MINISKIRTS

Three bikini clad bombshells rob a bank; a mild mannered comic book artist prepares for bed; a man chats up a waitress at a train-station diner; a beautiful socialite pays a visit to her father, but is she all she appears to be? Are any of them? Hit play on this collection of nine short, short stories by nine very different voices in TG-fiction and find out.

Liner Notes

Here to Serve

One year ago today I became trapped in this body.

I shouldn’t be surprised that Doug is cruel enough to revel in my misery. He and his cronies are sitting in my section; anticipating my appearance. Today’s a celebration for them, but just another day in a continuous nightmare for me.

Walking toward their table, my cheeks are already red. Being a Hooters Girl is bad enough, but serving these particular guys is nearly too much. There’s no other choice though.

I take a deep breath, and watch one of Doug’s buddies point me out to the others. They’re already laughing. I’m still strong though, so I’ll endure the humiliation sure to come.

I ignore the snickers, as I stand before them in this ridiculous outfit. So much of the body I’m still not used to is on display for their amusement. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised a few of them are fixated on my chest.

Men will always be men, I think. I regret the thought immediately, as it’s another instance where I realize I’m moving further from my old identity.

“Welcome to Hooters, I’m Cyndi.” I say with the mandatory smile.

Doug smirks. “Looks like you’re doing well Cyndi. You head waitress yet?”

They wait for a meltdown, but I play if off. “Not yet . . .”

“Well you keep trying. Someday you might get that promotion.”

More laughter.

I want to respond, but fighting back will make it worse. Besides, I don’t have the mind for snappy comebacks anymore. Doug made sure I got a brain to match my boobs and blonde hair.

So, I play the role I’ve been forced into. “What can I get you boys to drink?”

After I’m forced to recite the entire drink menu, they choose beer.

I’m thankful for the chance to leave, even if for a few minutes. As I go to the bar though, I know they’re watching me. I try to keep my ass and hips from swinging while I walk, but I know they still laugh at seeing me squeezed into these damnable orange shorts.

When I return with the beer, the manager is chatting with Doug. God help me, now I’ll have to put on the full Hooters Girl act.

I force a giggle, “Big round of beers for big men”

Before I can take their orders, the manager interrupts, Be extra nice to these guys; Doug’s getting married tomorrow.”

I feign enthusiasm, “Congratulations! Who’s the lucky girl?”

Doug’s smile is predatory. “I think you already know Amy.”

My heart stops . . . I can’t breathe

For the first time since the transformation, tears pool up in my big blue eyes. I don’t care if people watch me jiggle as I run, I need to get away from here.

Even as the other waitresses console me, I dab tears away. Doug’s taken the last important vestige of my old life, and even if I hate it, now I can move on as Cyndi.

Berkhart is new to transgender writing, but has contributed stories in the giantess and super-women fantasy communities. The first chapter of his newest and only transgender story, “In Her Pants” was recently posted at TG Storytime.

Convergence of Magics

Lights swirled and whizzed through the room at almost sickening speeds. Sometimes one would bounce of a wall and ricochet off in another direction, and other times it would simply disintegrate. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but magic could sometimes be unpredictable that way. My master and his wife were pioneers in inter-gender magic research and the lights were one of many unforeseen results of their experiments.

The lab was a simple unadorned room, with cupboards lining the walls and a large workspace at its center. Empty beakers and test tubes lined the counters, but they weren’t what I had come for. The more dangerous stuff was locked in the cupboard at the back of the room and it was there that I went. Otto and Thora would be gone for some time and I knew that if I didn’t take advantage of their absence I may not get another chance.

I unlocked the cupboard with the key, I had swiped from my master, then quickly gathered the magic artifacts made from Thora’s power, a feather of wind, three fire beads and five small phials of spirit essence. I memorized the recipe the last time my master had granted me permission to view his valdbok and I was familiar enough with potion making that I was confident I would be successful.

