GIRLIFIED: 15 BOOKS MEGA BUNDLE

by Nikki Crescent

  I gripped her hips tightly and then I remembered that long beautiful cock between her legs. So I reached around and slipped my hand between her and my bed. I found that cock and I slipped my fingers around it. I started jerking her off while I slammed my pelvis into her ass. And she liked it. She clenched harder and groaned louder, and it wasn’t even a minute before I could feel the warm wetness of her cum pooling around my hand. She was climaxing.

  Her butt clenched and relaxed over and over as she screamed out loud, and that was enough to bring me to my own orgasm. I filled her supple tush with cum. And then I fell down next to her and I tried to catch my breath. I looked over into her eyes and saw that she was still smiling. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’ve never been better,” she said, and that smile grew larger, and I knew she wasn’t lying to me.

  THE END

  TEMPORARILY FEMALE

  Dan got a lucky break: no prison as long as he ratted out the leader of the crime organization he worked for. So instead of being locked up, he’s sent across the country to live in a small town as part of the witness protection program.

  But Dan is a special case—there are powerful people who want him dead, so he needs an extra safe identity for his new life. He’s sent to live with Cassandra, who just happens to have a knack for feminizing men. And Dan needs to play along if he wants to survive.

  CHAPTER I

  I didn’t mind the new town, all the way on the other side of the country, and I didn’t mind the coloured contacts they insisted that I wear. I didn’t even mind the crappy little house they stuck me in, which was about a thousand square feet smaller than my house back home. But I did mind the panties that were apparently crucial to my disguise.

  I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just wear my boxers under my skirt—why panties? Who was looking up my skirt? And even if someone did look up my skirt, and they did see boxer shorts instead of panties—what difference did it make? Would that really give me away?

  “Better safe than sorry,” Cassandra said. And I’d heard her say it fifteen times already, and I’d only known her for a few hours. Cassandra was the one who picked out my outfit, and I wasn’t impressed. When they told me that I would be safest dressed up like a girl, I thought I would just be wearing a wig and some makeup. No one said anything about short skirts, halter-tops, lacy bras, or high heels. Could I not be a convincing woman in a pair of flats?

  “Better safe than sorry,” Cassandra said as I stumbled while trying to stand in the high heels.

  “I feel like an idiot. If anything, now I stick out like a sore thumb,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror. And it was true: I looked more noticeable than ever before. Wasn’t the idea to blend in?

  “You just aren’t ready yet. Don’t worry, you won’t be going out for a couple of days still—not until we’ve perfected your voice and your mannerisms.”

  It was bad enough that I had to shave all of the hair off of my legs. I hadn’t even thought about doing a female voice. I didn’t know how to do a female voice. I was shit with accents, so how was I supposed to pull off a voice that would convince every stranger I met from now until they caught Steve Anderson? And maybe a better question was: was Steve Anderson really out to get me? Shouldn’t he be more focussed on trying to remain hidden himself?

  I ratted Steve out—among other people. It was part of my plea deal: no charges would be pressed against me as long as I testified against Steve and three other guys in our gang—the gang which Steve was the leader of. I took the plea deal. I was small and slender—too small and too slender for prison. I’ve heard stories of what they do to small, slender guys behind bars, and my butthole just wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t the only one who squealed. Three of us told the cops that Steve was the one behind the death of Rupert Andrews—at least that’s what the cops told me. Maybe I was the only one who admitted it. Maybe I was the only squealer. And maybe Steve really did want me dead for that.

  Steve was a scary guy—tall and thick and covered in tattoos. He had notches tattooed on his arm—and there was another notch that appeared shortly after Rupert went missing, not even a couple of days after I watched Steve pull that trigger. So I wasn’t surprised when the cops told me they were going to put me into the witness protection program. I thought that just meant getting a new passport and maybe a haircut. I had no idea they had such a radical vision.

  “Do you do this to everyone in the witness protection program?” I asked Cassandra, who I met a few days after I made my plea deal with the police.

