Anything Goes, Don't Blink: A TG Mixed Tape

Anything Goes, Don't Blink


Edited by PersnicketyBitch

A man wakes up with his wife’s nose. Two girls concoct a scheme to sneak a friend into an Elvish gathering. A dragon hatches and makes a decision that will change a young boy’s life. These are just some of the 14 stories on offer in the biggest Mixed Tape collection yet. Hit play and embark on a journey through time, space and unconventional fantasy, with a full cast of mad scientists, demonic bureaucrats, Time Lords and Ladies, and extraordinary ordinary individuals.

Now somebody told me

You had a boyfriend

Who looked like a girlfriend

That I had in February of last year

It’s not confidential

I’ve got potential

Rushin’ ‘n’ rushin’ around.

The Killers

The man with the tape recorder wore a brown trench coat, a trilby and reflective aviator sunglasses. Even though he was inside and the heater was going full blast, he had not taken them off. He had, however, unbuttoned the coat. This revealed a white shirt and lighter brown trousers with suspenders. There was a packet of cigarettes in the breast pocket of the shirt. Half a dozen scuffed and bent medals were pinned to the trench. His skin was pale and he did not cast a shadow.

“Can I get you anything?” Said Kaitlin, half hidden by an open cupboard door. Her back was lit up by the light spilling out from the fridge. “I’ve got chock-chip cookies. The regular type, and white with macadamia nuts – those are real nice.”

I’m not hungry, said the man.

The man with the tape recorder does not, cannot, eat.

Kaitlin turned around to face the fridge. “Drink? There’s Pabst. My ex-roomie left it. It needs drinking up and I can’t trust myself to. Fourteen months and staying that way, thank you very much. And lemon cordial. Homemade. Not by me though. Mr Sanders – you probably saw him doing his lawn on the way in, with his old hand mower; I know, right, a devil-darn hand mower, I can’t believe it either! – makes it and brings it over; which is nice of him don’t you think? But I do go on don’t I?” Kaitlin turned to face the cupboard again. “How about a coffee? Or Ovaltine?”

I’m not thirsty.

The man with the tape recorder does not, cannot, drink.

“Suit yourself.” Kaitlin began to prepare a glass of chocolate milk. Two spoons of powder into the glass. One into her mouth. A sheepish grin. Pour milk and mix. Sip. “What did you say your name was?”

I didn’t say it was anything. It isn’t important. Tell me about your stories.

What follows is what Kaitlin believes to be the truth. You cannot lie to the man with the tape recorder.

“Oh those, they’re just a bit of silliness. Not at first; I was a kid then. Going through a phase, you know. But I didn’t really want to be a guy; I just wanted to have a different life. I’ve kept them up because people like them. More than the stuff I’ve submitted to the Student Union ‘zine. More people read them too. And, pin it on habit, pin it on a need for validation, on fetish, on whatever, it’s just fun to write.”

She is not deceiving herself. He can tell.

Kaitlin spooned the chocolaty sludge left in the bottom of the cup into her mouth. The man watched her, consuming vicariously.

Tell me one.

Kaitlin licked away her milk moustache, drew a breath and began.

The man listens and lives vicariously. The tape recorder preserves her words and his experiences, as it has preserved many others. When she finishes he will leave, leaving her with no memory of his visit.

Anything Goes, Don’t Blink

A TG Mixed Tape

Liner Notes

An Emerald Kiss

By Ruexin

Around the Campfire

By Person42

The Bimbo Plague

By A Kent

Four Time Travellers Walk into a Bar

By Kittykait


By Zapper

I Picked a Helluva Day to Start Drinking

By Hikaro

I Woke Up With Her Nose

By Lyodor Tolstoyevski



On the Island, As Noriko

By Kandijayne


By Toxis


By Jennifer Ravyn


By PersnicketyBitch


By Ragtime Rachel

Worth the Cost

By Stardraigh

(Edited by PersnicketyBitch)

Janice stopped working to flick the back of Nelly's ear. "Sit still, or I'll have to erase it and start over."

"Fine, just hurry it up," said Nelly.

Janice continued to paint Nelly's back, proceeding cautiously as she constructed the magic symbol. She was using a thin brush and green liquid and the result resembled a sparkling vine.

Half an hour later the symbol was completed. Nelly slipped her clothing over it with a sigh of relief.

Once Janice hid her supplies in the closet she turned to Nelly with a grin. "Alright, let's go find Saul..."

Saul Algrad was attending to his duties as a squire, removing the dents out of Sir Gale's shield. While the young boy hammered away at the large metal sheet the two girls were able to sneak up from behind.

Janice tapped Saul's shoulder causing him to jump. The shield fell out of grip, landing on the hay-covered ground with a muffled clank.

"What are you two doing!" yelled Saul, "Sir Gale will be furious if I damage his shield!"

Nelly arched her brow. "Weren't you in the middle of fixing it? Does falling on the ground do more against his mighty shield than being struck with a mace?"

Saul opened his mouth to retort, but found himself without a proper complaint. "Oh, well... I supposed I may have overreacted."

"Yes, you did indeed. Luckily we have more important matters to discuss." said Janice.

The girls strolled over to the nearest bench and sat down. They purposely left the middle spot empty, then gestured for Saul to sit between them.

After a bit of hesitation Saul placed his hammer down and joined the girls on the bench. "So... what is it that you wish to talk about?"

Nelly made a show of reaching into her satchel, pulling out three red crystals. Each one looked hollow, with a dim light radiating from inside.

"As you can see," said Janice, "we managed to get three separate invitations to the Elven Queen's Jubilee."

Saul slowly nodded. "Congratulations."

"We'd like you to join us," said Nelly, "as a friend and as a bodyguard."

At that Saul chuckled. "To the Jubilee? Have you two forgotten it's only for ladies? They wouldn't want me anywhere within a day's journey to the grove."

While Saul continued to snicker Janice looked around the courtyard for any witnesses. When none were seen, she nodded towards Nelly.

Without any warning Nelly grabbed Saul's collar and pulled him into a kiss. Saul was confused, and found that he couldn't back away.

The glimmering green symbols slipped into view, slithering up Nelly's neck and transferring over to Saul through their lips.

As their kiss broke there came a flash of green.

A moment later Saul found himself with his arse against the ground. Nothing seemed right, he couldn't recognize the feeling of being in his own body.

The girls smiled. "Come along now, Sally. Time to get ready."


Ruexin is a long-time fan of the fantasy genre, and recently took interest in writing TG fiction. Ruexin's first story “Suhara of Curses” is available to read at TG Storytime, and on other major TG fiction hosting sites.

It was late. A family - Mom, Dad, twins - sat around in the woods, a campfire blazing before them. They were gathered around close. The kids were roasting marshmallows.

"Story time!" The father said.

"Yay!" The kids exclaimed in unison. They looked to their mother as a cue for her to go first.

"Ah, campfires. I remember my own childhood and our camping trips." The woman paused, getting completely lost in memories. "It was an all-boys affair. My mother wasn't allowed to go. My brothers and I would have to do everything, my father said it was training. He wanted me to be like him, to grow up to father a family, to be 'strong and proud' like him."

The woman didn't notice her husband choke on the water he was drinking after she said "all-boys affair" and "father a family."

In fact, the woman didn't notice that she’d revealed the one secret she vowed to keep to the grave. Her family was dead, just her husband, kids, and friends were left. Nobody knew that she was born male. She was a housewife with no college education, no need to tell anyone. She said she had a hormone deficiency in order to keep getting her estrogen.

Taylor, the woman, shakes her head. " 'Taylor!' My father would yell, 'go fetch some water to boil! And be quick!' I would reply with a 'Yes, father,' before running away."

"T-taylor? You said an 'all-boys affair,' no? Do you have something to tell me?" her husband, Bill, asked, suspicious of something he feared.

Taylor looked just like a deer in the headlights. Her eyes went wide and she froze. What she had said couldn't be un-said, and she realized it.

"Well?" Bill asked.

"I didn't mean for it to come out this way. I didn't mean for it to come out at all..." Taylor began.

Bill just gathered his gear and began his trek home. "You coming, kids? I'm leaving your 'mother' out here. Faggot deserves it."

The kids, horrified at their father's language, scooted close to their mother. They had never seen their father act this way. He usually wasn’t like this with their mother.

"No! Why would we? Mommy is our mommy. So what, she was a boy? I'm a boy!" Taylor's son said defensively, picking up on his mother’s cues.

"And she wanted to be a girl, which is much better than being a stupid boy!" The daughter exclaimed.

Bill walked away, throwing the keys at Taylor.

"Don't worry, Mommy, we'll be here for you." The kids say, their voices in unison. Taylor, her eyes wet with fresh tears, always wondered how they managed to do it.

"Thanks, kids. Our life is going to change a lot now."


Person42 is an author who posts mainly on TG Storytime. The author is responsible for short works such as "Christmas Wish" and "The problems with gambling" posted on TG Storytime. Other things Person42 has posted include a number of longer stories such as "That stupid disease" and "The unusual story of Dave." Works written by Person42 are varied, as are the likes and dislikes of the author.

Dr. Stein fumbled with the laptop. His hands were shaking and everything was blurry. He fought back a yawn. Finally he managed to turn on the camera, setting it up to save directly to all his social media. There was a hammering on the metal door. They'd found him. He didn't have much time left.

He looked straight at the camera, ignoring the sallow skin which hung from his flesh, the black bags beneath his eyes, the dried flaky streaks that lined his lips. His once impeccable clothes were ripped and shredded, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the warning.

“To whoever may see this, you have to warn the world, they don't know what is coming, what-what I have created,” he said.

He had to speak louder there were moans outside now, screams of pleasure, and a steady rhythmic thump against the door. Soon one of them would figure out how to open it, they were morons – he'd designed them that way –, but when they were blocked from what they desired, they could become scarily intelligent.

“I just wanted to get some companions, and I needed to punish those who mocked me. I am a genius but no one ever respected me. So I made a chemical, it changes men into women, beautiful, lust filled women,” he said. “I only wanted to make a girlfriend or two, I took those who abused me, stole my research. The chemical it also destroyed their minds. It made them the perfect bimbo. But I made a mistake.”

The door started beeping. One of the bimbo's must have opened the electronic lock, they'd have the door open soon.

“I don't have long. The bimbo's can be very intelligent when they want something. And they wanted friends. Somehow they made the chemical so it affects men AND women. Now every man and woman in town is a a bimbo, except me. They, they've been using me to pleasure themselves. I only ju-” he stopped, as the door slowly started to open. His hand slapped the override switch.

