. “Sorry, sir. Just discussing the painting. We uh… think it’s pretty cool.”

I see and feel the rolling of a dozen eyes and my old hate for general education requirements comes back like a friend who’s overstayed their welcome on your couch.

The tour guide, an old guy who’s probably one of the few people I can take in a fight, settles back into his regularly-scheduled lecture. Barry leans in and says in a perfect impression, “Geez, Cole, seriously, do you want to take over from here?”

I bite back a laugh, which probably looks like I’m trying really hard to not go to the bathroom in my pants. Thankfully, we leave Dalí and Narcissus behind, and

That’s when I hear the clacking of several pairs of heels on the tiled museum floor. I’m surprised to see a large group of women–make that attractive women, all in skirt suits like they were here for a MILFs of Business convention–walking down the hallway, coming where we’re leaving.

I elbow Barry, and nod my head in their attention. His eyes widen.

“Too bad we’re not in their group, huh?”

“Wanna go check out where they’re going?”

He scoffs. “And miss out on the wealth of knowledge we’re receiving?”

The group of women pass by our group of bright-eyed college students. Now that they’re closer, I can see I wasn’t wrong about their physical beauty. Gorgeous women of all colors, enough to make me forget even the hot girls in class. Although something else they all share is this stone-faced, tight-lipped look. I get the image of a shark tank busted open in my mind.

It doesn’t deter me. I lag behind the rest of my group as the women pass us by.

Barry is incredulous. “You’re serious?”

The only answer I give him is a smile as I walk slower and slower.

Barry shakes his head and gives me a little salute that says ‘you’re in this one alone, buddy.’ Which is fine by me. I can give him the play-by-play later.

I turn and quicken my pace, and since I don’t hear anyone asking me where I think I’m going I can only guess mission accomplished. I try not to follow the MILF convention too closely, but something tells me they’re not going to care much about an unassuming college boy at an art museum. Skirt suits become my new favorite item of clothing as I follow them. There’s nothing else on Earth that accentuates a nice ass quite as well.

Their route takes them past the surrealists, the abstract-expressionists, and the pop artists, near the back of the museum. They make a beeline for a door, and I pretend to stop and admire some photos of sculptures done by a guy named Oldenburg. In my peripheral vision, I see them file one-by-one through the door. I’m sweating bullets, but I don’t think they’ve even looked in my direction.

Eventually, they’re all gone and temptation presents me with another choice. To go through the door or to not go through the door?

It’s gotten me this far.

I probably do the world’s worst job of sneaking as I make my way to the door. Sometimes it helps being so plain and normal. I’m surprised to find the door isn’t locked, and when I open it, I’m met with a stairwell descending into the dark. I think about how the smart decision would be to text Barry, find out where the group went, and hustle my ass over there so I can sponge up more info that’ll “surely be on the exam.”

And then I go down the stairs.


I wonder if every museum has a secret basement.

It’s like a whole other building underground, and as I walk down the dimly-lit hallway I pass by several branching ones. The path takes several turns. Thankfully, it’s straightforward route for all of its twists.

I don’t know where the ladies went, and I’ve lost even the click-clack of their heels. But since I’m down here, I might as well follow the yellow brick road to its end. Besides, if I get caught, what’s the worst that could happen? I’m white, I’ll probably just receive a slap on the wrist.

I hold my ear up against every door I encounter, but I don’t hear any indications of life down here. I shudder at my poor word choice. What am I expecting? Zombies?

The further I go down the hall, the more I hear this faint, rhythmic murmur. I think it’s a woman. The way the voice is talking, the more familiar it sounds. Not like I know who’s speaking, but just the way they’re talking. It’s this long, drawn-out jumble of words. A disembodied voice should really be giving me the creeps down here, but it’s almost reassuring.

Are they rapping? I swear, if I’ve followed a secret cabal of MILF rappers, then I’ll know I’m dreaming.

I spot a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They’re partly open, and I can see light streaming out from the crack. That’s where the voice is coming from, I’m sure of it. I don’t see any shadows moving behind the door, so I walk right up to it and peek inside. My jaw drops.

There’s an entire auditorium down here. There are probably fifty or so rows of seats, but only the first few rows are filled up. I see a good number of balding heads, men in dark suits, and yes, the women from earlier. Up on the stage is a woman, and I realize I should slap myself for being so dumb. The rhythmic speaking she was doing was that of an auctioneer. There’s a statue of a nude woman next to her, and I see some of the ladies bidding on it.

I wonder if the museum sanctions these private auctions all the time. The rich have to buy them from somewhere, right?

Just then, three figures get up from their seats and start walking towards me.

I back away from the door, and without thinking, disappear behind the closest door. I can only hope it’s not a bathroom they were planning on using.

Closing the door behind me, I’m in shock again. The room is filled with large cubes, all of them covered in something that looks like a giant velvet tablecloth.

What really has my attention is the art piece at the far end of the room. It’s a sculpted woman the size of my arm, and she’s made entirely of gold. I feel myself drawn to it. I find myself unable to think of anything else but getting a better look at this thing. It’s on a podium, but there’s no glass case on it or anything. It’s so exposed. As I get closer–I don’t remember walking towards her–I see that she’s nude. Her eyes, nipples, and belly-button are embedded with some kind of tiny red jewel.

Is she singing? I don’t hear the auctioneer anymore, and the longer I stare, the more it seems like the sculpture is growing and becoming more life-like. I can’t tear my gaze away from her, and to my amazement, she holds out her hand to me. She has a golden smile on her face, and I don’t feel lust towards her. Instead, I feel like I’m coming home. I reach for her, and take her shining palm in mine.

The next moments are like a thousand different movie clips playing in succession.

I am in a small room, surrounded on all sides by that giant velvet tablecloth.

The walls dissolve, and I’m on the stage, grasping at metallic bars. The audience is looking at me, and they’re hungry. Their smiles are lecherous, but none more so than the group of ladies. One of them, an exotic-looking woman with brown skin and jet-black hair raises a numbered paddle. She’s bidding on me. She has the gaze of a shark.

The walls return, plunging me into darkness. I am wheeled away to the sound of polite applause.

I blink awake on a hard floor.  I’m in a different room now. It looks like someone’s office. There’s a lounge chair, several bookcases lining the walls, and an expensive-looking desk. I also realize I’m in a giant cage. I jump up to the door, and I try to force it open, but it’s locked down tight. My breathing quickens to the pace of a marathon runner, as it sets in just how much trouble I’m in. They’re a cult. They have to be. They’re looking for human sacrifices and I walked right into their trap. What the hell did I expect to happen, following those women? What is this, a porno?

There might be more people like me. More captured idiots.

“Hello?” I call out. And I gasp.

My voice.

I sound like a woman.

I back away from the cage door and look down.

It turns out I have a new set of breasts.

Liked it so far? Read the rest of the story here (for FREE with Kindle Unlimited)!