Driving Miss Michele


This story is fiction; although the placenames used in this story do exist; the events described in this story never actually occurred. Any resemblance to anyone anywhere (except to Michele who is actually me) is coincidental. The story contains explicit sex and violence, and explores themes involving transvestism and non-consensual sex. If any of these themes disturb you then please do not proceed. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.


Michele Nylons



Michele drove carefully through the cold wet dark streets. She was not used to using the accelerator and brake pedals of her compact sedan in high heels and she was debating whether to pull over and unbuckle the strap of the high heel on her right foot and kick it off. She didn’t want to bring attention to herself by stopping on the deserted street but she was concerned that she might commit a driving offence if her shoe slipped on the accelerator or brake pedal. She had deliberately chosen this route after pondering the street directory for hours. It was not the most direct route to where she was going but it was the one that had the least traffic at this time of night and the least amount of traffic lights. She knew that the poorly lit streets of this industrial area of Bankstown in the outskirts of Sydney would be deserted this time of night.

“Fuck it!” she hissed to herself in frustration.

There were no police cars around this area at this time of night and it was unlikely that anyone was around to even see her, let alone report her for erratic driving. She was being paranoid. Michele took a deep breath and concentrated on driving on the slick wet streets; she was only about fifteen minutes away from her destination, the parkland at Picnic Point, and she was getting excited in anticipation. She had never done this before, but she had wanted to for so long, that she could hardly believe that she had mustered up the courage to go ahead with it.

“Concentrate, you silly bitch,” Michele swore to herself after swerving at the last minute to avoid a mangy cat that ran in front of her car.

She slowed down another five kilometres per hour so that she was driving well below the posted speed limit. Would driving this slow bring more attention to her?

“Fuck it!” she giggled to herself in nervous anticipation and drove on through the deserted streets.

Five kilometres away three figures cursed and threatened each other as their high-powered sedan roared down the back streets of Padstow; the shrill of a burglar alarm siren receding into the background.

“You fucking dumb cunt! I told you to leave the cash in the till and just take the money from the safe!” the leader hissed.

Stan, the leaser, was a big man, weighing in at over one hundred kilos and well over 190 centimetres tall. His long oily black hair, dark features and sunken eyes looked grotesque because of the nylon stocking he wore on his head. He tore it off and stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans.

“You two fuckers take off those masks now and don’t fucking leave them in the car so the coppers can get your DNA!” he bellowed as his two accomplices stripped stockings from their heads.

“Fuck me Stan, I never would have thought that wiry little cunt would have the guts to pull that gun on you!” the smallest of the three uttered excitedly.

At just over 167 centimetres, Davo was a full head shorter than Stan, their leader. He was a full-blood aboriginal with a lithe body and small bunched muscles; his black curly hair hung in a mop almost covering his deep-set brown eyes. A few men had mistaken his slight build for weakness; most of those who had, lived to regret their mistake.

“Well you dopey black bastard, if you hadn’t insisted the owner take the money out of the cash register he never would have been anywhere near the fucking gun or the fucking alarm would he!!!” the third member of the gang bellowed.

‘Wassa’, as his friends called him, was 182 centimetres but weighed in at 105 kilos. Middle-aged spread was having its effect on him and his large gut hung over his belt. He was scrunched into the driver’s seat concentrating on the road as he floored the accelerator.

“Hey! Don’t call me dopey! I admit to being black ’cause that’s a bit hard for me to hide; but don’t call me dopey,” Davo spat back, but he was chuckling to himself.

“Ok you two, enough of the gobfest; we’ll have a think about what went wrong once we’re safe. Right now we need to get rid of this fucking car; it stands out like dogs balls and even with the bullet I put in him I reckon that fucking shop owner will be able to tell the cops what this car looks like,” Stand said.

“I should have put one in his head!” he spat angrily.

“Fuck off Stan,” Wassa whined, “its bad enough that we’ll get done for armed robbery.”

“Well then Wassa, why don’t you get us the fuck off this main road and onto the back streets where we can relieve someone of their vehicle and get to somewhere safe?” denizli escort Stan growled.

The dark sedan with the three criminals embarked made a right turn and disappeared down the dark wet streets; it was now speeding towards Michele’s compact only a few streets away.

All three of the crims were hard men. They had all done time for various crimes including robbery, armed hold-up, home invasion and rape. They were desperate men with little care for society’s values; they cared only for themselves and what they could take from others. They had met in Silverwater Jail and had formed a loyalty for each other based on mutual viciousness. Stan was the natural leader; but Wassa and Davo were not far behind him when it came to being ruthless. The three had escaped from a prison transport vehicle, leaving one prison officer in a coma, and they had since been lying low except to commit the odd armed robbery to finance their plan to escape to somewhere in Southeast Asia.

