On the Road to the First Kiss
Hey there, gals! My name’s Mélanie. Well, that’s not quite true—my real name’s Guillaume, but since I’m writing this all dolled up in a little skirt, let’s just stick with Mélanie!
So, every now and then, Guillaume steps aside to let Mélanie come out and play. And this naughty little vixen, the moment she gets a chance, flings open her secret drawer stuffed to the brim with all her delightfully feminine treasures.
We’re talking pairs of stockings with matching lingerie, little thongs in white, pink, red, black—naturally with the matching bra! The bra’s padded with socks, but I reckon we’ve all done that at some point, haven’t we, ladies?
I absolutely adore wearing super short skirts and feeling my little cheeks catch some fresh air every time I bend over. To go with all that, I’ve nabbed myself some ultra-girly T-shirts, and as I’m typing this to you, I’m rocking my favorite one—the one that says in English, “I’m a unicorn”. But don’t you dare mock me—Mélanie loves unicorns, and that’s the end of it!
It’s been about four years now that I’ve been cross-dressing whenever I get the chance, all in secret at home. I don’t have a girlfriend sharing my bed, so I’m pretty free on that front! That doesn’t stop Guillaume from bringing home the odd girl for a tumble in the sheets every now and then. On those nights, Mélanie stays locked away in her secret drawer—it’s Guillaume who takes care of the damsel.
My sissy sexuality’s starting to feel like it’s going round in circles—a whole collection of toys for my little kitty, spicy chats with guys online, and in my wildest moments, some downright dirty Skype shenanigans.
For a while, that was more than enough for me, especially since Guillaume keeps telling me that meeting guys just to get my ass pounded isn’t exactly the brightest idea. But there comes a point—and maybe you’ve been there too—where a sissy’s gotta step out of her hideaway and explore her girly sexuality for real!
And no, Guillaume, meeting someone as a sissy isn’t just about getting my backside blasted. Alright, I’d be lying if I said that didn’t tempt me a bit—otherwise, why would I have all those buzzing buddies and suction-cup pals stashed in my drawer? But it wasn’t just some horny guy jackhammering my rear that I was craving.
One night, while I was getting all steamy on cam with a random stranger, it clicked. The whole “go on, fuck your hole, you pretty little slut” routine? Over. Done. Finito. If I break it down, my Skype sessions were basically this: the guy whips out his dick, he insults you, he says “dance,” he insults you again, then “got a dildo? suck it,” more insults, then “go on, wreck your ass,” and he gets off while—yep—insulting you some more.
Look, dirty talk’s like ketchup—it’s awesome when it’s not the only damn thing on your plate, you get me?
So I said to myself, “Alright, darling, at the end of the day, you’re getting off while Guillaume finishes up in the bathroom, and as for pleasure—even the brainy kind—it’s nowhere to be found. Time to grab your courage and your cheeks with both hands and find a nice guy to have some real fun with.”
I was totally on board with myself, and for once, Guillaume just told me to be careful and protect myself! Even he’d given in, so it was full speed ahead!
I started posting ads on some websites, and in less than an hour—boom—tons of replies! Between the ones who only spelled “slut” right in their emails and the ones who completely missed what I was after and what I expected, the first wave of messages went straight to flirt with my trash bin.
I must’ve read about 50 emails before finding one worth replying to. For starters, instead of kicking off with “Hey, my whore,” he wrote, “Hello, Mélanie.”
After a few email exchanges, I agreed to head over to his place. He lives in a high-rise block in the outskirts of my city, and I’m going as a girl! Oh, gals, that feeling of stepping out all dolled up? It’s out of this world. Sure, I’m a tad terrified on the trek from the parking lot to his apartment, but it’s still absolutely fantastic. I even get whistled at by a gang of young lads, and I’m not gonna lie—I’m pretty damn proud of it.