Potioncraft was a new art and it was one of the few ways in which male and female magic could be used together. Otto was fond of saying that the power of the seid for men and women were like different sides of the same coin. While either type differed slightly from the other, they were both elemental and some abilities, like transformational spells, were much more difficult for men to perform. Women’s enchantments had their own weaknesses and it couldn’t exactly said that either sex was overall more powerful.

Inside a large beaker, I mixed the ingredients in the order the recipe had directed then closed my eyes and began to funnel the required amounts of male energy into the container. When I opened my eyes again I found that the ingredients had turned into a clear blue liquid. I grinned then, before I could chicken out, quickly downed the entire potion.

A moment later the world started fade into darkness and when I came to again, I was laying on the ground. I shook my head then stood up. Something felt wrong, and when I looked down at my chest I found a pair of breasts sticking out from it.

“Crap!” I yelled.

A check inside my pants revealed a new vagina. The spell was supposed to make me more appealing to girls not turn me into one! “Double crap!”

“Alibran?” A voice, which belonged to my master, called from the other side of the door. “Did you sneak into the lab, again?”

“TRIPLE CRAP!”

D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He is the author of "Facades" and the "Ragnarok Rising Trilogy" (“Incompatible: Birth of a Spellbinder”, “Transfigured: Ascension of a Spellbinder” and “Destiny: Legacy of a Spellbinder”). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe (“Hunger Pangs”) and Morpheus' Twisted Universe (“Virtually Twisted”).

Inspiration

Allan MacLean’s loft apartment is filled with his art. A blow up of his cover for Captain Patriot #800 – a reworking of issue one’s cover – hangs above his bed. Allan had sweat and bled for it. The eyes had been the hardest to get right. They’d had to be stern yet jovial; young and eager to take up the mantle, yet at the same time afraid, almost crushed by the legacy and the struggle to live up to it; old and wise and indestructible yet frail. He’d won an Irving award for it and he appreciates the irony that Rudi Irving who’d drawn original had, so the legend went, hacked it out in half an afternoon.

A selection of some of his own hack-work adorns the walls; covers and action pages from the planetary romance, space opera and historical titles he’s drawn for to pay the bills. But they are outnumbered by the hero pictures. Fanboys nationwide know him for the former. The comic readers of Paragon City the latter.

Allan yawns. He checks that his alarm is set. He’d love, more than anything, to sleep in, but he has a deadline bearing down on him. As he waits for sleep to come he watches, through the glass balcony door, the hero signals light up the night sky and the specks zipping and weaving and swooping between the scrapers and smiles.

Soon he’ll be joining them.

She looks at his unconscious form. His chest is hairy. He thinks this makes him look sexy; like Sean Connery as James Bond. He hasn’t had a boyfriend or girlfriend or a one or two time fuck to tell him that it doesn’t for a long time.

Figment gives herself a quick feel over. She caresses the tight spandex that clings to her curves. Then she slides open the door to the balcony. The cool night air beckons her. She steps out and embraces it. It is the only lover she and her sleeping alter ego need.

Hours pass.

The sky is a dark, dark blue and starless. The horizon glows gold. She sits on the hunched back of a gargoyle and runs her fingers over the jagged cut on her upper arm. Dried blood flakes at her touch. Her fingers come away sticky. She remembers the Executioner, a silhouette against the green and violet flames billowing up from the chemical spill, poised, ready to strike, the neon of a nearby sign reflecting off his blades. She holds the image in her mind, willing herself to remember as many details as she can so that she can draw on them later. She smiles as she recalls the expression on the villain’s head goon’s face as he turned around and saw who it was who was tapping him on the shoulder and hopes that she will be able to do it justice with her brushes and pens and inks.

Miles away, an electronic beeping.

She vanishes.

And Allan MacLean wakes up.

PersnicketyBitch is the creator of the Mixed Tape Anthologies. She is Australian, but don't hold that against her. If you do she will sic her pet Drop Bear on you.

The Northwood Remedial Education Experiment

“Ah Claudia, come in and sit down. How did it go?”

“Well, thank you, Headmaster. The Inspector seemed impressed with everything he saw in our Remedial Unit.”

