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| Source: Daddy Calling |
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| Source: Daddy Calling |
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| Source: Daddy Calling |
A simple blog dedicated to artwork and erotic literature of traditional role reversal through feminization and crossdressing themes.
I have to admit this was a deeper interview than I anticipated.
Of course we cover Carolyne's art and subjects, but we go deeper into how the city life, office culture, her own French background both culturally and professionally inform and inspire her artwork.
We also cover more sensitive topics such as labels, we cover the controversy of AI Art and so much more! This is a deep dive into the flirty erotic art of Carolyne Sweet.
Sample:
The diversity of scenarios: I draw a lot of inspiration from my own experience for the situations in which my transvestites find themselves. Despite their efforts to be decent, my heroines are nonetheless desirable. Their elegance triggers desire in those around them, and as a result they are completely overwhelmed by events and experience strong emotions.Her images are informed on experiences of working in the fashion industry. Those experiences informs her crossdressers in distress as they navigate the intersection of gender norms and new possibilities.
We hope you will join us.
And that’s where our story begins, with a mature cuckold chafing against the new reality, hating that any black man walking the street has a higher claim on his wife than him, and fed up with not being a man or a woman, but a whiteboi, treated not like a woman, but like a lower class of woman.
Until his wife’s Master catches him in an embarrassing position and demands a choice – suffer life as a reluctant, humiliated whore, or enjoy it as an aspiring black-owned cuckold in training.
Sample:
“Okay, see you later, Ken!” Genny’s keys jangled loudly in the otherwise silent kitchen as she called to me from across the house. “After dinner, I am going to entertain some of Carl’s yummy, black, well-hung friends, so don’t wait up!”
Inwardly, I cringed, but I forced myself to sound sincere when I cried back, “Have fun!”
Have fun. Seriously? Why didn’t I just fucking man up and tell her how much I hated it that any black man walking the street had a higher claim on my wife than I did? Why couldn’t I tell her how much it angered me to know what kind of debauchery she was getting up to, and how disgusted it made me feel when she came home stinking of other men’s cum?
How infuriated I felt to be standing in my own house, dressed in a skirt and blouse, still with fucking heels on my feet because my wife insisted I needed to build up my arches. How much I hated the eyeshadow, eyeliner, lipstick, and blush I had to wear every day. How fed up I was with not being a man or a woman, but a whiteboi, some new gender of the Black New World Order, leaving me stuck somewhere in between.
I heard the door slam shut behind her and cursed myself for wasting yet another chance to let her know how I really felt. The truth was, I was afraid of what she might say if I were to confront her. The rise of the BNWO had invalidated white marriages, so she didn’t owe me anything. I was a white male, the lowest of the low, without even the legal protections of blacked property. One word from her and I’d be out on my ass, free for any black man to claim, and powerless to resist.
“Forget about it,” I told myself with a sigh. “The house is yours for the night, and you know what that means.” I hummed softly to myself as I made a slow, leisurely circuit of the main floor, locking the doors, drawing the blinds, and strategically nudging a few pieces of furniture into the way of anybody coming in. As eager as I was to get started, Genny could be pretty scatter-brained at times, and I didn’t want her coming back for something and stumbling across my dirty little secret.
I hated that it had to be such a secret.
Still counting the minutes inside my head, I strolled casually down the hall to the bathroom. Genny had a bad habit of piling dirty clothes behind the door, trusting me to pick them up and drop them into the wash. The more she’d fallen under the sway of her black boyfriends, the more time she spent out of the house, the more I’d been stuck with housework, humiliated into ‘proper’ whiteboi domestication.
I didn’t mind things like dishes or vacuuming, and aside from feeling the weight of judging eyes on me from black shoppers, I liked getting out to do groceries. Laundry, though, was the one thing I loathed above all others. Every item of Genny’s clothing that I picked up just reminded me of how much she’d changed since our state voted to join the BNWO. Gone was the classy, professional woman I’d married, replaced by a scantily clad slut who dressed to arouse. Everything she wore smelled of black men’s cologne, their sweat, their cum, and sometimes even their piss.
And yet, at the same time, there was a small part of me that looked forward to the desperate hunt for laundry treasures. She entertained her black friends in our bedroom on a regular basis, and it was their clothing, discarded and forgotten, that I so craved. In a world where white men like myself were forced into panties, stockings, women’s slacks, and women’s blouses, there was an undeniable thrill in slipping into even something as simple as a forbidden pair of briefs and socks.
If she ever found out about what had become my secret fetish, I was pretty sure I’d have two ex-wives on my hands, but what did she expect me to do? I’d been emasculated, stripped of my dignity, and she hadn’t touched me sexually in over a year. I was so fucking horny, but it was damned near impossible to get a hardon when you’re dressed like some 1950s housewife.
It was no wonder I resorted to such drastic measures.
❤️ Bobbi
Author of nasty, trashy, taboo erotica
Book:
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| A feminized "Darla" being encouraged by his Mother-in-Law |
Tulip Fancy
Our favorite feminized housewife recalls a moment years ago when she was first called Tulip
I was grateful for her concern about my posture and her efforts to stop me slouching. We had not been seeing each other long and it felt good to have someone care that much about me. Her gentle reminders to keep my shoulders back and chin up. I hadn't realized I had a problem until she pointed it out. The biggest problem she said, was going to be when I was at work and she couldn't remind me. That's when she came up with the idea of a harness. I was a bit skeptical but happy for her help. When I took my shirt off, she came back with one of her sports bras. It wasn't what I was expecting but put my arms up when she said it was just to find out my size. It was quite large on me but she said it gave her an idea of my correct size. When I lifted my arms for her to take it off me, she noticed the little patch of hair under my arm pits. She turned her nose up and said I should get rid of that; it is very unhygienic. Something else I had not realized.
When she came home from work it was later than normal. I was in the garage trying to practice my swing. I had just taken up golf, but could not seem to get the hang of it. She seemed a little put out when she saw me. How come I had not started dinner yet? I felt embarrassed and a little ashamed. The tone she used made me feel even smaller than usual. I put my head down and confessed that I didn't know how to cook. Up until now I had just chopped what she told me to and she did the cooking. Well, that's going to change she said walking back in. I instinctively knew I was expected to follow. She cooked while I was a kitchen hand. The atmosphere was a bit frosty and I vowed to myself that I would win back her favor.
Once dinner was cleared away, she bought a bag into our room and told me to take my shirt off. Once I had stripped down, she bought out a white garment that looked like a smaller version of her sports bra I had tried on earlier. I was expecting something with straps and buckles. Not wanting to seem difficult I let her pull it down over my torso. I let her turn me this way and that. She adjusted a couple of things at the back and on the shoulders. There did seem to be some weight to it as if it was slightly enhanced and the bottom band seemed to dig in and lift my chest a little. She had me stand back and then walk up and down the room. I could definitely feel there was extra weight at the front that caused me to pull my shoulders back.
"That is a dramatic improvement," she said as I noticed her mood lighten.
She got me to stand in the middle of the room and put one hand on my hip. I was happy she was smiling again.
"Yes," she said with a smile. "That is much better Tulip."
She came over and took one of my hands and led me back to the arm chair, sat down and pulled me down onto her lap.
"Did you just call me Tulip? "I asked.
"With your thin stem and big hair, you just reminded me of a Tulip," she said nibbling at my neck.
I wasn't happy with the feminine connotation, but I could feel her breath on my neck as she cuddled my semi naked body and decided to concentrated on not allowing my penis to become stiff having just got back in her good books. I knew my tongue would be busy that night.....
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |
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| Source: Maid Gail at Deviant Art |