In the elevator, I press the button for the sixth floor, and then—wham—stage fright, questions, doubts, and flat-out fear hit me. I’m just a few meters away from my sissy deflowering. But come on, I’ve been dreaming of this moment for so long. I fantasize about making love as a sissy, wondering if I’d have a good time with every guy I spot—so here we go, full throttle!
I step out of the elevator, reach the buzzer for apartment 615, ring it, and hear, “Come in, it’s open.” Right off the bat, bad sign—unless he’s busy whipping up a fancy dinner for me, since it is 7 p.m., I think it’s downright rude he’s not coming to the door! I’m not some starry-eyed romantic, but I’m not the sushi delivery guy either.
I push the door open and hear, “Come on in, I’m in the bedroom!”
Oh, so he’s not in the kitchen—just too lazy to get up and let me in. I glance at his living room, and—holy horror show! It’s a total pigsty, an absolute mess, as my dad would put it. Come on, Mélanie, I tell myself, it doesn’t mean anything—but I’m in mega freak-out mode. I nudge the bedroom door open and see a guy in a white T-shirt that looks like he’s had a recent tussle with some bolognese sauce, the TV blasting porn, and him with his junk hanging out. I wasn’t expecting a candlelit dinner with a dashing hunk in a suit, but still—I’m about to lose my sissy virginity to Randy Marsh in a grimy neighborhood porn set?
We lock eyes. He flashes me a big grin while mine’s a bit strained, and his opening line? “Come over here and suck me off.” And guess what I do right then? I turn tail and run like a madwoman—turns out I can sprint in heels! On the drive home, totally grossed out by this busted plan, I hear Guillaume laughing and saying, “What’d you think was gonna happen? You posted an ad saying you wanted to meet a guy for your first time on the first shady site you stumbled across! Decent guys don’t hang out on those kinds of sites—I told you so.” Yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah—and the worst part is, he’s right! Too bad he’s part of me, or I’d happily jump Guillaume’s bones myself!
But I don’t let that fiasco stop me—I switch up my strategy.
I hop back onto a chat site and start looking for a guy for a steady virtual thing, but someone nearby so we can meet up if the vibe’s right. I figure getting to know someone from a distance is a smart way to filter out the creeps and find a guy I’d love to be his one-night conquest!
His name’s Luc—nice, charming, gets me all hot and bothered in our chats, and he’s a master at juggling “you’re gorgeous enough to eat” with “I want to fuck you senseless.” After a month of keeping him on the hook, I finally tell him I want to meet! He’s over the moon that I’m ready to take the leap with him.
For the meet-up spot, he suggests a Formule 1 motel or his car. Uh, seriously? A quick bang in a car in February? I tell him I’d rather go to his place, and—bam—my hopes crash and burn when he says his wife and three kids are at home.
Oh, right, so we’ve been chatting for a month, and now he’s married?!
My guess is the kids belong to the wife he met and married sometime after our first chat, when he told me he wasn’t with anyone. For once, Guillaume’s there to console me, saying I got unlucky but did all the right things to find someone decent!
I go back to my solo sissy games with some naughty videos and cut off all contact with guys—turns out I’m just wasting my time!
One spring evening, my building’s fire alarm goes off, and we all have to evacuate. The firefighters show up, and sure enough, there’s a small fire—the old lady on the top floor fell asleep with a lit cigarette, her blanket caught fire, and the alarm kicked in. Who’s still smoking at 70, honestly?
The firefighters let us back in, and as I’m about to unlock my door, the guy across the hall comes over. He’s as low-key as Guillaume—we know each other’s names, but that’s about it. To me, he’s Benjamin, the dude from across the way.
He leans in and whispers, “Guillaume, you look exquisite in a skirt.” Busted—he must’ve spotted me when I went to Mr. “I Won’t Even Open the Door”’s place.
I try a quantum physics experiment to phase through my door without opening it, I’m so mortified, but it doesn’t work. He smiles and tells me not to be embarrassed, that he thought I was absolutely breathtaking, and if I’m okay with it, he’d love to come over Saturday afternoon and evening. He must see the “LOL, this guy thinks he’s some stud, like we’re gonna bang for 27 hours” look on my face! Then he adds that he’ll cook dinner in the afternoon since his stove’s kaput and the new one won’t arrive till Monday. He’d have preferred to invite me over to his place, but he’s not about to serve me a microwaved meal.