  “I have no idea. You’re my first,” Cassandra said with a big smile. She had me sitting on a stool now, facing a mirror. She kept insisting that I watch as she applied my makeup but I couldn’t see through her, so I had no real idea of what she was doing. She kept insisting that I would be on my own in a few days. But how hard could it be? Rub some skin-coloured cream on my face and then draw some dark lines around my eyes; that’s all girls do anyway, right?

  I felt my legs rub together—they felt so strange, all smooth. She even had me shave my crotch. I tried not to, assuming she wouldn’t actually check—but she checked. She didn’t even ask—she walked up to me and tugged down my boxers. “Shave all of it,” she said. “If you want to leave a little heart or a strip, that’s fine, too.” I shaved all of it. It felt weird, but at least my cock looked bigger.

  “It won’t be for long,” Cassandra said as she finished up my makeup. “They’ll catch that guy in no time.”

  “That’s what you think,” I said. Steve Anderson knew how to stay hidden. If he didn’t want to be caught, then he wasn’t going to be caught. He was a powerful guy, with more friends than there were cops in New York City. If he had to live underground, then he would live underground. And if he wanted someone dead, then that person would end up dead.

  The cops told me that Steve wouldn’t find out that I squealed on him, but I knew the cops were wrong. Maybe they thought they were right, but there were cops at that very station who were moles for the organization. Within hours of my testimony, Steve found out—I’m sure of it.

  “Now try your voice,” Cassandra said as she stepped back from the mirror. I stared at myself. The first thing I noticed was my eyebrows: she’d plucked most of them away. Now they were just thin strips of hair. And my eyelashes looked big—were they fake? I reached up and felt them. They didn’t feel fake, but they sure looked bigger and darker than I remembered them being. And my lips looked fuller, but I was positive she didn’t inject me with anything.

  I kind of looked like a chick—though I could still see myself. And if Steve saw me, he probably would have been able to see right through that makeup as well. “Your voice, Kylie,” Cassandra said.

  I tried not to cringe at the sound of my new name: Kylie. It sounded so immature and… girly. But I guess that was the point. The more feminine the better if I was going to pass as a girl.

  “How does this sound?” I said, making my voice as high as I could.

  “Like Mickey Mouse,” Cassandra said with a laugh. “Make it softer, and you don’t need to go high. Your natural voice isn’t any lower than the average female voice.”

  So I tried again, and once again, it wasn’t good enough. She gave me more direction. And I couldn’t help but wonder: what the hell does she know? She wasn’t a police officer, and she didn’t even work for the witness protection program. She was just the daughter of one of the police officers who was handling my case. She was just my new roommate. And I suppose she was also a girl—so maybe she did know a thing or two about being a girl.

  It turns out, the witness protection program isn’t some massive underground program. There aren’t hundreds of employees and undercover agents in every town. They basically just give you a new ID, a new credit card (with a strict limit, of course), and they say “Good luck!” Sure, there are a few undercovers who supposedly come around to check on things from time to time. I was told th
at I wouldn’t even notice them—and I was half-convinced that was because they didn’t actually exist; they just wanted me to feel more comfortable while a murderer hunted me down.

  “That’s better,” Cassandra said after my tenth attempt at the voice. “It still needs work though.”

  I forced a smile. I was already trying to think of ways I could get away from Cassandra and her little house and the stupid little town that I was supposed to live in until Steve was out of the picture.

  And even if they took Steve out of the picture, he still had droves of loyal henchmen happy to do his bidding. If he decided he wanted me dead from behind bars, then he could have me dead.

  CHAPTER II

  My first day in my new town was exhausting. Cassandra wouldn’t let up, even once I fell back on the small bed that would be mine for the foreseeable future. She just stood over me and looked down into my eyes and said, “Get up—there’s still so much to do.”