“I just got away after almost eight hours of pure sex. These bimbo's will have sex with any man they find until he is dead or they change him into one of them,” he cried. “I saw some of them driving cars away from town, they want to spread. They want to turn everyone on earth into a bimbo or a sex slave.”

The door began to open again. Pretty hands reached through looking for their man. Moans of want and pleasure filled the room.

“Oh God, what have I done? Call the army! You have to stop the bimbo's before they overrun everything! STOP THEM!” he screamed as he was buried in a dog pile of naked flesh.


A_Kent is a professional writer, who has recently begun writing TG stories. He has several stories posted on TG Storytime ranging from the horror story “Virtual Girl, Virtual Nightmare”, the YA fantasy “The Kings Sword”, to a slightly futuristic slice of life “Switched”. As well as the Kindle short story “Dating Amanda” on Amazon.


Author’s Note: This story takes place after the events of the Comic Relief special “Doctor Who and The Curse of Fatal Death”. If you have not seen CoFD I suggest that you watch it before reading any further.


Through some quirk of quantum mechanics the planet Dwinn – “the EXTREME sports capital of the universe” – was moving backwards in time. This happened in a stop start kind of way. Every 28 galactic standard hours the topology, any buildings constructed from local materials, and the life forms native to the planet would reset to where they had been 56 hours before. Time would then precede as normal until the next reset. This cycle had not, as yet, affected the thought processes of Dwinn’s inhabitants. Which was why many of them were, at present, jumping, sans chutes, from a hovercopter into the smoking crater of nearby Mt Umbarpo.


The Secret Agent watched this through the bar’s glass walls. Just this morning, he’d slit the throats of the agent who’d been tailing him. There’d been hired help as well, and they’d died even harder. But they were locals and would be back at the next reset. To kill him? Or had their contract ended with the permanent death of the individual who’d employed them? He began to tap tunelessly on the bar with his empty shot glass.


The Archaeologist was hardly listening to the dealer’s spiel. Instead she was watching the handsome man at the bar. Partly because of the vortex manipulator he wore on his wrist, but mostly because he looked delicious. The projection from her holophone held up several amulets. Priceless, he was telling her. Nang dynasty. But for her, 30,000 cosmibuks. A bargain.


The honeymooners had attracted as small crowd of well-wishes, and not a few snickerers.

“I say, that’s a lovely pair you have there.”

“They’re etheric beam locators,” grumbled the husband.

“And they’re incredibly firm,” said his wife.

“What happens on Ursa Minor Beta stays on Ursa Minor Beta, eh.”

“Oh, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Really? Tell me more.”

“After the reset.”

A hush descended on the bar. All eyes turned to the wall window. On the slopes, Dwinnian skiers tried to squeeze as many guaranteed bone breaking stunts into the minutes they had left as possible.

When it happened, it was underwhelming. It looked like a bad jump cut.


The bartender was pouring the Secret Agent another drink when all the doors into and out of the bar were blown off their hinges.


The Agent dived, rolled, came up firing at the silhouette’s behind the retina searing laser pulses, downed one, winged another, rolled again, to the cover of a tipped over table and onto the laps of the honeymooners and the Archaeologist.

The window walls fragmented under a barrage of Plasma blasts from a hovercopter.

The Archaeologist and the wife, each to the other’s surprise, grabbed for the Agent’s wrist. The husband took advantage of the confusion.

The Secret Agent readied himself for the consequences.

As the vortex manipulator tore a hole in Dwinn’s tortured quantum fabric, he wondered whose eyes he’d be seeing out of when they arrived wherever, and whenever, it was taking them.


Kittykait has been writing TG stories since 2007. She is the author of “The Pseudonym Paradox” and “Knot Real” and the creator of the Flippedverse series. You can find Kait’s stories at

Drek watched his sister, the Dragon Rider Tal’Sora, disappear along with her Great Brown Dragon behind the Iron doors. Drek waited for a minute and then took off at a run. To the freewomen and dragonriders of the hold he was just a slave, male, and invisible. Drek made his way down a seldom used side passage under the hatching grounds. The light was poor here but Drek fished out a glow-stick Tal’Sora had enchanted for him. By its light he found the crevice. He was a small boy and easily squirmed in and up. ‘I hope it won’t be over before I get there,’ he thought. At last Drek peeked out a crack from the back wall of the cavern.

The crack was recent and because it went down almost a hundred feet sand from the Hatching grounds had slowly been falling in. This created a slight depression in the sand by the back wall. Drek had spotted it a few days ago while tending the eggs. Now he had the perfect spot to view the hatching.

The eggs had been sorted by color; green, brown, blue, black, white, and of course the special egg. Royal Purple, indicating a new Queen. The most numerous colours were closest to the pillars, ledges, roosts, and platforms where the Dragons and their Riders watched. Dreck spotted his sister near Queen Tal’Elana and her Great Purple Dragon.

Among the eggs the Chosen, teenage girls, waited nervously.

Then Drek saw it. The purple egg just a few feet away. Six daughters of the nobility stood in a semi-circle facing the now rocking egg. Most of the eggs were rocking now and then a brown egg cracked and a dragon spilled out. Eager girls closed in, but the dragon ignored them. It cried out and lurched one way then another, looking. A shy girl who’d been standing farther back gasped.

“She says her name’s Angreneth.”

Tears running down her face she touched Angreneth’s snout. A spark jumped between them and the watching Dragons rumbled approval at the bonding.

The purple egg jerked violently and the waiting noblewomen closed in. To Drek’s surprise the egg shattered along the back, closest to him, and through the shards of dragonshell he saw the most beautiful eye. His heart stopped. Light took on strange hues. Time slowed, and stretched. He was on the sand. He could hear shouting and roaring. Drek ignored them.

*My name is Isilialyathar.*

Drek slowly reached out to touch the tiny queen, part of his mind told him that he would be punished for this, men were only allowed to bond male dragons and there were none in this clutch.

His hand touched the soft baby scales and a burning wave of power swept through Drek. With the power came pain and then it was over. Tal’Drek let out a feminine sigh and brushed her long purple hair back with a delicate hand. The dragons’ roaring turned triumphant. A new Queen had bonded!


Zapper started writing in December 2011 and has contributed a number of short and long stories to various websites, including Fictionmania and Big Closet Top Shelf. A few of his TG stories include: The Security Consultant Trilogy (“The Security Consultant,” “The Consultant and the Mask,” and “The Consultant and the Hounds of Heaven”) the Bounty Hunters Trilogy (“Bounty Hunters,” Bounty Hunters II: “Family Reunion,” Bounty Hunters III: “Silas Revenge”) “Conan and the Blade of Costa” and his first story, “A Favor for Anna.”

“Harry Truman, Dorris Day, Red China, Johnny Ray…” my clock radio blared.

Billy Joel and a hangover. I don’t recommend it.

My clock radio.

Why wasn't it my phone going off?

I looked at the bedside table and saw what looked to be a late eighties alarm clock. I hadn't owned one of those in years. I hit the snooze, got out of bed and tottered to my closet. I had to get dressed and head out to work. Late three days in a row wouldn't go down well, especially since I was swimming in dark waters with my boss already. I ignored the light switch. My brain wasn't ready for that stimulation

I grabbed a pair of jeans from my closet. They didn't feel familiar. They seemed more like those leggings that girls wear. I felt around for something else, but I couldn't find anything as far as long pants went. I found shorts and skirts, but that's about it. Why the hell would I have this stuff in my closet? I had to find that light switch.

I found the TV remote first. It was larger than I remembered it and completely flat. Since when did we go back to these things? Where'd my comfortably ergonomic, modern, remote control go?

I switched on the TV. I must have found one of those VH1 specials that look back on past decades, because I ended up looking for the light switch by the weird neon lighting of one of those Pepsi commercials that played rock 'n roll. I wasn't even born when these commercials were popular.

I flipped on the light switch and looked around a strange room. The same room I'd fallen asleep in, but different. The furniture was far older, everything looking plain. There was a poster for an 89 Corvette that looked disturbingly new, and almost exactly like the one my mom had once had in my bedroom when it had been her's. The walls were an off-white, and the floor a tan carpet that I'd helped rip up when I was younger.

A calendar on the wall read November, 1989, with every day up until the 24th crossed out. I reached out and caught sight of my hands for the first time since I turned on the light. My fingernails were painted a deep red.

I looked around for a mirror. There should have been one in the closet, but there wasn't. There was a standing mirror set up in a corner of the room, right next to the vanity that I'd never once owned in my life. I walked over to it and the sight took my breath away.

The reflection wasn't mine, it was my mother's. A seventeen year old version of my mother, going by the calendar. The sight of her shocked me, thanks in no small (literally) part due to her naked breasts. I looked down, saw those same breasts attached to my chest and gulped.


Hikaro has been reading transgender stories for some years now, but only broke into the writing business in late 2011, when he posted his first story to TG Storytime. Since then, he's garnered critical acclaim (in his own mind) with stories like "A First-Person Account" and "Brave New World". An odd sort of man, he likes to claim he has drinks with Elvis on the Titanic during the weekends.

I suppose I didn't really have a problem when I woke up with her nose. It took me a second to notice that the face in the mirror was different. A second longer to recognize how.

But a nose by any other name would smell just as sweetly, as they say, and a differently-shaped nose, even a femininely-shaped nose doesn't really change all that much, so I ignored it.

And it somewhat prepared me a week later when I woke up with her eyes. They were green instead of brown. I told her about it and she said she loved my new eyes, so I didn't worry.

I had her support, both emotionally and physically, the day I woke up with her bust. Her bra strained to close itself around my larger chest, but the cups fit and it was better than nothing.

I gave in my two weeks' notice when my coworkers started looking at me oddly. A week later I woke up with her hands. They were larger in size than hers, but the same shape.

On my first unemployed day, I woke up with her height. As though something out there was waiting for me to remove myself from the world that would recognize that impossible difference.

And the weeks passed, and she helped me with my changes, each week seeing me look more and more like her. She didn't question a thing, and her calmness kept me stable.

The whole time, the whole experience, she never stopped looking at me as she always had: devoted, loving, understanding that I was dealing with things as best as I could.

We came to wonder what each week would bring, what would be added to bring me closer to her. Hair, chin, waist, knees, the months passed and this became our new normal.

But this morning, things are different. This morning I woke up without anything new. Granted there isn't much left to change. My feet are still untouched, my ears, maybe one or two other things.

But when I went to brush my teeth and picked up the toothbrush, it looked odd. It felt natural, but my eyes told me something was wrong. I put down the toothbrush and repeated the motion.

I'm right-handed now. It's such a small thing. I've lost my face, I've lost my shape, I've lost my whole identity, and I've dealt with it. But this is it. This is what breaks me.

Plastic and bristles clattered to the tile floor, and my knees followed.

She found me an hour later, still on the floor, and still in every other sense of the word. She extended her hand to pull me up. Her right hand. I did not reach up to meet it.


Lyodor Tolstoyevski is man of honor. Lyodor writes many short stories, and sometimes long stories too. Short pieces of Lyodor's include "Take Me Home," "Breadwinner," and "The Witch of Wallonia." Long pieces include "Allegra" and upcoming ebook for which all should keep eye out at Amazon Marketplace: "Inside the Girls' Room." Do not be hesitating to read all works of Lyodor Tolstoyevski!

She was the perfect woman, forget the big breasts and the perfect smile, there was just something about her that made her seem so alluring. She was so sexy, so… sultry, but completely unavailable. I thought she was amazing, but she seemed to have nothing but contempt for me. To be honest, she was a self-absorbed bitch, but I just couldn’t get her out of my head. It wasn’t that I was some dateless looser, I actually did pretty well for myself, but Melissa was in a league of her own.

Completely enthralled by her I watched her from afar, but was unable to think of a means to woo her. I’d tried on several occasions, but each attempt resulted in very public humiliation. She seemed to enjoy turning down men, tossing them aside like yesterday’s garbage, but that was all about to change or at least I hoped so. A part of me kept wondering if I was being scammed, but I couldn’t turn away. Not when I was so close.

I’d just taken a seat as the metro lurched forward, beginning my morning commute which would take me to the office, when he came to me. I was told it would happen that day, but I’d expected someone to find me at home. He didn’t look like anything special, but what he slipped into my lap was something wonderful. It was a blue stone, a perfectly formed sphere that had a rainbow pattern circling its exact centre. It almost seemed to glow and I quickly stashed it inside my suit coat before anyone could get a look at it. I’d ordered it from a catalogue called ‘Aethermysts’ which I’d found sitting atop my desk at work. I had no idea where it came from and at first I’d thought the thing was a joke, but the more I looked it over the harder it was to convince myself it was anything but genuine.

I told myself I was going to wait until I got somewhere more private, but I couldn’t resist the lure of the wishing stone. I only had one wish, but that was okay I only need one.

“I wish I was someone Melissa could love.”

The world spun, lurching at a sickening speed. Then it was over and I opened my eyes. I was at the office; I shook my head and felt hair brush against my neck. I reached up to bat it away and saw a pair of perfectly manicured hands rise up to perform the task. I gasped and looked down and found myself looking into the crack between a pair of nice melons. I caught my reflection from a small mirror mounted on the office wall. I’d become Melissa. In the end, there was only one person a bitch like her could love, herself. I glanced in the mirror and felt my lips form into a smile. What did I have to worry about? I’d become perfection.


D.A.W. is a fan of science-fiction and fantasy who brings his love of the genres to TG fiction. He is the author of “Facades” (the first Meridian story) and the "Ragnarok Rising Trilogy" (“Incompatible: Birth of a Spellbinder”, “Transfigured: Ascension of a Spellbinder” and “Destiny: Legacy of a Spellbinder”). He has contributed to several shared universes including Enemyoffun's DarkRealms Universe (“Hunger Pangs”) and Morpheus' Twisted Universe (“Virtually Twisted”).


“Greetings, Master.”

cmd://hands in the prayer position, bow the head

“Welcome to The Island. I am Noriko, your pet for this week. I hope I give you great pleasure. I am here to serve your every desire, but if I am displeasing, just feel free to discipline me, or ask the administration to do so.”

Oh god, it’s all a mistake! How can I convince them it’s all a mistake? I was snatched off the street in broad daylight and taken to that awful training centre, where they sealed me into the bodysuit and shipped me out to The Island. But I’m a middle-aged man for heaven’s sake, not this 20 year old Asian female!

“So what was your name before you put the suit on?”

Of course he knows. The one who will be my Master for the week knows I was male. They always do. It’s a major part of the attraction.

“Colin, Master.”


“Really? Well Noriko, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

Oh god, he’s going to enjoy humiliating me, this one. A taste of my own medicine, he imagines. He’s a spanker, I can tell. I can see it in his eyes. He’ll find fault, and then he’ll put me over his knee and spank me. Pervert!

I won’t be able to resist because my body is that of a 20 year old Japanese woman who could easily pass for 14, especially wearing a sailor fuku like I am now.

And I shouldn’t be here at all! Lord Sebastian, who owns me, runs this tropical island as his private fief. It’s his hobby, taking male chauvinists, shits and abusers, putting them in female bodysuits, training them and renting them to his invited guests. Justice, he calls it. But I’ve never abused a woman in my life! Never, never! If anything I supported women. He must have got me mixed up with someone else!

I don’t understand bodysuits, don’t understand how their technology works, how they can change the outward form of someone into someone else. Or how they provide a masking personality. All I know is you can’t wear them too long or there are problems. I’ve been Noriko for six months, and it’s become part of me. The seam has disappeared, and it won’t come off. It’s made me into a girl, who’s petite and

cmd://glance upwards.