And so he should, thought the Headmaster. Claudia Frampton was an excellent teacher and an efficient administrator, the best person to run the Unit, and an improvement in every way on the Claude Frampton who used to teach in the main school. Not to mention easier on the eye! He had often dreamt of unpinning her severe bun, removing her glasses (“Why Miss Frampton, you’re beautiful!”), taking her in his arms and… He dragged his attention back to what she was saying.

“…Statistics and exam results tell their own story, of course, and the fact that ours have improved each year over the three the Unit has been open, is persuasive. But there’s nothing like seeing for yourself. When we went to the Domestic Science class, they were baking Birthday Cakes. You know how much the girls enjoy that, and their enthusiasm was palpable. But I was able to emphasise that they were all also achieving high academic grades, as much as the French class we visited next. And of course I was able to get him to interview Louise Hardy.”

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers,

“Ah yes, your star pupil. Still headed for Oxbridge, you think?”

“Undoubtedly. I expect straight A’s in all four A Levels, and she should breeze through the entrance exam. And she interviews well. Her combination of winsome modesty and an ability to emphasise the points she wants to make in an enthusiastic, but non-threatening manner, would charm anybody. She certainly charmed the Inspector.”

Claudia leaned forward, the front of her blouse tenting out invitingly.

“I really must thank you, Headmaster, for all the support you’ve given me and the Unit. We’ve proved conclusively that when pupils are given one last chance, by being transferred to the Remedial Unit, even the disruptive, the lazy, or just the underachievers can turn round their results, and indeed their whole lives. Dramatically so. Remember what Louise was like before she became Louise?”

“All the girls are a credit to you and your staff.”

“Thank you for that. I’m sorry to say that I kept emphasising that the Remedial Unit is now achieving better exam results than the main school.”

The Headmaster waved his hand. “Don’t apologise. If it helps to persuade the Inspector to give us an ‘Outstanding’, then I’m happy.”

“Outstanding? The Inspector was so impressed I suspect he’s going to recommend that the ‘Northwood Remedial Experiment’ be rolled out to schools up and down the country.”

“That is certainly extremely encouraging. But he didn’t comment on any – er – discrepancies?”

Claudia laughed. “Discrepancies? Good heavens no! I think by the time the Inspector left he had completely forgotten that our Unit is an integral part of Northwood High School – for Boys!”

Kandijayne has been reading transgender fiction for many years, but only recently began to write it, and has this year published her first stories on Fictionmania. In the 'Real World' 'he' retired a few months ago, so should now have plenty of time to write more.

Doing My Nails

I'm not sure how Erica convinced me to let her paint my nails at lunch, but there I was, my right hand splayed out on the table. I sighed. High school girls. What are ya gonna do?

She'd done each nail a different color: the pinky was just blue, but each finger was progressively girlier. I pulled my hand away as a glittery brush was brought from my thumb and screwed onto a jar.

"Hey, I'm not done yet."

I sighed. High school girls. "Fine." I forfeited my hand back to her custody.

"First we seal in the blue." She took out a clear jar.

"What's the point of clear nail polish," I protested. "The color is already there!"

"Shush," she admonished me, "sealer is very important, and you'll understand as soon as it's applied." Then she brushed a coat over my pinky in a single stroke. "Doesn't that look better?"

I told her I didn't notice any difference. She told me to wait for it to dry.

I blinked. Something was different.

"Is this Essie or OPI?" I asked.

Erica's face brightened. "Neither, it's MAC Spirit of Truth. But those were good guesses, where did you hear about those brands?"

I couldn't remember. I just knew them. She grabbed my hand while I was still thinking and quickly coated the purple on my ring finger in sealer.

"Hey, I wasn't ready yet," I protested.

"What, were you going to root through your backpack in the ten seconds the coat takes to dry?"

I blinked. Something was different.

"Well, maybe I was." I unzipped my bag and pulled out a few compacts. "If you're doing my nails, I have to make sure it matches my face."

Erica laughed. "There will be plenty of time for that when I've finished." And with no ceremony she used the sealer on the red paint of my middle finger.

