Thanks for taking a minute to join me here in my little corner of the internet. I’m the mouse hole in the mansion that is the internet, in the corner of the pantry off the kitchen, at the back behind the long forgotten mop bucket and Pine-Sol. I expect to go largely unnoticed by the world, but for those adventurous few of you who find your way through my mouse hole, together we will explore a world filled with dominant T-Girls. We will discuss the impossible as if it were the every day, dreams as if they are reality and desires, oh the desires, those will be plumbed to the very depths. There will be the whimsical, the humorous, the thoughtful, the provoking, the sad and so many other emotions. Welcome Alex, or is it Alice? But whomever it is, ignore that silly looking glass and follow me down the mouse hole into my world of T-Girl dominance and my view of submission.
Not my caption, but I love the implications. I would love to blow my wife before she went to work!
I wake up in a pile of rumpled sheets. The dark maroon color stark against my white skin. From the depths of the evening before floats up the complement. ‘I like the contrast…’ But I can’t grasp the rest through the fog in my brain. The house is quiet and I’m alone. I recall passion. Fingers gripping tightly. Hungry mouths devouring acres of skin. Deep grunts of satisfaction and moans of pleasure. Squeals of delight. Then another hazy memory from the depths, ‘were those my squeals?’ As I shake my head in an attempt to focus the room spins a little.
I gently roll out of the rumpled cotton field of dreams, driven by the need to urinate. Warm feet on cold tile helps me focus. I stand over a shiny white bowl as my distended bladder shrinks. Glancing to the left I see a double sink with a huge mirror over it. There is another flash of memory. Of the reflection of pale hands running over my torso. Whispers of admiration; then of lust and need. I am bent over the sink and an angelic face floats behind me in the mirror. A grimace of lust painted on it. I feel the color drain from my face as the memory coalesces. Looking down I see the beginnings of bruises on the front of my thighs. In my ears echo the cry of that angel as she is satisfied. Clinching my sphincter creates a dull ache that has never been there before.
The smell of back coffee draws me toward the kitchen and I slip on my cargo shorts to seek it out. I enter the transitional area between the kitchen and dining room and my eye is drawn to the sliding glass door that looks onto the deck. There stands the angel from the reflection. I flash back to her in the club. In that skin tight red dress she stood out like a flower in a field of noxious weeds. Images of her moving and dancing, a mermaid in a sea of fish, fill my head. Drinks flowed. There is an image of a dark place where the thump of the music has become a dull throb. Of looking up at her from my knees as I push the red line of her hem up creamy thighs. I remember her fingers curled in my hair as I gag and cough with her release. On the deck she turns and catches me staring at her. She looks surprised. I move toward her, the glass whispers aside and join her.
“Good morning.” She leans in and kisses my lips in an easy familiar way.
“Mornin” I mumble back. An awakward silence steps between us and hangs there till I nudge it out of the way. “About last night….” she intercedes.
“I’m sooo sorry! I just get so carried away sometimes! I like to think of it as being passionate, but I guess sometimes….” She trails off knowing that nothing flattering can follow that statement. She changes gears. “Actually, I’m a little surprised you’re still here. Most guys after a night like last night slink out the front door as soon as I come out here to give them an opening.” Her eyes drop to the deck. I’m acutely aware of her curves beneath the robe. “I guess I should be flattered that you at least had the nerve to come out here to say goodbye.” More and more of the previous evening is coming to light. The condition of the sheets makes perfect sense now. Her eyes return to me, hopeful, but resigned.
“I had an amazing night! Best of my life!” I tell her in a breathy rush and wonder blossoms over her face.
“Truly?” I nod, my eyes never leaving hers. “You didn’t come out here to tell me goodbye?” I shake my head. She unties the belt and pulls her robe open. The knowing look on her face says it all. She has finally found her match. “Well then, let’s not waste anymore time talking.” I look into the back yards of the other houses.
“What about your neighbors?” She smirks.
“The neighbors already know all about me.”
Stepping into the restroom cut the thump of the techno music to a distant throb, but she had a throb of her own. The guy she had been dancing with all night wants to meet her in the Rumpus Room. He knows she is packing and that she wants to get inside of him and he’s cool with it, even eager for it. She’d had to adjust herself before she could leave the dance floor.
She looks in the mirror as she comes in and watches herself walk behind the other girls touching up their faces. She isn’t vain, but she looks as good as any of them and in that red dress she looks better than most. There is no muffin top showing over her panties, no little roll around her bra strap. She is tight clean curvy lines with a hard ball of intent where her legs meet.
She steps into an empty stall. Part of her wants to pee standing up, just to freak the other girls out a little. Not that anyone would say anything. Even if they clocked her they wouldn’t mention it. But she never got clocked unless she wanted to. She was a ghost among them. That girl with a little something they could never provide, a competitive edge that sends some guys to the moon, like the cute Clark Kent look-a-like she is fixing to dip her wick in.