Well, hot damn—this guy’s got moves! I’m hooked on his approach and his offer, and even Guillaume’s like, “Say yes—this is exactly what you’re looking for.”
Guillaume’s on board, Mélanie’s melting like a giddy little thing—I say yes. He winks and says, “See you Saturday, I’ll swing by around 4 p.m. Don’t plan anything—I’ll take care of it all.”
It’s Thursday—two days of dying from anticipation. It’s way too long and somehow too short all at once. Do I greet him as a girl straight off? What am I gonna wear? I hope he knows I’m allergic to peanuts. Okay, that last one’s random, but it shows how flustered I am.
Saturday morning, the alarm blasts at 9 a.m. I want to pamper myself and look stunning for Benjamin.
I spend hours in the bathroom hunting down any stubborn, ugly hairs I might’ve missed when waxing. I feel silky smooth and weirdly happy—I’m so at ease in my skin that Guillaume hasn’t opened his mouth all day!
I’d swung by a shop earlier and picked up a new set—seamed stockings with red seams, a black lace thong with a little red bow at the back, and the matching bra. Plus a skirt—not too short—a matching blouse, and a new brunette bob wig.
I’m loving this classy-chic look—it suits me to a T.
I grab my tablet to hunt down makeup tutorials so I can be flawless! Normally, I slap it on any old way since guys on cam don’t notice anyway, but this time, I want to shine. After a bunch of tries, I land on something really damn good.
I check myself out in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door and hear a whistle! It’s Guillaume—he says I’m drop-dead gorgeous, I look radiant, and he’s gonna leave me alone till tomorrow morning.
The doorbell rings right on the dot as my watch hits 4 p.m. I open it and let Benjamin in with his two grocery bags. He sets them down, kisses my cheeks, looks me up and down, and says, “What should I call you, you ravishing young lady?”
If he picked a name based on how red my cheeks are, he’d call me Poppy.
“Mélanie—call me Mélanie. I’ll help with the bags.”
“Don’t bother with that—just point me to the kitchen, I’ll drop everything off. I hope you like fish—I’ve got trout planned for dinner. You’ll see, I’m not half bad in a kitchen—it’s my job, after all.”
I’ve got an open kitchen with a bar. He tells me to sit on a stool and not lift a finger—he’s got everything under control.
He keeps sneaking looks at me, and I love the way he does it—full of desire, tenderness, and respect.
We chat about life while he’s grilling stuff, sautéing other things—it’s honestly a blast. He doesn’t ask any awkward questions like “how long have you been cross-dressing?” It feels like, to him, I’ve always been a woman. It’s a delicious sensation—I even start picturing myself as a girl when I talk about where I grew up.
His phone alarm goes off at 6 p.m., and he says everything’s almost ready—it’s time for a glass of champagne and for me to settle onto the sofa.
He comes over with a tray of little appetizers and champagne—I’m living a dream, and everything he’s made is phenomenal.
“You’re stunning, and when I first saw you a few months ago, your image got etched into my mind. Every day since, I’ve wanted to come see you but didn’t have the guts. So, let’s raise a toast to the old bat upstairs who nearly burned the building down!”
“To the nutty granny!”
“Mélanie, I really want to kiss you,” he says.
My head’s spinning right then. Finally, Mélanie’s about to get her first kiss. As I set my glass down, he picks up that I want it too and leans in. One of his hands gently grabs the back of my neck—I shiver. His lips press against mine, and we kiss!
And what a kiss, gals—I’m completely melting with pleasure and happiness. His lips are soft, his tongue dances with mine with incredible sensuality—he’s attentive and gentle. My first kiss could make every Disney princess jealous as hell.
Of course, this story’s not over, but I’ve got a little itch to make you wait for the next part…
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