"Well maybe I just wanted to look at my options for now. You know about my complexion."

"Oh, I know about your complexion," she gave me a wry look.

I blinked. Something was different.

I brushed my bangs out of my eyes with my free hand. "Yeah, I guess I complain a lot, but I probably do have better skin than most girls."

She sealed in the pink on my index finger, and we waited together for it to dry.

I blinked. Something was different.

I spread my knees a little, testing them against the denim of my skirt, jangled the bracelets on my wrist, y'know, normal things you do while waiting for nail polish to dry. And then Erica sealed in the coat of glitter on my thumb.

I couldn't wait for it to dry. I blew on it, I waved my hand, and then I blinked.

Something was different.

The bell rang, and I flounced up off my chair. That lunch period was barely enough time to get one hand done. I sighed. Being a high school girl. What are ya gonna do?

Lyodor Tolstoyevski is man of honor. Lyodor writes many short stories, and sometimes long stories too. Short pieces of Lyodor's include "Take Me Home," "Breadwinner," and "The Witch of Wallonia." Long pieces include "Allegra" and upcoming ebook for which all should keep eye out at Amazon Marketplace: "The Ukrainian Maid." Do not be hesitating to read all works of Lyodor Tolstoyevski!

A Wonderful “Dream”

I smile to myself, climbing in bed. Tomorrow is going to be a great day for my business! A deal we can't refuse is going down. We're not even going to try to make it any sweeter. Nonetheless, I need my sleep so I don't look too bad during the meeting itself. I pull the blankets up and over me, and settle into bed.

The television is flipped on, and as I fall asleep, a lingerie commercial comes on...

I'm standing in my office. Why am I in my office? The meeting! Of course! But that doesn't explain why I'm standing on my chair. I shrug, getting off. No matter. I'll just call my secretary and tell her to redirect all of my calls. I do so, and hear the normal growling in response.

Wait a moment. My secretary didn't growl. I walk outside, the distinct sound of stilettos following my every move. Man, I seriously hate my noisy shadow. I look at my secretary, and see a bear in her place. But this doesn't phase me. Bears can do the job just as well as my old secretary could.

I walk to the meeting, my skirt making me shift the way I walk. No more long strides!

I pause and take a deep breath outside the office. It's now or never. I need a good impression or else bad things may happen to me and my employees. To be extra cautious, I unbutton my top a little.

Why did I do that? I'm a man.

My cleavage certainly looks better now. Ooh! You can even see a bit of my pink lacy bra! Good. That should sweeten the deal a bit.

I walk in, smiling. Our business partners smile at me. I take my top off, and rip the skirt off. I throw them at the door, hanging them on the handle. The bra follows, and I'm standing there in my panties and heels.

"Now, gentlemen, shall this meeting commence?"

My eyes flutter open, my mind racing. Why was I a woman in that dream? No matter. I get up, pausing at the sudden lack of feeling, vision, and consciousness that followed.

I wake up what feels like a split-second later. My breasts were aching. Breasts? There seems like there's something funny about those...

They must be a bit bigger than usual. Oh, no... am I pregnant? I don't remember getting drunk... or being on the pill... or being able to be pregnant for that matter. Wasn't I a guy?

The brunette girl in the mirror looks familiar. Is she my daughter? No, my daughter is only three. Didn't I not have a daughter last night?

My infant screams from the other room. I run in, my unconstrained breasts jiggling the whole way. I whisper comforts to her, gently letting her have her breakfast. After a few moments, she starts falling asleep in my arms.

"Sweet dreams, sweetie."

Person42 is an author who posts mainly on TGStorytime. The author is responsible for short works such as "Christmas Wish" and "The problems with gambling" posted on TGStorytime. Other things Person42 has posted include a number of longer stories such as "That stupid disease" and "The unusual story of Dave." Works written by Person42 are varied, as are the likes and dislikes of the author.

Next Train

Susie leaned over the table so Tom got a good look at her low cut top and he gave her an inviting smile in return.