Michele was concentrating on the road, and anticipating that soon she would have to cross a couple of lighted streets to get to her destination. She though that she looked passable but was worried about the car breaking down or getting pulled over; anything that would mean she would have to leave the car. She was just being paranoid she thought to herself and her mind drifted to how she had come to be in this situation tonight.

One year ago Mike, a chubby bearded man in his early forties, had left his solicitor’s office in Brisbane as a brand new divorcee. He had sold everything that his bitch wife hadn’t taken from him in the divorce and all that he had in the world was an airline ticket to Sydney and enough cash for a bond on a one bedroom flat in the western suburbs. He did have a well paying job at an accountancy waiting for him though, and it didn’t take him long to save up enough for his needs.

He bought a second-hand compact sedan and some pleasant functional furniture. He bought a good quality PC and signed up for a broadband plan that allowed him unlimited internet access and unlimited downloads. He shaved his beared and took up jogging and lost weight. At seventy two kilos he was now slim and well proportioned for a man of 190 plus centimetres. He shaved off all of his body hair before he started his new job and kept it shaved so that people would think that his body was naturally hairless. Once he had slimmed down he bought blouses, skirts, women’s suits, lingerie, high heels, hosiery, makeup and wigs.

Mike was a crossdresser. He’s had a penchant for stockings and panties as a youngster and this had grown stronger as he got older. God bless that bitch of an ex-wife, at least she understood his fetish and had worn nice lingerie and stockings for him when he had asked her to. Well, that was until she became an evil witch and fucked his best friend and then cleaned him out in the divorce. What she hadn’t known was that Mike had liked to dress in her lingerie and hosiery while she was out of the house. He was secretly glad when they split up and he was able to move to Sydney where nobody knew him.

More and more the urge to dress as a woman had grown on him until he was no longer happy being a ‘hairy-legged panty-wearer’ as he had seen his type described on the internet; he wanted to be a transvestite. Now he could become a closet crossdresser in the privacy of his own flat.

Mike deliberately avoided making friends and kept to himself. He didn’t want to worry about anyone dropping in on him whilst he was at home dressed as Michele, the name that he had selected for his en-femme persona. He went to the better opportunity and second hand clothing shops and bought a selection of quality skirts, blouses and suits. He had no compunction in telling the sales ladies that he was shopping for himself if they got nosey and asked. Some tisked and tutted, but most were actually helpful. He bought a large selection of makeup, lingerie and hosiery at a Big W department store and didn’t bat an eyelid when the lady at the checkout stared at his purchases; it was the same when he went to Payless Shoes and bought three pairs of high heels in size 10. What the fuck did he care about what these women thought of him or his purchases; he’d never see them again and, other than his work colleagues, he knew no one in the whole state of New South Wales.

Mike found the lady at Celebrity Wigs in Sydney’s Oxford Street particularly helpful. She advised him against getting a long blonde wig, which is what he wanted, and showed him why when she placed it on his head. He looked like an old queen; even with makeup he would look like an old queen in this wig. She selected a couple of nice shoulder length bobs in brunette and black; both had highlights in them and finally Mike selected a nice shoulder length hairpiece that was dark brunette with red highlights. The saleswoman complimented him on his selections and relieved him of nearly seven hundred dollars.

A bit further up Oxford denizli escort bayan Street a sex shop called ‘Throb’ relived him of a further couple of hundred dollars for a pair of realistic breastforms. Mike wasn’t too concerned about how they looked; it was more about how they felt. When he tried them on in the fitting room wearing one of his own bras and blouses he was very happy with the results.

Mike practiced hard getting his makeup right; he liked lashings of eyeliner, mascara, lipstick and blush. He eventually got the look he wanted; ‘slightly trashy but not too much like a drag queen’ was how he described it to himself. Once he had learned to dress properly and how to do his makeup he started going on line, he went to transvestite sex sites and chatrooms and hooked up his webcam. He had some lovely discussions and cybersex sessions with other transvestites, crossdressers and admirers but he longed for the real thing. He didn’t consider himself gay and when he wasn’t dressed as Michele the thought of touching a man repulsed him. But when he was dressed as Michele he fantasised about sucking a big cock and being taken like a woman. He had a collection of dildos and vibrators and he used them on himself a lot; other crossdresser and admirers liked to see him use them when he was on webcam.

But Michele wanted the real thing and she thought she was now ready. She had entered into an online ‘cyber’ relationship with an admirer named Paul. Paul was married but Michele didn’t care. Paul was in his early fifties and was no looker, but he was pleasant enough and treated her well both online and in the emails he sent her almost daily. They exchanged intimate pictures and performed for each other on webcam. They had edged around meeting and both were keen but wary. Michele didn’t want to bring Paul to her home until they had met somewhere else on neutral ground so she could establish that he was trustworthy; and Paul couldn’t invite Michele to his place because he was married. They planned to meet at a hotel but all of the hotels required credit cards and neither of them wanted to divulge their personal details just yet.