  “I can’t do anymore,” I said. My feet were killing me from walking up and down the hallway in those damned heels. I was sure I would wake up with blisters, and Cassandra’s voice still ringing in my ears: ‘One foot in front of the other. Keep your legs close together. Back straight, chest out.’ My back was so sore from me constantly pushing my chest out—or maybe it was sore from the padded bra, which was surprisingly heavy on my chest after six hours of exhausting training.

  “You need to do more, or you’ll stick out. And I don’t think you want to stick out,” she said to me with a big smile on her face, as if it was a game to her.

  “How much more?”

  “One more hour, and then you can go to sleep,” she said. It was already 2:00 AM where I was from—only 10:00 PM where we were now, but I still hadn’t adjusted yet. Adjusting would take a few more days—though I had a feeling I was never going to adjust to being a woman.

  Cassandra had me doing more laps through the house: walking the hallway, sitting in chairs, crossing my legs, practising my voice… She even had me doing hand gestures while I was talking, which felt ridiculous, but she insisted they were helping the overall look. We ended the night in the living room. She let me choose a nail polish colour, and then she sat next to me while I painted my toenails and fingernails. She painted her own as well, and I couldn’t help but think that she was just happy to have a new girlfriend.

  I slept well that night, even knowing there was a dangerous man on the loose who wanted me dead—and even though the small bed I was stuck in was as stiff as a plank of wood and less than half the size of my bed back home. I probably would have slept for fifteen straight hours had Cassandra not woken me up, holding a little bathing suit up in the air. It was a red one-piece and it looked far too small for my body. “It’s time to practise,” she said.

  I groaned and rolled over, and then she threatened to tell her dad that I wasn’t cooperating. So I pulled my tired ass out of bed and I snatched the red bathing suit out of her hand. “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Put it on—and your wig, and then I’ll help you with your makeup.” And just like that, it was right back to work—except I didn’t get paid for this work.

  Work—that was something I was going to need. They told me that I needed to pay off the credit card they gave me. “With what money?” I asked, and that’s when they told me I was going to need to get a job. I’d always imagined people in the witness protection program won the lottery, never having to work. But apparently that wasn’t the case. I only had about a month before I started getting credit card bills in the mail, so I only had about a month before I absolutely needed a job. And I would have to get that job as a woman… Not ideal. And what job could I get? I hadn’t worked a proper job since I was sixteen, working at a Subway Restaurant. When I was seventeen I got recruited into the organization. I only had to run drugs a couple of times a day, and drive the occasional high ranking member around town. It was an easy gig, and it paid amazingly after just a few years. I was making six-figures. I had a big house with a pool and a giant comfortable bed—and I wasn’t paying taxes on anything. I got paid in cash.

  But that money was gone now, along with the house and the pool and the big bed. Well, it wasn’t gone—it was probably auctioned off to some rich guy who also got all of his money through illegal means. Some fat, rich loser was probably floating naked in my pool, enjoying the fruits of my labour.

  But it didn’t matter. I dodged jail, and that’s all that mattered. They could have dinged me with a fifteen-year sentence. Hell—they probably could have dinged me with a bigger sentence than that, so I truly was lucky to get away with nothing. Though I wouldn’t call being forced to dress like a girl nothing. And would I have to dress like a girl for the rest of my life? No—once Steve was caught, my witness protection program ended. Sure, there would still be goons out looking for me, but I could avoid them in my own way—as a man. Maybe I would grow a moustache or move to Canada… I’ve always liked snow.

  For now, I was stuck in California, a couple hours south of Los Angeles. And it probably would have been a bit of a vacation if I wasn’t stuck in a woman’s bathing suit.

  Cassandra wouldn’t let me go into the pool. “Girls only swim when they need to cool off,” she said. “And it’s not hot out.”

  “So why did you put me in this thing?” I asked. She made me repeat myself in my girly voice, which was still a work-in-progress.