She knocks the last drop of pee off the tip and stands up to fix it back in place for the trip to the Rumpus Room. She pulls the dress down, but just before she tucks her little girl away she thinks of a selfie. She sets up her phone and looks at herself on the screen. She loves shots like these. She looks amazing and sexy, and then you get to the bottom of the dress and get that little twist at the end. Perfect. She takes the shot and posts it. Her girlfriends will know what the hashtag means.
Not my caption, but I love it!
Yea, I’m using this photo twice. Sorry. I just really dig it. Enjoy her scene too.
He saw her standing alone across the large room. Her back turned to the party crowd as she looked out the windows and over the city. The long hair, the confident stance, the curves. They all caught his eye and drew his interest. She looked like a girl he’d like to ask out. He took note of the empty champagne glass at her elbow and snagged two fresh ones from a passing tray. As he approached he could see she was not like most of the other women at the party. There was a presence about her, a power or strength that he was drawn to. All the other skinny women seemed like fragile dolls while he could imagine wrestling in the sheets with this woman as she laughed and growled. Just the thought of that made his dick swell in his pants. All the better. He wanted her to see his bulge. When he arrived at her back he cleared his throat and said,
“Excuse me. I saw your glass was empty so I brought you a fresh one.” She turned and fixed him with an intense stare, assessing him. She noted his bulge.
“It’s empty because I don’t like champagne. I’m more of a beer girl.” Her eyes drilled into his. Challenging him to stay or slink off back into the crowd. He stood his ground.
“Oh? Well I guess that leaves more for me. Would you like for me to get you a beer?” His eyes drifted down over her. Pretty eyes, nice rack and….whoa! They snapped back up to hers. She had no reaction on her face when she challenged him again,
“See something you like? Want to ask me out now, or are you just another close minded guy?” He hated being called out and when someone challenged he had to meet it head on.
“Yes. I do want to ask you out. That’s the whole reason I came over here, but if you’re too busy playing the tough ass bitch and trying scare me away to be interested in a date, just come out and tell me. Then maybe I can have a shot at one of these other less interesting women.” His nostrils flared a little as he defiantly held his ground and sipped his champagne. A Mona Lisa smile touched her lips.
“You think I’m interesting?” He took another sip as his mind swirled with where this was going.
“Definitely.” He declared with a nod of punctuation.
“What if I’m too much for you to handle?” Now it was his turn to smile.
“I guess there is only one way for us to find out.”
He tossed back the last of the champagne, set the glasses on the window sill and offered her his arm. The surprise he saw on her face gave him sweet satisfaction after how things had begun. Her arm slipped through his and her hand gripped his forearm with a strength that gave him goose bumps. That wrestling match was going to be very interesting.
Is T-girl erotica the submissive male’s fairytale? I think it might be and if it is then I’m as guilty as anyone. But let’s stop for a second and let me explain where I’m coming from. I have heard over the years that fairytales give girls an unreasonable expectation about romance and relationships. Disney being a big culprit to that end with all those fairytale princesses finding their prince and living happily ever after. It’s all sunshine, rainbows, fuzzy bunnies and unicorns. Those of you who have taken a ride of any duration on the relationship merry-go-round know the truth.
What I want to talk about is the sub guy like me who reads dominant t-girl erotica and dreams of being with a girl just like the lead character. She’s strong, dominant, hung like a stallion and wants to spend her every waking moment buried within your body. These t-girls are becoming more and more prevalent in all forms of trans erotica both written and filmed. I guess that shows how many people out there find that type of t-girl attractive.
The law of averages says there is a chance she exists, but it’s not a big one. So all of us writers who spin tales of these t-girls are giving you the expectation that when you find her she is going to be this perfect girl of your dreams. She will take you and make you into her slave, just like you’ve always dreamed, or at least take you and have her way with you. Since these girls are so rare is it bad that I write stories that give you this expectation? Probably. But let’s face it. If we wanted to live in reality about 90% of all the books and movies out there wouldn’t sell. We humans need to dream. We need to strive for things that can seem impossible, because sometimes we find out that they were only highly improbable.
All that being said, I don’t want you to think for a minute that I’m going to change my evil ways and start writing about realistic relationships. Nope, I’m going to play Iron Butterfly’s ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ on your submissive guitar strings till you explode. My t-girls will push you to the ground and take what they want from you and you will love it! I’m only pointing this all out so that if you are ever lucky enough to enter into a relationship with beautiful t-woman you can dial it back a few notches and approach her with zero expectations. Then if things go well….show her a few of my stories with a hopeful look on your face.