Big Hard Girls

by Nikki Crescent

  BIG HARD GIRLS:

  15 BOOK MEGA BUNDLE

  A TRANSGENDER EROTIC ROMANCE BUNDLE

  BY

  NIKKI CRESCENT

  INCLUDED IN THIS BUNDLE:

  PRETTY CLOTHES

  THROBBING LESSON

  I KNOW HER SECRET

  COMMISSIONED

  MY WIFE’S NEW PACKAGE

  BEAUTY QUEEN

  FIRST TIME

  PRETTY MODEL

  SISSY HYPNO

  STIFF COMPETITION

  THE EASTER BUNNY

  SISSY TRIAL

  ADULT FILM STAR

  THE NIGHT SHIFT

  LAST RESORT

  KEEPING UP WITH

  NIKKI CRESCENT

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  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

  Published By Honey Wagon Books Inc.

  Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Crescent

  Model License Holder: Honey Hunter (Shutterstock Inc.)

  Background Image License: Whiskey Boone (Shutterstock Inc.)

  Cover by Fleetwood Lebowski (Honey Hut Designs Inc.)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  PRETTY CLOTHES

  Terry runs a small downtown dry-cleaners. He gets a lot of work from rich women and working street girls alike. But the rich girls and the working girls all have one thing in common: they’re always bringing in pretty clothes.

  After the busiest night in the history of his small business, Terry decides to celebrate with a bottle of champagne. During his celebration, he discovers a bag of pretty clothes that he missed. And with his buzz, he can’t help himself. Though he doesn’t expect a night of drunken shenanigans to evolve into a full-blown addiction.

  CHAPTER I

  Terry hated Mondays because Mondays were always the busiest where he worked, at the cleaners, in the heart of downtown Vancouver.

  Downtown Vancouver was where everyone under the age of thirty went to party on the weekends—a city with a population of nearly three million, all condensing into a tight area to drink and do drugs and have sex. And of course no one wanted to waste their weekend at the cleaners, so they generally saved that chore for Monday, to ensure their party clothes would be ready for them again by Friday.

  In his five years in the business, Terry had cleaned every bodily fluid imaginable off of every possible garment. There was one particularly long week after the Furry Convention, scrubbing dried cum off of large fluffy costumes—they may have been weird people, but at least they paid well.

  A Monday hadn’t gone by in which Terry found himself scrubbing cum off of some rich woman’s lingerie. It was a thankless job for the most part, but someone had to do it.

  But Mondays did have some perks. The lower class party girls would come into the cleaners to use the laundry machines, to clean their lower class party clothes and usually the rest of their wardrobe. It wasn’t unusual for girls to strip down to their undies and wander around the shop while their clothes ran through their cycles. One time a girl got completely naked and sat in the corner with her tits and her pussy out in the open. Terry didn’t complain—she had a nice set on her—though he was fairly certain that she was a prostitute, so he made sure to disinfect the machines once she was finished and gone.

  Occasionally Mondays were so busy, Terry would end up taking his work home with him: hauling large sacs of laundry up into his apartment so he could meticulously scrub the stains from every little piece. He knew that he should probably turn down the work once the workload was too great, but he had a hard time turning down the money. The cost of living in Vancouver was terribly unrealistic after all, and every extra dollar helped considerably.

  It was a Monday morning in early January when Terry realized he was about to face one of those long nights. When he arrived for work, there were already four people standing at the door, looking exhausted and desperate. Before he could take their clothes away from them, another four people had filtered in. One guy had five large sacs of clothes and he wanted every last piece dry-cleaned. He was willing to pay nearly two grand for the work.

  And then it was around noon when the prostitutes started sauntering in. Mondays were apparently slow for prostitutes, so they generally opted to have their outfits cleaned on Mondays. The prostitutes always put in rush orders. “You know the drill,” said the bubbly blonde who came in every week at the same time. “I need everything before tomorrow at lunch.” One time she offered to pay Terry with blowjobs, but he declined the offer—he’d never fooled around with a prostitute and he was proud of that (and his medical records were also proud of that).

  And shortly after the prostitutes came Vancouver’s female gymnastics team—another five sacs of stretchy outfits that needed hand washed one at a time. And after the gymnasts came the barrage of tourists from a recent arrived cruise ship. And after the cruise ship came all of the young girls who had arrived a day early for the Justin Bieber concert. The day just wouldn’t end.

  Terry was quickly overwhelmed—too overwhelmed to realize he was becoming hopelessly overwhelmed. When his alarm buzzed to let him know it was 8:00PM—closing time—he had eighteen sacs of clothes behind him that needed cleaned in the next ten hours. It was clear that Terry wasn’t going to be getting any sleep. It was almost 10:00PM when Terry finally settled into his home, after making three trips back and forth, hauling heavy sacs of clothes. Before starting on his first sac, he fired up the coffee maker, filling it to the brim with strong coffee—so strong that the grinds would get stuck between his teeth.