He'd been coming to this diner for months and had enjoyed the innocent flirting, but it was time to reward his patience. The fact her leg rested against his told him she was ready.

Tom said, “I'm leaving Susie.”

Susie frowned and handed him the bill, “When will you be back?”

Tom paid in cash. “You won't see me again. I'm leaving on the next train.”

He felt Susie pull away but Tom grabbed her. He could literally feel the sexual energy between them as he glanced at the men's room,

“When's your break? There's time.”

She looked at the empty diner then shouted, “Andre! I'm taking my break!”

Her top was off before they made it to the stall. She pulled him tight as he tried to hang up his clothes.

She said, “We need to hurry!”

Tom couldn't agree more.

She unbuckled his pants and he pressed against her stomach. She grabbed him and Tom smiled as her eyes grew wide. He'd chosen this one well. Too bad he had to leave, but it was safer to keep moving.

Susie was a diamond in the rough. All she needed was a little confidence and a few changes.

Tom heard a moan as he entered, “I'm sorry,” he said.

She kissed back as they began to move in rhythm, “What for?”

Tom knew he couldn't explain. She'd know soon enough.

Tom held it as long as possible. This woman deserved that. He felt the climax but instead of absorbing her sexual energy he fell into it. The rush felt incredible. A high pitched scream escaped his lips as a series of contractions shook everything. It was nice to be a woman again.

He pulled up his panties then the skirt that reached mid-thigh. These were the legs that drew his attention in the first place but he laughed at that thought. Who was he kidding? He'd always been a breast man.

The bra read 36D which was smaller than he expected but it felt tight as he fastened the clasp. Were changes happening already? Aftershocks struck him senseless as he pulled up the top. He never understood why they only happened to females but it probably had something to do with orgasms. He took everything from the wallet, but left the driver's license. He took a last look at the 'Tom' that sat on the toilet. He wouldn't remember the last few months but certainly wouldn't mind losing twenty pounds or being twice as endowed.

He read the nametag on his chest.

“My name is Susie.”

Susie slipped on her heels then grabbed her purse while she checked her makeup. The woman looking back was definitely looking better. Once Susie absorbed enough sexual energy she'd make changes so no man could resist her.

But tonight she had a train to catch.

Sara is a long time reader of TG fiction. Some of Sara’s other stories include “Small Town Journey”, “A Brother's Request”, and “Mystic Godfather” which you can find at Fictionmania and Big Closet.

The Trick’s Not Won until the Last Card is Played

Charles wiped the pistol clean with his hankie and dropped it in the dumpster. Turning, he saw himself in the storefront window. Ten minutes from now, he’d be unrecognizable. And home free. Everyone would think his step-sister had shot her father Wallace. They’d been fighting over money. Rhonda had a temper. It was her gun. People would see “Rhonda” leaving the scene. Rhonda would rot in prison and he’d inherit everything.

So much time preparing. Dieting, mastering makeup, putting the perfect outfit together. One that matched what people saw Rhonda wear. The right wig. Up close, maybe not, but from a distance, it worked. Just to be sure, tonight wasn't the first night he had gone out dressed. There was video of him walking, standing still, climbing stairs, everything he might have to do - just to make sure he passed. Charles had been pleased with how good he looked. People would see Rhonda, not him.

Charles glanced back to see if he was being followed. Tailored black suit, taupe hose, low black heels with a modest gold buckle at the toe. A paisley shoulder wrap in subdued tones. Soft black beret. A well-to-do suburbanite on the town. That’s what got him in. Wallace used video security at his office. “Rhonda” arrived, dressed up and on her best behavior. Charles knew Wallace would drop his guard and let “her” in. Before he realized who was there, Charles shot him.

A young couple came around the corner, arm in arm, half a block back. Charles let the hankie fall and moved on. Rhonda’s initials were on it. By the time, the young people caught up, Charles was gone and they had Rhonda’s hankie. Another nail in the coffin.

