My latest story collection All Mine: A Gender Switching Story Collection is now available on Smashwords:
Three erotic short stories of men becoming women and exploring their sensual new bodies in intense, graphic detail. Don’t read unless you enjoy men being titillated by their new assets. The stories in this collection include:
Return to Maddy: A body hopper jumps into the body of one of his old girlfriends, now a voluptuous mother of two, and simply observes from inside her body as she lives her life.
The Right Woman: A body hopper takes over the life of a beautiful stranger for a day and finds she’s hiding a sexy secret.
A + Student: A man wakes to find himself transformed into a woman on the day of an important test and decides to use his situation to his advantage to earn a passing grade.
Here’s a preview:
I drop onto the couch, my mind reeling as I re-read the letter Dani had taped to the TV. I’m dazed and I can’t quite grasp it all at once, just snippets at first: “…relationship isn’t working for me…” and “…we never quite fit…” and “…nothing to save…” and “…these holidays only showed how hopeless…” and the killer, the big punch to the gut “…you’re a nice guy, but…”.
How many times had I heard that before? You’re a nice guy, but…
I’m thrown completely. I thought Dani and I were great; we always seemed to have fun together and I thought we were clicking. Yeah, the relationship had it’s usual ups and downs but nothing serious. Clearly, I was wrong.
I re-read the letter again, slower this time, my thoughts ceasing to twirl through my brain. According to her I’m a gentleman, but one who doesn’t understand the mind of a woman, and there was no chemistry between us. I feel sick to my stomach. Was it me? Was this just something she said because I’m so seriously fucked up? Is that why every woman I have a relationship with leaves me eventually? How can that be when I’m so nice and such a good guy? I’m obviously missing something. What don’t I understand about women?
I call Dani three times but she doesn’t pick up and I don’t want to leave a voice-mail, at least not until I can collect myself. She knows who it is; she’s got caller ID.
Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck her. Fuck everything.
I’m sad and pissed off and confused and why the fuck is the apartment so messy? And empty? Then it hits me: she took all her stuff while I was at work.
I walk through the house. Her clothes are gone, her toiletries are gone, the two bedside lamps – gone, her books – gone, her pictures on the wall – gone. It’s just me. Again.
I grab a beer from the fridge (she even took the fucking butter, who the fuck takes butter from a relationship? Or is this another thing about women I just don’t fucking understand? Is there a book somewhere I can read about why women take butter from a relationship? Jesus fuck.) and go sit back on the couch.
I don’t know about women, huh? I know about women; I know more than Dani ever suspected about women. I know more than Dani ever suspected about herself. I can body hop, after all, and sometimes a guy, even a guy in a solid relationship, gets certain urges that need to be explored. I hopped Dani a few times and she never knew, taking the opportunity to explore the sexy body that lay next to me every night until I mastered the art of making her cum, both while inside her body and outside of it.
Maybe that’s the problem with my relationships: this secret other life. Maybe it is me. Can my girlfriends sense I’m hiding something? That a part of me is closed off? Do women really want to know everything?
I don’t even think of myself as a hopper, just a normal guy with a gift. More of a hobby than a lifestyle, really. Some guys are into sports, some are into computers, I’m into hopping into the bodies of women. Yes, I could have any woman I want, in the sense that I can become them, but I want something deeper. I don’t want to constantly hop from body to body fulfilling my carnal urges. Occasionally, sure, yeah that’s all right. But always? I want to find someone I want to live with, who loves me as deeply as I love them.
Ok, so, if the problem is me, what do I do? My therapist would suggest I try to examine things from the beginning. (Yes, guys who can hop have therapists, too. Life’s not always flowers and sunshine for us either.) The beginning. That can really be only one thing. The girl I still think about so many years later. Wondering what could have happened between us. What should have happened between us. If I’m going back to the beginning of my relationship troubles I’ve got to go back 16 years to her.
Madison. Maddy. Just thinking her name makes me sentimental. I’ve kept up with her through friends (and Facebook) just enough to know she’s married to Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, has two kids and teaches elementary school about an hour away from the university where I teach. I flip through my phone for some internet sleuthing. It helps to take my mind of Dani for the moment.
It doesn’t take long for me to find Maddy—everyone’s somewhere on the internet—and I scroll through the pictures of her and her family while I reminisce. She’s slightly older and slightly plumper but still as gorgeous as I remember. She’s aged well and I see by a few pictures she still keeps up her jogging routine, still does the occasional marathon. Her husband is dark featured and handsome and her kids are cute as well.
I don’t know exactly where she lives but as I scroll through I see that she’s catching up with a group of her friends from college at a restaurant near my campus this weekend. It’s an odd coincidence but that settles it. It’s as good a place as any to start learning what women want. And I do want to see her again, wrap her essence around me and explore her life one more time.
I sit in the park across from the restaurant, pretending to flip through my phone while keeping an eye out for Maddy’s departure. She’s inside with her friends for more than two hours before they finally come out. They trade hugs and goodbyes, then split up, Maddy crossing the street towards the parking lot next to the park bench I’m stationed on. She doesn’t see me and I aim to keep it that way, circling around behind her towards the car I saw her arrive in while keeping other cars in the way to block her view.
She’s smiling. Her shoulder-length blonde hair blows back in a gentle breeze, tickling across her face and she wipes it behind her ear. Watching her walk, the sway of her curvy figure, brings back a nostalgic yearning. I quicken my pace as she approaches her car, sliding up behind her as she places her hand on the handle and then I hop, the world disappearing as I scatter into a billion particles of energy and stream inside her. But this time when my vision returns and I’m looking out at the world from behind her eyes, feeling the breeze on her skin, smelling the sweet jasmine through her nose, I don’t take control. I push myself back inside her mind, listening to her thoughts and being a passenger in her body. It’s a different experience for me, thrilling and scary as “my” body moves under someone else’s control.
She looks back behind her (Thought I heard something). People’s thoughts are not always full words, but more sensations, ideas, occasional sentences, through which I’ve learned to read the flow of their conscious mind. She opens the door and I get a quick glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, admire the solid, tanned arm grasping the handle and then I’m seated inside. She pulls the seatbelt over her chest and I feel it up against her breasts. I want to reach out and take control but I force myself to wait and observe. I catch another brief glimpse of part of her face in the rear view mirror—one pale blue eye and a part of her cheek. Her thoughts are a kaleidoscope of plans for the future (the route home…dinner tonight) memories of her lunch (poor Kate…Emily’s gotten fatter) with an undercurrent of her nearly subconscious actions of driving (checking for people behind me…backing up slowly). Usually when I hop I put the conscious mind to sleep and I’m not so aware of these background thoughts. This new perspective takes some getting used to but I soon find I can hone in on the most conscious thoughts if I concentrate, though at first concentration is hard because all I can think is I’m her again. I’m Maddy!
And I love it already.
Download the book to see what happens next: