Black and White Passion: Two Interracial Transgender Love Stories
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
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Black and White Passion:
Two Interracial Transgender Love Stories
Love knows no boundaries
Mary Not Wollstonecraft
© Copyright 2023 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Lesley & Atticus
A Quicky in a Dark Alley
Black and White Passion #1
Lesley & Atticus
The clouds on the western horizon had a purple hue. As the last flickering of the sun’s light extinguished while the bright ball dipped under the purple sea. The world turned from day to night. Hesitantly, my fingers danced over my phone. My fingers itched to dial his number. My heart pounding, and my stomach knotted.
My yearnings were stronger for him than I’d realized. I so needed to tell him so.
Breathing in the fresh, salty air, the stirring down deep beckoned me to reach out to him. Of course, he knew what I was and wasn’t. But could he accept me as more than a friend? Would my attraction to him be off-putting?
Turning away from the waves rolling on the beach, I strolled back to the deck of my home. Climbing the steep steps, my heart racing, I swipe to call him.
“Hello,” the profoundly masculine voice said. “What’s up with you, Lesley?”
“I’ve been on the beach, watching the sunset, and thought of you. Thought you might want to kick back, watch the game here tonight, and have a few drinks with me.”
“Well, not really wanting to watch the game, we don’t stand a chance,” Atticus said. “But wouldn’t mind watching a movie or something. I’ll pick up Chinese and be over in thirty minutes or so.”
“Make it an hour.”
“An hour works. Should I get us a movie as well?”
“Naw, we can stream something. See you soon.”
“In an hour,” he said.
Fear, anticipation, and hopeful longing tugged at me. I imagined my heart exploding, for it beat so wildly. I could feel the pulsing in my temples, and a thumping lub-dub echoed in my ears. My tongue was as dry as a desert, and my hands shook as I filled the bathtub. Slipping into the water, I thought about a long soak but realized I hadn’t the time. I need to be clean, dressed nicely for him, just in case, and look my best.
My tiny dicklet throbbed, wanting attention, but I ignored him and scrubbed my femboy body clean in every crack and crevice.
Once I moved to the bedroom, sat at my makeup table, and put my face on. Subtle, not trashy, and soon, I liked how my appearance. My hair was next, back to the bathroom. My page-boy cut is easy to maintain and didn’t take long.
‘What close should I wear?’
Nothing in the closet seemed right. Lingerie, yes, something sexy, scant, and appealing for Atticus. I’d find out if he liked it or hated my intentions from the get-go. We’d have it out in the open this way. We’d flirted and teased back and forth for two years. I had to know if he had feelings for me or just being my buddy.
Pulling my special drawer open, I pull out pink French-cut panties. Sitting on my bed, I slipped the lace panties up my soft, silken legs, laid back, lifted my ass, and pulled my panties in place. Mmm, how good they feel.
Standing, I turn to the mirror, pose this way and that way, and I’m pleased with my selection. These panties make my ass so lovely I don’t even mind the bump in the front. While I examine myself, my tiny member pokes out straight. The Chantilly sends me into a minor ecstasy, caressing my shaved package.
I pull out a tight woven fishnet set of stockings and return to the bed. Rolling them up, I work the first one over my foot, up my calf, over my foreleg, and stretching down, I run my hand from my ankle to thigh.
Repeating the process. Standing, I move and again admire my form in the mirror. Running my hand from my belly, over my flat chest, for a moment, I play with my nipples. I so hope Atticus likes what he sees.
He’s never held me, never kissed me, never said more than, “You look good.” And yet, there is something there. Some unspoken connection, a thing which was more profound than friendship.
I know it, or maybe I hope so.
Butterflies in my belly flew about, and my head spun while I picked out a frilly white bralette and a sexy pink camisole. After I put on the bra, this rush of endorphins flooded me. Eyeballing myself in the mirror, I pulled the camisole over my head, pulled it over my body, and enjoyed the soft, cool, silky texture against my flesh as it hugged me.