  And then he got started, one piece at a time. He prioritized his usual clients. The Justin Bieber fans weren’t a high priority—they were only in town for a couple of nights—same with the cruise ship tourists. Though he didn’t want any negative Yelp reviews, so he planned on finishing the whole haul that night.

  It took a whole hour to get through that first bag. His eyes were already heavy and he caught himself nearly nodding off a couple of times. So he put on some aggressive music—music he didn’t even like but he knew would
keep him awake. He found himself in a sort of exhausted trance, going through the motions, trying his hardest not to look at the giant piles of clothes that awaited him, or at the small piles of clothes that were finished. He reached out for his coffee, which he was drinking straight from the pot, and found that it was empty. So he quickly brewed another pot and kept going.

  The sun was up when he finished scrubbing that final little stain out from that final signed Justin Bieber t-shirt. He took a deep breath and fell onto his couch, dozing off for just ten minutes before his alarm began to chirp. It was time for work; time to do it all over again.

  CHAPTER II

  Tuesday was quieter than Monday. Clients came to pick up their orders, and few came to drop new orders off. Terry found himself wandering over to the café next door nearly half a dozen times before noon, and then he finally stopped when he realized his hands were physically trembling. He started to wonder if a person can die from consuming too much caffeine.

  He was shocked when there were no complaints—not a single dissatisfied customer. Apparently he’d done a good job in his state of overwhelmed exhaustion. One woman even gave him a fifty dollar tip after saying she’d gone to ten different cleaners and no one was able to get the stain out from her four-thousand dollar dress. Terry couldn’t even remember cleaning a four-thousand dollar dress, and he couldn’t remember any difficult stains, but then again, he couldn’t remember much except for the taste of burnt coffee grounds.

  It was around 5PM on that Tuesday when a pretty, young woman came into the shop. She walked up to the counter with a precious smile on her face and said, “I’m here to pick up my order.” Terry didn’t recognize the girl, but she had a tag, so Terry went into the back to retrieve her clothes. But there was no order with her tag number on it.

  “When did you drop the clothes off?” Terry asked, assuming he’d mislabelled one of the orders in the tired chaos the night before.

  “Just last night.”

  Terry strained to remember the girl’s face, but his mind was silent. She didn’t look at all familiar. “What exactly did you drop off? I’m sure it’s back there—I must have just mixed up my tags.”

  Her cheeks became a shade of pink. “Well,” she said with a suddenly coy voice. “There was a couple dresses, a couple of skirts, a bodysuit, and…” Her cheeks turned even pinker. “Some intimate items.”

  Now Terry felt his cheeks becoming warm. He cleared his throat, but that didn’t stop his voice from cracking when he said, “I’ll go look.” But there wasn’t much in the back—just a few sacs from his usual clients. He looked through them anyway.

  And then it dawned on him that the girl was possibly one of the prostitutes, now out of makeup. It’s amazing what those girls can do with makeup—they can completely transform themselves, and make themselves completely unrecognizable. But it was hard to believe the little blonde standing in the waiting area was a prostitute. She seemed too harmless and too gentle.

  Terry grabbed an item from each of the bags he had in the back, and he brought them out. He held them up for the girl, and then he watched as she bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Those aren’t mine,” she said. And now Terry felt embarrassed, holding up slutty hooker outfits for a harmless little blonde.

  “I’m so sorry—I’m sure I have them somewhere. Do you need them now? Can you come back tomorrow for them?”

  She smiled and nodded her head. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, and then she skirted out of the store.

  Terry took a two-hour nap as soon as he got home. Then he woke up and ate the first food he’d eaten in almost thirty hours (and he didn’t even realize he hadn’t eaten anything until he shoved that first forkful into his mouth). After a few bites, his brain started turning on again. He remembered a bit more from that chaotic night and the day that preceded it. But he still couldn’t remember that girl.

  He cleaned up his dinner dishes and then he went looking through his house for the missing bag of clothes. He fished that order tag out from his pocket and examined the number. The girl couldn’t have been lying—the tag had yesterday’s date on it, written in Terry’s handwriting. But where could the bag have ended up? Did he drop it on the street during one of his many back-and-forth trips to the shop? His gut turned at the thought. It had been years since he’d ruined a client’s clothes, and he’d never lost a client’s clothes before. What would he say to her? Would he pay her to cover her losses? She apparently had a whole sac of clothes, probably worth well over a thousand dollars—much more than Terry made from his long, exhausting night… One little mistake and all of that work was for nothing.

  Terry bit down on his tongue. Maybe he could find the bag. Maybe he’d dropped it in the stairwell of his apartment building. The elevator was broken and had been for weeks, so Terry had been hauling sacs of clothes up and down the fire exit stairwell. So he went to look, but it wasn’t there. He ran back down to his shop, checking every alleyway for a stray brown sac, but there was none. If he dropped it on the street, someone had surely grabbed it, probably hoping to make a few bucks at a local pawnshop.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Terry muttered under his breath as he made his way back to his home.

