My Magical Little White Skirt

My Magical Little White Skirt

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Fetishes are ultimately all about metaphor and make-believe. His fetish makes me into the woman I want to be.


Fetishes are ultimately all about metaphor and make-believe. His fetish makes me into the woman I want to be.


Submitted: August 13, 2013

A A A | A A A


Submitted: August 13, 2013



Call him Ahab. 

Whenever A calls me, the conversation is always the same, so familiar now it’s like a favorite old musical score that I can replay in my head.  But there are inevitably slight variations on theme combining the thrill of the new with the satisfaction of expectations fulfilled.

“How’s my classy tart doing?”  A asks.  But it’s not really a question, for even if I don’t answer the phone, much less answer the question, he keeps talking into my message machine.

“Tell me,” A continues, “what does my classy little slut have on this evening?  What are you wearing?”

“A short pleated skirt,” I tell him if I answer the phone.  I know what he likes.  (“Baggy old jeans,” once, to be perverse, I told him.  But his continued heavy breathing told me he knew I was teasing.).

“Remember, tart, you’re just a skirt away from me and my cock,” A always says.  “I’m all loaded up and ready to go.  I want to shoot my wad all over your sexy skirt.”

“Hmmm,” I say.  “Sounds fun.”  I don’t worry about the dry-cleaning bill; he pays me $350 for each encounter, not to exceed an hour and a half.  

“And, sweet slut, bring a change of clothes, another sexy skirt, with you.  I just might want to reload and shoot all over you again.”

“You always say that, A, but you never do.”  I feint disappointment, making my voice seem like I’m forever sadly insatiable.  That I can never get enough cock is what A wants to hear.  After all, that’s the conventional wisdom about shemales – why else would we want to take estrogen, get breast implants, go through the pain of electrolysis, not to mention all the other tortures and indignities we suffer to feminize our bodies, unless we craved the hard cock of supposedly straight men?

Maybe there’s more truth to that than I like to admit.  I took up escorting to pay for my sex-change surgery; but now that I’ve got the money, I’m no longer sure I want the surgery.  Then I’d be just another aging pussy.  Right now, I’m special and therefore marketable –  “a chick with a dick,” “38C-28-38, plus 6 inches, cut,” is the way I'm advertised, quantified, and objectified me.

I tell my psychiatrist this when I have to explain why I keep postponing my surgery. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, “you’ll make a very desirable woman.”

“Will you promise to make love to me, then, after I have the operation?”  I make the shrink blush.

A, on the other hand, I can count on.  He’s never embarrassed about his skirt fetish, and he wants to just like I am.  One time I even ask him directly:

“Would you like me as much if I had a real pussy instead of a cock?”

 “You don’t need a real pussy, baby,” he reassures me.  “All you need is a skirt.” 

 “But all women wear skirts,” I say.  I am genuinely perplexed. 

 “But you have a secret underneath your skirt,” A says and smiles.  “I like that.”

Even for A, however, it remains a secret of sorts.  He has never once touched it, although certainly he knows where it’s tucked.  Is knowledge enough?  Is that all that’s required to make him as hard as a rock?  No, it’s not the idea alone of my untouchable cock.  It’s the idea made manifest in a short pleated skirt.  So, instead of my cock, he fondles my skirt.

I shouldn’t be perplexed, my shrink tells me when I tell him about A.  In fact, he calls me naïve. 

“An innocent shemale?  Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”  I laugh.  My shrink smiles. 

“Of course, your shirt-fetish client is turned on by the idea that a woman might have male genitals,” he says.  “According to Freud, all fetishes are simply a manifestation of castration anxiety.  The skirt provides a layer of protection between him and the all-consuming female genitalia. And the fact that you don't yet have what other women have is just added protection.”

Hmm.  Protection…safe sex….  My mind runs with free association (my shrink likes that).  A shemale’s cock is kind of like a built-in condom!  I’d never thought of that.  Indeed, now that I think about it, maybe my cock itself is a fetish.  No wonder I have second thoughts about cutting it off!

A inserts his fingers into each pleat and runs his fingertips up and down the length of my skirt.  An expression of ecstatic wonder comes over his face, and he feels the need to put into words, to share with me, the sensations awakened by the touch of my skirt:

“Soft and silky…flirty and feminine…sexy and sensuous.”  His descriptions are so trite, as if borrowed from a woman’s fashion magazine.  But the way he breathes each syllable adds layers of meaning.  It’s as if the texture and box pleats of my off-the-rack skirt are newly discovered, previously unexplored, forbidden territory, now known only to A.

“You’re a good girlish tart,” he congratulates me, as we sit, thighs touching, on his bed.  “You’ve got on just what I told you to wear.  It’s just the way I imagined when we talked on the phone.”  His calling me on the phone and telling me what to wear, then my putting it on as I describe it precisely, is part of our ritual -- telephonic foreplay before each “date.” 