– oh god! –

cmd://glance upwards, smile!

irresistibly cute.

It was just a joke anyway, what I said about Asian girls being naturally submissive and obedient towards men, and how Western girls ought to learn to be more like them.

Okay, perhaps I laboured the joke too much. Perhaps the women I worked with didn’t find it funny anymore. But I don’t deserve this punishment!

“Do you actually enjoy this? Tell me the truth!”

cmd://program off

“Yes Master, I love it so much! Let me show you.”

I drop to my knees.

cmd://program on

No! no!

cmd://smile! smile!


Kandijayne has been reading transgender fiction for many years, but only recently began to write it, and has this year published her first stories on Fictionmania, BigCloset and TGStorytime. Most popular seems to be “You’ve been drafted, Girlie!”. In the ‘Real World’ ‘he’ retired at the end of 2013, so should in theory have plenty of time to write more.

“You know I hate it here. Do we always have to come to the mall?”

“Calm down, sweetie, you complain too much. We always have so much fun here!”

“You have fun. I hate it and you know that.”

“Don’t know why you do. I mean, really, you look fabulous and the boys drool all over you.”

“I look like a girl – which I am not - but everybody thinks I am. And I hate it. You know I can’t stand it the way everyone stares at me. Someone’s going to find out and then what?”

“Oh, I love it when you get into a hissy fit. You may not love it now but you will; you can’t help it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know how she is. How she makes you over the way she wants. And definitely not how you want. Here let’s turn you on for a few minutes.”

“Don’t do that!! You know that thing drives me crazy, and it hurts going in.”

“Of course, it does and that’s just what she wants. How long have you been edging this time?”

“That’s none of your business but, like, three days.”

“And now you’re so terribly horny, aren’t you, gorgeous?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Of course it is but that’s what makes it so special. So embarrassing to be horny. So embarrassing to be dressed like a girl and horny. And so embarrassing to be dressed like a girl, have lots of boys staring at you and be so horny – all at the same time. So confusing. So delicious.”

“Please stop, I can’t take this. I’ll do anything you want if we can just get out of here quietly.”

“Sorry, but you’ll do anything anyway. And besides, you’re going to get a big reward in a little while. If you’re very good and put on a big show as we walk out, I’ll give you the best blow job ever.”

“But you’re not a girl either. And I’m not gay. I don’t want that.”

“Of course you don’t but she does. See, I’m an oral queen. That’s what she turned me into. And she’s going to make you into an attention whore. The only way you’ll be able to get off is after lots of public display and humiliation. You’ll get conditioned. There won’t be any resistance; you’ll get to like it and then love it.”

“So grab your purse and get your flirt on. It’s a long walk to the car.”


Toxis writes stories about transformation, how events change people, make them something they weren't and leave them as something else. If you like this story, you might also like “Bianca Paragon” and “Spellbound” on Fictionmania, “Race Queen” at, and “Everything's Good” at Bdsmlibrary.

He hadn't planned on jacking Olivia. The seventeen-year old with the long legs (he'd never learned her name) was supposed to be the last. But sex as a female was better than anything he'd experienced as a man and soon he was jacking a new girl every weekend. He couldn't get enough. The problem was too many girls were waking up in bed with strangers, far away from home, causing people to ask questions. It was time to stop.

He'd found the “Jacker” (his name for the device) on a hike through the canyons, its pink shell peeking through a tangle of metal covered with strange hieroglyphics. Curious, he took it home. He was playing with the device while watching the weather girl on television when it happened. He was watching her, then he was her, but only for an instant. That was the flaw. The swap only lasted until someone panicked and the girls always did. Seconal solved that problem. Swallow one orange pill, then jack just before it took full effect. It worked perfectly.

Though he swore he was done, tonight he couldn't get Olivia Mason out of his mind, needing to know what was beneath those baggy boy clothes she always wore. He'd seen hints of the curves she tried to hide. He was sure she was a virgin.

He glanced at the Jacker lying on the cot, then at Olivia's photo on the wooden table next to the orange capsule and the half-filled glass of water.

“One last time.” he said, his resolve melting away. Popping the Seconal in his mouth he downed the pill in a single swallow.

He strode to the pink cone with a purpose, placed it on his head and fastened the strap. Then he stretched out on the cot. As the drowsiness settled over him he pictured Olivia in his mind. The Jacker began to hum.

Dirk slipped inside the girl like he would his favorite pair of jeans, slow and easy. Opening his eyes he found himself lying on a bare mattress on the floor, dressed only in a tee shirt and panties. He got to his feet, found the light switch and flicked it on. The room filled with the harsh glare of a bare bulb. The place was a fucking dump – peeling wallpaper, a worn carpet that smelled of urine! How could she live like this?

Then he noticed the dark purple bruise on his left wrist and the fresh cigarette burns on his right forearm. Suddenly things fit together—the mattress on the floor, the long sleeve shirts, it all made sense.

He paced the room with troubled steps before pausing in front of the dirty window that looked out on an equally dirty street. There were a thousand other girls out there like Olivia. He might jack into any one of them. Gazing out into the deepening night, Dirk wondered what to do next?


Jennifer Ravyn’s stories have appeared in both electronic and printed form under various pseudonyms. You can find her work–in-progress serialized novel How I became the Baddest girl in Clarksville, at Fictionmania and TG Storytime.

In 1995 my family owned four pairs of scissors. There were the pink Piglet safety scissors, chunky and phallic; the small silver pair with the curved and blunted tips for cutting the dog’s fur; and the pair with the grey handles that my Mum called “the grown up scissors” even when she thought that I wasn’t listening, and my dad called “the shears,” and which were cumbersome and rarely used. Then there were the kitchen scissors, which got used for just about everything. Scoring potatoes for roasting, opening packaging when digging in with nails and fingertips didn’t work, trimming the knots off Hoofer. My Mum, before she’d had me, was a hairdresser and’d taken them home with her on her last day, and when my hair got long enough to need cutting they were used once more for their original purpose. Their handles were plastic and ivory white. The finger ring had a tang, which was something that none of the others had, and this made it look a bit like a Q or, to a child’s imagination, a magnifying glass. I liked to hold this up to my eye and pretend to be a detective.

Once, after I did this, I hid them. That night my parents stayed up late. And I stayed up too, in secret, lying in my bed in the dark, listening to the TV sounds and watching the TV light flicker beneath my bedroom door. My jaw was stiff from yawning when it went out. I counted as high as I could – seven tens and three – eight times to be sure that my parents were asleep, reached beneath my pillow and retrieved. I placed my penis by feel. The blades were cool against it as they pinched.

The next day I, the Great Inspector in his Batman Cowl and his Father’s Akubra, solved the case of the missing scissors. The culprit was Pooh-bear. He’d hidden them behind a couch cushion. Pooh spent the afternoon in a cardboard box with the word jail written on it. I’d done the writing myself, using stencils, though my mother had had to order the letters. My dad filmed it all with his new video camera. Christine crawled around dripping poo from her nappy. For this, I wanted to lock her away too. But Mum said something about bail and when I asked her what that meant, my mother laughed, and so did dad, and I huffed off to my room. And when people ask me, “Nina, what’s your earliest memory,” or some such, at reunions, or in fancy restaurants or bedrooms as a way of establishing intimacy, this is what I will describe, even though it is only what I have seen on a screen after the fact. In truth I do not remember much of my childhood. The second, third, fourth-hand impression is that it was an exceptionally happy one. But the moments that have stayed with me are not.


PersnicketyBitch is the creator of the Mixed Tape Anthologies. She is Australian, but don't hold that against her. If you do she will sic her pet drop bear on you.

Kylie examined her image in the mirror, a giggle almost breaking through her serious expression. She liked what she saw.

No, not liked. She adored it.

Pure joy tingled up her spine, with a power Kylie believed could rocket her to the moon, free of the walker and plastic braces that bound her.

“Splendiferous,” Kylie half-whispered, repeating her daddy’s favorite word. Nothing in her five-year-old vocabulary described it better. What else could she say about a blue—no, royal blue dress, the lady in the store called it, “Royal blue for a princess,” her daddy said.

So soft, so poofy, so… twirlable.

The girl’s eyes turned very green, a sure sign of mischief. Daddy always joked he could hear the gears turning in that little head.

Could he really? Kylie didn’t know, but she knew one thing. She would twirl, walker, braces, or no.

Hands tight around her walker handles, Kylie moved in short, jerky bursts, soon realizing she had to relax her grip just a little. This time, she managed a smooth glide.

She was going to do it! She would do it!

Well, almost.

The wheels balked, sending walker and little girl to the ground with an ear-splitting crash. The child cried, more out of frustration than pain.

“Kylie Grace Mitchell, what in the world are you doing?”

Her daddy’s voice made Kylie jump.

“Sweetie, what happened, and why are you in that dress? You know that’s for school tomorrow.”

Her daddy tried to sound stern, but it just wasn’t in him. Picking up the still-crying child, he placed her in his lap as he sat at the foot of her bed.

“I tried to twirl in my new dress, Daddy, and my stupid walker got stuck and I fell,” Kylie said, all in one breath. “I just wanna twirl like Mary Beth.”

Her daddy sighed. Her mama would have known how to handle this better. But, the best he could do was the best he could do, he supposed.

“I know, darlin’,” he began, giving her his best “I mean business!” look, “but promise me you won’t do that again, OK?”

“Kay,” Kylie said, still sniffling.

“Good girl,” her daddy said, ruffling her hair. “And your walker isn’t stupid. Know why?”

Kylie shook her head.

“It can take you anywhere.”

“To the moon?”

Her daddy chuckled. “No, silly girl. But you can march into kindergarten tomorrow, pretty as you please, saying ‘I’m Kylie Grace Mitchell. How do you do?’”

“But I still can’t twirl!”

“Well, maybe you just need a little help.”

Lifting the child, he swung her through the air, her dress billowing around her. Kylie squealed, all woes forgotten.

“Now, Miss Kylie, bedtime,” he said, removing dress, braces and shoes.

“’Night, Daddy,” she said, kissing his cheek.

Turning, he saw the brightly-colored sign on her door--KYLE’S ROOM—and silently placed a magnetic letter “I” before the “E”.

“’Night, darlin’,” he said, wishing everything were as easy as one simple letter.


Rachel currently has only one completed story online, the SRU tale "A Box Full Of Dreams" (published under the name, Rachel Newstead). This latest contribution, "Vowels," will be her first completed story in fifteen years, though an incomplete story, "The Christmas Ivy Bloomed," is currently on Big Closet.