  He was running low on energy as he climbed back up to his apartment. He threw open his apartment door, ready to collapse on his couch and accept defeat, and then he noticed the glimmer of brown squashed behind his sofa chair. He ran over and pulled it out, and his face lit up as he could feel the clothes inside of the bag. There it was—the missing bag!

  He hugged it tightly and thanked a god he didn’t even believe in. Then he opened the bag up and pulled out the clothes. They still needed cleaned, but that was no issue—nothing he couldn’t do in the next hour. He pulled out two soft satin dresses and then he pulled out a cute lace skirt, and then he pulled out the tight black bodysuit. All of the clothes smelled nice, like expensive perfume, and there were no stains that Terry could spot.

  Before he got started with cleaning the blonde’s clothes, he went over to his fridge. He had a small bottle of champagne in the fridge that had been there for two years. He meant to drink it when he opened his shop, but he hadn’t gotten around to it. Now he was ready to drink it, after his most profitable (and longest) day in business. He felt he had a good reason to celebrate.

  So he took a long swig from the bottle. And then he took another. The buzz felt so good, he decided to finish off the whole bottle with a big grin on his face.

  CHAPTER III

  When Terry returned to that final job of the night—that sac of pretty clothes sitting in the middle of his living room—he was drunk. He stumbled slightly, unable to wipe the grin from his face. Usually, a single small bottle of champagne wouldn’t have been enough to even give him a buzz, but that night was different. That night, he was running off of almost no sleep and he’d hardly eaten in two days. If he’d had just another shot of booze, he wouldn’t probably end up blacked out.

  He picked up that first dress: a knee-length red bodycon dress with a cut slit up the left side. He scanned it carefully for stains and found none. Then he danced it over to his steam cleaner as if there was a beautiful woman wearing it. Before placing it down on the rack, he looked down into his imaginary girl’s imaginary eyes and said, “You look stunning tonight.” And then he laughed and fired up his steamer.

  He made sure to run the steam evenly over the whole garment. You have to be careful with red satin—a steamer can easily discolour a spot if held for too long or too close. Once he was done steaming the little number, he flipped it inside out and inspected the seams. There were a few loose threads, so he pulled them in and knotted them off, making sure the cute dress would last another few years at least. It was a little service he included for all of his clients.

  Then he hung the dress on a hanger and went to get the next little number: a black dress that was even shorter than the red one. He found himself looking at it, wondering what purpose it served. It was far too short to w
ear to work, or even out on the street. Was it a bedroom dress? Did the girl wear it with her husband? Terry tried to remember if the pretty blonde had rings on her finger. He couldn’t recall any.

  He held the dress up to his own body. “How do girls even fit into these things?” he asked aloud to no one. And then he got a silly, drunken idea in his head. He let a giggle slip before getting himself undressed. He now had a curiosity stuck in his head that wouldn’t go away until he indulged, and he wasn’t in a straight enough state to stop himself from indulging. He got himself completely naked and then he started to wriggle his body into the soft satin dress. It was tight, and he was careful not to rip it (as careful as a drunk man can be). He pulled it up slowly, awkwardly fighting his arms through the armholes.

  He let another giggle slip once he had the dress on his body, though this was more of a giggle of surprise than an acknowledgement of how ridiculous he was being. The dress actually fit. The satin was actually stretchy enough to snap over his body—though maybe he shouldn’t have been too surprised. He wasn’t a big guy by any stretch of the imagination—only a few inches taller than the blonde who owned the dress, and probably only twenty pounds heavier. And it helped that he hadn’t eaten much at all in a couple of days.

  He laughed all the way to his bedroom, where he had a full-length mirror. And then he stopped laughing when he saw himself. Aside from his body hair and his stubble beard, he didn’t look half-bad in the little dress. It just hardly covered his cock, but the bulge wasn’t too noticeable. He found himself standing there for a few minutes, trying to convince himself that he didn’t look good. But he just couldn’t help but notice his curves and his surprisingly supple ass.

  And now he had another strange and silly curiosity in his head: how would he look with a full-body shave? It was another curiosity that he knew wouldn’t go away until he indulged, and he was still too buzzed to stop himself from indulging. So he ended up in the bathroom with his face razor and plenty of shaving cream. He giggled while shaving the hair off of his legs. His crotch suddenly looked silly, all hairy above his bare legs, so he shaved his crotch too. And then he shaved his chest and his armpits and then his neck and his face. He went over everything twice, making sure he got the closest shave possible, to make sure the look was as convincing as possible, even though he was hoping to look in the mirror and see a ridiculous sight, just for a good laugh.