  “So you can sit by the pool,” she said. And then she demonstrated. She took a seat by the pool, closed her eyes, and tilted her head towards the sun so her face would tan evenly. And I thought she was kidding, until she demanded I take a seat. I felt stupid at first, and then I thought about it and realized that she wasn’t wrong: women really do just sit by the pool, doing nothing but tanning or occasionally reading a book. I’d never been a big fan of books, but a book would have been less boring than turning my head towards the sun like a sunflower.

  In the afternoon, Cassandra brought me to the bathroom and showed me how to properly curl my hair. It all seemed so frivolous—like her father sent me to her just so she would have something to do. Why did I need to curl my hair? Could I not just wear it down and straight, the way the wig was designed? Cassandra even showed me her arsenal of products. “This conditioner here—you leave it in over night and it keeps your hair soft.”

  “You know this is a wig, right? It’s not real,” I said.

  “It’s a wig now—but in a couple of months, we can probably style your natural hair. And in a year, if you’re still here, your hair will be almost as long as the wig.” My heart stuttered at the thought of being stuck as a woman for over a year. But it was a reality: they may never catch Steve, and I might remain in Cassandra’s care for the rest of my life, or until they transferred me to the supervision of someone else. So I learned how to curl my hair, and then I learned how to make my hair wavy, and then I learned how to braid my hair, and then I learned how to French braid my hair, and then my arms were tired. “You’re doing great,” she said. And it was the first compliment I’d heard since arriving in that small California suburb.

  But my day wasn’t over. She had me clean my room and she criticized my posture the entire time. Apparently there’s a feminine way to bend over, and a feminine way to reach up to dust a top shelf, and apparently there’s a feminine way to sneeze, and a feminine way to look at the back of your hand. It was all so much to take in. I tried processing all of it, knowing that if I didn’t process it, I would just have to run through Cassandra’s training program a second or even a third time. But it’s not like I was eager to get out into the real world. It’s not like I wanted to hit up the streets in a dress and actually have men looking at me.

  I still wasn’t convinced that I looked enough like a woman to trick anyone—especially people who knew me. While Cassandra was out running a few errands, I found myself in front of the mirror, trying to see a woman, and trying to see myself. Sometimes I could see both, sometimes I could only see myself—and very ra
rely were the times when I could see only a woman—and those times scared the living hell out of me. I calmed myself down by reminding myself that there really wasn’t much difference between a man and a woman: breasts, a pussy instead of a cock, and the lack of an Adam’s apple. Otherwise it was just makeup and posture and clothes—nothing a man couldn’t play along with.

  Though I’d seen trannies standing out on the streets at night, and they never looked convincing. They were always stuffed into their dresses like sausages, and their five o’clock shadow was always showing. So there were more differences than I thought originally—yet there I was, looking frighteningly convincing. But I still looked enough like a man that I knew I couldn’t go outside—and that thought filled me with a wave of relief.

  I looked out the window at the pool. Cassandra was still out, so I snuck outside and jumped into the pool. The water was cold, but refreshing. It was nice to feel free for a few minutes, even though I’d only been arrested a week before. It’s amazing how quickly you come to appreciate freedom.

  CHAPTER III

  Day three was more of the same: more getting dolled up, more voice lessons, more tedious laps around Cassandra’s small house. Cassandra came home from the grocery store and caught me watching Die Hard, which was playing on AMC. She snatched the remote and found Sex and the City on Netflix, and then she told me to make a point of memorizing the characters’ names. It was torture at first, but after a couple of episodes I started realizing the show wasn’t really as bad as I thought.

  On day four, Cassandra had me putting on my own makeup. She left the room for half an hour and then she came back to give me a critique. “Not bad for your first real attempt,” she said. I was just trying to imitate what she’d done on the days before—though I was tempted to try out a look I saw while watching TV. “I’m proud of you. Now wash it all off and do it again.” I did my makeup four times that day. My arms were once again exhausted from being held up for hours. She let me end the day on the couch, in front of the TV. We watched Sleepless in Seattle, which was a surprisingly good movie.