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I have a bonus treat for you today, a special 30 percent discount on a great transgender crossdreamer ebook called Pinup Girl.
It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time. The CIA managed to develop a new virus that would trigger the female genes in a male body and turn the man into a woman. They even threw in some hormone enhancing gene sequences to ensure that any infected enemy combatant would focus on sex instead of fighting.






Some of you might have noticed the increasing number of new blogs devoted to crossdreaming. 
Ed's rules of engagement also apply here:
This is a story involving explicitly described sex. If you think you might be offended by it, or you aren't allowed by the laws of the place in which you live to read such a story, don't. If you read past this warning, any offense you take or laws you break are your problem. I've warned you.
Permission is hereby given to archive this story anywhere on the Internet, so long as the author is credited, it is reproduced in its entirety (including this disclaimer!) and no fee is charged to access it.
Miss DeVille's Academy - Lucas's Story
By Lurker B.
I looked warily out the side window. We'd arrived at a complex of buildings set amongst a thick grove of trees - well isolated from the highway. The place looked a bit like a college campus - rather old fashioned and extremely well maintained. A small sign in gothic letters spelled out the name: "The Miss Sheila DeVille School for Wayward Boys." I snorted to myself. Miss DeVille. Probably some 80 year old battleaxe of an educator who could fit right into a Pink Floyd video.
So this is my new home, I thought. At least until I got tired of it. I grabbed my pack and jumped out of the county van. The driver wasted no time in peeling out of there. I was glad to see him go - he'd seemed oddly nervous on the trip over from the family courthouse. I saw nothing to fret about. This was just another layover as far as I was concerned. I'd seen them all since my parents had died. Orphanages, foster care, reform schools - one no different from the other.
At 16, I'd been a ward of the state for half of my life. I really didn't like authority, and authority didn't like me. I wasn't an out- an-out criminal - but I took a certain perverse delight in making things miserable for those who were stuck with me. Probably because for them, I was just another stipend from the government - they warehoused me with the rest of society's rejects, then cashed the checks.
I looked up the stone steps of the main building. Another boy was standing at the top, obviously waiting for me. He was wearing a well- cut blue blazer, with a neatly pressed shirt and gray slacks - and a damned tie. Cool. If this school required uniforms, it'd make it that much easier for me to irritate the teachers.
I walked up to him. "Lucas Fletcher?" he asked.
"Yep," I replied laconically.
"Jack Barlow. Welcome to Miss DeVille's. I'm here to help you get acclimated. Follow me." I accompanied him into the foyer - very well- appointed with marble floors and Victorian furniture. He turned and led the way down a long corridor - taking swift strides. I noticed his hair was neatly trimmed and he walked with near military precision.

Permission is hereby given to archive this story anywhere on the Internet, so long as I'm credited as the author, it is reproduced in its entirety (including this disclaimer!) and no fee is charged to access it.
On the matter of fees: I wrote this story (and others) for free, and I never expected to get anything out of it except the occasional response or critique, either good or bad. Constructive criticism is welcome, though please don't be abusive, and remember that this is primarily an attempt at a wank-story, not something aimed at a Pulitzer Prize.
My point being: the only benefit I get from writing is feedback, and it seems to be tapering off in recent years. If you like it, tell me! If you don't, tell me why! Leave feedback on Fictionmania (that's best), or send email to:
edmiller21@yahoo.com
Put "your stories" in the subject line, or I might miss it in all the junk email I get.
Miss Sheila DeVille's School for Wayward Boys
By Ed Miller
Miss Payne walked down the hallway of Miss Sheila DeVille's School for Wayward Boys, on her way to her fourth period class. Her swaying ass, her huge, bra-less breasts, and the way she thrust her shoulders back proclaimed her confidence, her enjoyment of her position and her day. The boys she passed in the hallway saw what looked like an assured young teacher, barely into her twenties, with a body, a face, and a long mane of golden hair that assured her a starring role in their adolescent fantasies. There was nothing to suggest that anything else had ever been the case.
The halls she walked through presented a slightly more unusual sight. At most public high schools, a teacher of Miss Payne's apparent youth and extreme voluptuousness would have elicited catcalls, at the least, from the troublemakers among the male students. Even a normal private school's hallways would likely have seen some whispered comments behind hands, some jokes snickered at furtively. In Miss DeVille's School, the students were quiet as the grave as they moved purposefully from lockers to classrooms. If many of them followed the sway of Miss Payne's perfect ass, or the bouncing masses that were her giant G-cup tits, they could hardly be faulted for that. But not a one made the least gesture of disrespect.
As she reached her classroom and settled behind the desk, Miss Payne scanned the room. She was happy to see that her class was entirely full of boys today. As she expected, each of her young charges were in their seats, books on desks and ready for instruction. They sat ramrod-straight, eyes forward expectantly. Each of them was dressed in the school uniform: gray pants, blue blazer emblazoned with the school crest, white shirt and striped tie. Every one looked freshly pressed and ready to learn.
Every one, that is, except Timmy. In the third row he sat, leaning to the side with his feet in the aisle. His book rested on the floor next to his desk, his brown hair was disheveled, and his tie was loosened to allow his top button to be unbuttoned.
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