But curiously he’s never bought me a skirt that he wants me to wear; he only describes it; I suspect that to venture into the intimidating, foreign land of women’s apparel and overly friendly salesgirls would fill him with fear and trembling.  I, a former clueless man myself, must serve as surrogate spy.  So the mystery, perhaps necessary to any fetish, remains in tact. 

“I’m glad you like it,” I whisper as he kisses my camisole where my nipples poke the fabric, first one tit and then the other.  Then, in a third and final gesture as if he’s making the sign of the cross, he nuzzles his face between my hormone-enhanced boobies, while running his fingertips over my skirt.

The cami is white, as are my skirt, hose, and strappy heels.  That is his color choice for today: all white, pure white, not ivory.  To transform a tart into his bride?  At this very moment he probably would marry me, I smile to myself, if that were the only way he could obtain continued permission to stroke my skirt.  I like the power his fetish bestows on me.

But without the skirt I am powerless.  He wouldn’t desire me at all.  But not just any old skirt; it has to be short, above the knees, with pleats.  Even my oh-so-snug macro-minis don’t turn him on.  I ask him one time what it is about pleats.  He can’t explain it.  I have my own theory; it has to do with evolutionary biology.  The way the pleats dance when I move my hips makes me fertile – or at least exaggerate the illusion that the eggs I’ve been forever denied are expectantly waiting for his sperm.  That it is an illusion, whereby the body plays tricks on the mind, just adds to the exciting sin of it all.

“I want to have your baby,” I tease him one time, testing my hypothesis.  He just laughs, as he eyes my skirt.

“You feel great,” he says as his thumb and forefinger firmly clamp and vigorously rub the hemline, while his other hand strokes my stockinged thigh.  (Along with the skirt, I always have to wear hose.)

“Be careful.  You’ll leave a smudge,” I tease.

“Do you think my juices will blend right in?”  He makes me giggle, and I brush my nails against the ever growing bulge in his pants.

“What kind of fabric is it?” he asks and looks into my eyes.

“You know, A, I’m not even sure.  We could look at the label in the back of the waistline.  All I know for sure is it’s knee-length with box pleats, and it cost something like $150 from Bloomingdale’s.”

“And it’s lined.  It feels like silk lining to me.”  He grins and reaches behind my waist to find the manufacturer’s label.  “Rayon.  Wool.  Polyester.  Dry clean only.”  He reads the words as if an incantation.

Then, without a word, his hands grab my hair and pull my face to meet his.  He kisses me and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.  This is the signal, I know from all our previous dates, for what I am expected to do next. 

I flip up my skirt to reveal a condom whose package is pinned to the lining.  He unpins it, tears it open, and places the round, unrolled rubber on my tongue.  I slide to the floor beside the bed as he unzips himself.  He pulls my skirt up to glide across his cock.  Genuflecting, I gently unroll the condom with my teeth and lips along the length of his shaft.  My hands remain free to rub my skirt against my gyrating hips, as if I’m a striptease artist about to pull the skirt off.  But, of course, I never do.

“You like my cock in your mouth, don’t you, slut?” I nod my head vigorously up and down, to say “yes,” as my tongue French-kisses the soft skin of his hard penis.  Yes, yes, yes, I do so love, yes, the feel of cock in my mouth; and it occurs to me that even cock-sucking is a metaphor, too, just like his skirt fetish, indeed all fetishes.  That's what goes through my head when I’m giving head.  Yes, giving head is simply a metaphor for intercourse.  And without my skirt, there would be no make-believe; A would never let me feel him in my hole -- I mean mouth -- if I were skirtless.

“Remember, you’re only a skirt away, baby,” A always says when I know he’s about to climax.

Then he pushes my head away, rips off the condom, and ejaculates all over my skirt.  His eyes are wide open, devouring me sitting on my haunches in my skirt. The shower lasts forever; he’s been saving it up for me.  For me, not just for my skirt.  If it were just a skirt he is after, he could buy one through mail-order and masturbate with it.  What he wants is me in my skirt.  I am the keeper of the sacred fetish; an inanimate article of clothing, I bring alive.  He blesses it with his holy water.  My skirt and me, linked inexorably, the skirt that turns me into a woman.

I stare into his eyes; they are soft and blue.  I begin to understand him; his fetish liberates us both.  The skirt gives him permission to desire a shemale; in a skirt I’m a real woman; and so we’re just a so-called normal couple, just like any other.  I could love him, I think.

And at this timeless moment he loves me, too, I know, for I am become my skirt, now stained with desire.  My magical skirt.  Short, white, femininely flirty with box pleats.  If he wants to marry me one day, he can.  I’ll be happy even to let him pick out and run his smudgy fingers over the wedding dress before the Big Day.  It’ll have lots of frilly ruffles and petticoats, I’m sure.  He’ll make me keep it on when we make love.  We’ll live happily ever after, and make lots of make-believe babies.

© Copyright 2018 Joy Saint James. All rights reserved.

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