Rachel has this to say about her writing: "My TG fiction protagonists are young, usually child to early teen range, because they represent the child I wish I could have been--one who could freely live as her true gender at a very young age. Many are also disabled as well, a subject area not usually covered in TG fiction. I do this because I myself am disabled, having had cerebral palsy from birth, and I take the adage "Write what you know" to heart."

Worth the Cost

By Stardraigh

Anarakon, junior assistant to the assistant to the manager of Team Four of the Seventh Circle Infrastructure Sanitation Engineers found himself growing annoyed and frustrated with the situation. A young teenage boy had summoned him and was playing dumb.

"So you want me to do what in exchange for what?"

"Look kid, I'm not repeating myself again. You give me your soul. I fulfill a service."

Sparks flew from the circle boundary as Anarakon tested his prison.

"What if I don't want anything anymore?"

"Having second thoughts," Anarakon chuckled, "Too bad. You're stuck with me until we deal. The only way you can dismiss me is by making a pact."

"You can't keep me here."

Anarakon groaned in frustration. "I'm not keeping you here. You made the mistake of making your circle like mine. You didn't think this through kid."

"But, the Book of Alakash said I could dismiss you at any time."

"It lied kid. The book was written by third-rate hacks. I wouldn't wait too long. You didn't bring any food and water did you?"

The kid looked dejected when he realized the implications of Anarakon's words.

"I'll be honest. You don't have to pay with your entire soul. You might only need to give a portion of your soul in service to Satan."

"I guess I have to. Let me think about it."

The boy turned away and sat down. It was over an hour before he stood and faced the summoned deamon.

"I think I know what I want."

"Spit it out boy."

"I wish to have a long life with a beautiful girlfriend who loves me."

Figures, thought Anarakon. Nerdy kid, lonely, wants love.

"Let me make sure I understand you. You want to live a long time? Would you say you want to be immortal?"

"No, I don't want to live forever. I know what happened to Tithonus"

"Ok. And you want a girlfriend that loves you?"


"Alright. Hold a second while I calculate the cost." Anarakon checked his PDA. "It won't cost you much. Just eight hours of community service to Satan."


"Yes." Anarakon chuckled and gave the standard smile HR had drilled into him. The boy paled, thinking no doubt that he’d messed up. This would definitely work to his advantage. Anarakon programmed the magic, and released it to its job. The magic tingled as it washed over them.

Anara stepped out of the circle. She walked to the boy.

"What? You should be gone. Why are you a girl?"

"Silly boy, I'm your girlfriend." She smiled and took the boys hand in hers. She pulled him close, laying a kiss on his lips. Breaking the kiss, Anara said, "and I love you."

The boy didn't know it yet, but he would now live a long time till the second coming. Anara would be his loving girlfriend till then. There'd be hell to pay, but being a girl instead of a paper pusher in hell was worth the cost.


Stardraigh has an active imagination and is not afraid to use it. You've all been warned. Other works in progress by Stardraigh are: “Abtahka”, “Project Amaranth”, “Methods of the Uninitiated”, and “Salamander”. Stardraigh posts her stories at Big Closet but is open to posting elsewhere as soon as her executive function stops its shenanigans.


I hope that you enjoyed reading this collection as much as I and my fellow contributors enjoyed putting it together. Please take the time leave a comment. We authors really appreciate them. They encourage us to write more, and write better. Which is a real win-win type deal, I’m sure you’ll agree. So tell us, what was your favourite story and why?

I’d like to extend a big thanks to all the authors who contributed; the newbies and the veterans of previous Mixed Tapes. I’m looking forward to working with some of you again on future collections.

I’ll be putting another collection together next month. If you want to be part of September’s Tape e-mail me at [email protected].

The guidelines are:

• Write a short piece no longer than 500 words.

• Write a short “Also by this author” blurb.

• The finished anthology will be published on Big Closet, TG Storytime and Fictionmania. Make sure you have accounts set up on all three sites (all are free to join). I want to get as many authors credited on each site as possible.

Write whatever type of story you want. However if you’d like a prompt:

• Realistic stories dealing with gender dysphoria and LGBT issues are always appreciated.

• Female to male, female to female or male to male transformation stories are rare to non-existent. I’d like to see more of them since there’s plenty of fresh ground for a writer to explore there. So grab your bullwhip, pith helmet and Quinine, set your pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and take us into the unknown.

• These collections get a lot of science fiction and fantasy stories. But did you know that the past is another country and that it can be just as fascinating and wonderful as anything imagined by Tolkien or Clarke, and often more so? Yes, I’m talking about Historical fiction. How about a story about Operation Spring of Youth, or a possible real life inspiration for the folk song Sweat Polly Oliver? There’s a theory that Queen Elizabeth the 1st (and also Joan of Arc) may have been intersex. If you’d like to do anything with these ideas, let me know first and I’ll let you know if it’s been taken or if you have the go ahead to start writing. I also ask that you treat them seriously and do your research.

• If there are any types of stories you’d like to see in these collections, let us know with the review/comment function.

Submissions are due by Sunday the 14th of September 2014. All contributors will be sent a copy of the collection before it's published. If you read it and decide that you don’t want your work to be represented in it then you may withdraw your contribution. Publication will (hopefully) occur on Sunday the 21st.

Until then, or until I hear from you.



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