I’d just turned eighteen, moved into my family’s third-floor studio overlooking the Paris Expo grounds in Issy-les-Moulineaux. Alone since noon, parents gone. Heart pounding already. Time for my fantasy. Dress as a girl. Out in public. For real.
Silhouette slim, legs long, ass perfect—callipyge, they said. Cyclist club for laser hair removal, no questions. Wig: short chestnut bob. String: white lace, covering my cock tight. Nude self-holdup stockings. Short beige pleated skirt. Sleeveless top. Feminine jacket. Heeled sandals. Light makeup. Red nails on toes and fingers—sister’s tutorials, her name on secret buys. Six PM. Mirror check. I look like her. Pulse races. Keys in tiny purse. Door opens. Empty hall. Down stairs. No one.
The Fever
Lobby. People on sidewalk. Calm street. Deep breath. Out. Couple in fifties passes. Pretend to rummage purse. They glance, nothing. Walk behind. Old man oncoming. Cross paths. Duck into doorway—does he turn? No. Avenue intersection busier—expo salon crowd. Stride in. No stares. No whispers. Confidence surges. Metro entrance. Swarm exiting. Buy tickets. Platform packed.
Train arrives. Crush boards. Jammed against back door. Three African women in boubous squash me. Perp to door—bam, ass hits man’s crotch by seats. Shuffle forward. Brakes. Women shove me back. His belly presses my back. Awkward. Wiggle for balance—heels slip. Worse. Hand grazes right cheek. Freeze. Don’t scream. Hand palms it full. Heart hammers. Imagination? No—strokes, lifts skirt hem. Stops at skin. Breath held. Tetanized. Doors open—could run. Train lurches, more cram in.
Hand dives under. Bare thigh. Shiver. First man touching me like this. Exes were girls—nice, but never enough. Lesbian joke. Fingers trace stocking edge, up to ass crack. Squeeze cheeks tight. Hands knead. Tug string aside. Grip hip—don’t move. Doors again. No escape. Crush shoves me back. Skirt hikes, trapped between us. Ass bare. Hard bulge wedges in crack. Jeans thick, but throbbing cock clear. Sweat beads. Heat rises.
The Blaze
Hands spread cheeks. Train jerks—feet slip wider. Right hand dives between ass and pants. Zip? Chatter drowns it. Hot, slick glans smears precum on my cleft. Neck hairs rise—his breath hot. Doors. Hands clamp hips. Foot pries mine apart. Glans nudges string. Tiny thrusts. Jerking between cheeks. Right hand slaps ass lightly. Fire spreads. Cock pulses. Dangerous thrill. Can’t stop it.
His hips buck. Pre-cum slicks. Glans prods string barrier. Ankle hooks mine wider. Short pumps. Breath ragged on neck. Pulse thunders in ears. Skin burns. Urgency builds—his, mine. Can’t think. Just feel.
Flood hits. Hot ropes splatter crack. Hands smear it. Train stops. Man mutters ‘Pardon’—escapes. Cornered by women now. Skirt drops. Handkerchief from purse. Wipe discreetly. String soaked. Ass sticky. Tremble. Exit Montparnasse—legs weak. Night air cools burning skin. Heart slows. Unmatched rush. Virgin no more. Craved it deep down. Danger fueled it. Back home, mirror shows flushed ‘girl’. Touch myself. Replay every thrust. Addicted.