Relief. It had gone so well. Charles found himself enjoying the sensations that came with dressing up. The swish of walking in nylons and a satin-lined skirt. The scent of perfume, the feel of makeup. It was a one-time thing, but why not enjoy it while it lasted. His mind went back to the money. All that money. Maybe he’d spend some of it dressing up. Why not? It was surprisingly pleasurable.

The parking lot was across the street. As he stepped out to cross, a car, headlights on high, pulled up, making him hesitate. Then another, then cars raced the wrong way up a one-way street, hemming him in. “Rhonda” was being arrested. How could they know? And so fast!

Charles tried to run but his skirt and dress shoes stopped that. From the backseat of the cruiser, he could overhear them. Dressed like this, he was on his way to the transgender detention center where he wouldn’t be bullied. But when he got to prison, he would have a TG jacket. He’d be a prison TG girl for years, maybe life. There was a crowd as they pulled out. In the back, a girl, her face buried in her hoodie, smiled. Rhonda.

Toxis writes stories about transformation, how events change people, make them something they weren't and leave them as something else. If you like this story, you might also like “Bianca Paragon” and “Spellbound” on Fictionmania, “Race Queen” at mcstories.com, and “Everything's Good” at Bdsmlibrary

Bikini Bank Robbers

John looked up at the clock, an hour and fifteen minutes until the bank closed, he nodded to a middle aged woman waiting her turn.

“How can I help you?”

“I need to make a deposit,” she replied setting her purse on the counter.

Just then the doors burst open and three beautiful women rushed in wearing nothing but skimpy bikinis, and holding guns!

“Get down on the ground, now!” The blonde shouted storming into the middle of the lobby waving her shotgun around menacingly. At the same time the African American woman butt stroked, Sam, the security guard.

“Anyone else want to be a hero?”

The silence was broken by a soft whimper from the woman John had been helping. “You, what’s your name?” The melodic alto caused John to look up. Standing over him was the third member of group, a tall, leggy, red-head with what John considered a great set of hooters.

“J. . .J-John.”

“Okay, John, here’s the deal. You’re going to help me empty out all of the registers, and we’re going to do it real quick. Understand?”

John stared up at her uncomprehendingly until she poked him in the stomach with her shotgun, refocusing his attention.

“Hey, big boy, are you listening?”

“Uhm . . . yeah, sure, I don’t want any trouble.” In short order the cash was collected and the women were racing out of the bank.

“How long before the cops are on us?” The black woman asked, jumping into the car.

“Not long, you and Bill should get started.” The blonde said, smoking the tires. She raced north until the bank disappeared before slowing down to avoid further attention. After ten minutes she pulled into a rundown parking garage stopping next to a cargo van with darkened windows.

“Steve, here you go.” The voice dropped an octave mid-sentence, as the black woman handed the blonde a cheap looking medallion. Steve put it on and reached down under the driver’s seat pulling out a pair of boxers. She touched the boxers to the medallion and shivered as a shock, like static electricity, went through her. Then she glanced back at her companions. They already looked quite different.

“We need to keep moving,” the red-head said, dark roots already showing amongst her fiery-locks. All three women left the sedan juggling bags of cash and guns as they climbed into the van. Once inside the women changed into loose fitting jeans and sweatshirts.

“I’ll drive,” Bill, the former redhead, announced sliding into the driver’s seat. She slowly pulled the van out of its parking spot and drove around to the exit. By the time the van reached the street Bill’s broad shoulders had filled the sweatshirt.

He drove south spotting a police car, lights on, heading the opposite way. “How are you ladies doing?” Bill asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“Fuck you,” Phil the former African American woman said.

“Only if you change back.” Bill said laughing.

Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites. A few of his TG stories include: The Security Consultant Trilogy (“The Security Consultant,” “The Consultant and the Mask,” and “The Consultant and the Hounds of Heaven”) the Bounty Hunters Trilogy (“Bounty Hunters,” Bounty Hunters II: “Family Reunion,” Bounty Hunters III: “Silas Revenge”), “Conan and the Blade of Costa” and his first story “A Favor for Anna” and can be found on Fictionmania.