Finally they had agreed to meet in the parkland at Picnic Point; it was about a twenty minute drive for both of them and there was a very discreet parking area hidden away in the bushland that was used late at night on the weekends for dogging. The thought of dogging in the safety of a locked car added extra spice to the meeting. The hitch was that Mike would have to drive there and back dressed as Michele; there was no way that he could transform into Michele out there in the park. Mike knew that behind the wheel of a car at night he would be passable but if he had to get out of the car for any reason he might get clocked. He had developed an effeminate voice that he liked to use when dressed as Michele; it was a smoky raspy voice that sounded sexy but not too silly. The problem was that even though he looked quite attractive and sounded sexy; up close he was still a transvestite. His worst nightmare was being caught dressed as a woman outside his car and far from home.

Mike eventually got up the courage to go out dressed as Michele. At first she went out in the early hours of the morning and circled the block a few times; then she drove further and further to build up her courage. It thrilled her as well as scared her but after going out a few times at night she eventually got the up pluck to agree to a meeting with Paul. Mike went to the dogging park dressed in drab (male attire for the uninitiated) and reconnoitred the area to be sure that it would be safe. It was indeed very discreet and he saw a couple of cars parked there inside of which couples were obviously engaged in sex.

He plucked up the courage to have a closer look and saw a gay couple in one car and a middle aged couple in another having sex. He was rewarded when he looked in a third car and saw a middle aged transvestite fellating an older man. The trannie looked up and smiled at him through the car window. Mike thought that he looked a lot better in drag than she did; but was envious of what she was doing. The thought of dogging with Paul with an onlooker or two watching through the car window was quite exciting and Michele couldn’t wait for her meeting with Paul.

Michele was bought out of her reverie by the sudden appearance of headlights in the rear-vision mirror. The car was gaining on her fast and she eased over into the left lane so that the speeding car could overtake her. The car sped around her but then suddenly braked and turned across the road blocking the lane.

“Fuuuuck!!!” Michele screamed and jammed on the brakes as hard as she could.

Her car came to a halt centimetres from the large over-powered sedan which blocked the road; her seatbelt cinched her waist and shoulder. The back doors of the dark sedan sprang open and two men, one large and heavy set, the other short and wiry, ran over to Michele’s car. Both men scrambled escort denizli into the back seat; the larger one pointed a pistol at Michele’s head. She saw the dull gleam of weapon and her heart fell. ‘Why the fuck didn’t I lock the doors’ she thought to herself.

“Don’t say anything; don’t do anything; just sit there bitch!” one of the men spat at her from the back seat.

Michele’s plum-red painted fingernails dug into the steering wheel and she froze in terror. The large sedan pulled off the street and a short fat man struggled out of the driver’s side door carrying a large carrier bag and waddled up to Michele’s car and dropped into the front passenger seat; the suspension springs moaning in protest. He passed the carrier bag over the back seat.

Wassa turned towards the back seat and smiled at his two accomplices.

“See guys; not only did I find us a new car; I found a nice lady to drive it for us,” he laughed.

“Drive bitch!” Stan ordered and tapped Michele on the back of her head with his pistol as encouragement.

“Keep to the fucking speed limit and just go where I tell you,” he said.

Michele was in abject terror as she eased her car forward. What the hell were these lunatics doing highjacking a second-hand compact car like hers. Didn’t highjackers steal SUVs and prestige cars? Not little Jap compacts! She didn’t know if she was more scared by the fact that three armed men had her as a hostage or by the fact that these men would probably soon find out she was a man. What would they do? Where were they taking her? Her mind boiled in turmoil.

“What’s the plan then Stan?” Davo asked their leader.

“Well we get this bitch to drive us to the old warehouse and then we get into the other car we got stashed there. It should be pretty safe cause’ the cops ain’t looking for a woman and this piece of shit is hardly your average getaway car now is it?” Stan said.

“What about the cunt?” Wassa asked; looking intently at Michele.

“We tie her up; then we fuck off and leave her.”

Stan leaned forward over the backseat laughed evilly into Michele’s ear.

“Hopefully someone will find you before you starve or freeze,” he sniggered.

“I can’t see too much of her here in the dark Stan but she looks like she might be a sort and she smells great; any chance we can have a go at her before we fuck off?” Wassa asked.

“Now fuck me Wassa; if I say yes this little princess is likely to do something stupid ain’t she?”

“And if I say no there’s every possibility that even a stupid cunt like her might think that I’m lying.” Stan explained.

Stan leaned over the backseat again and pressed his mouth to Michele’s ear.

“So, let’s just say this shall we? If this little strumpet behaves nicely; she will come to no harm. Nod if you understand.”

Michele nodded once.

“But if you fuck us around; then I will let Wassa here do whatever he likes to you and then he’ll shoot you in the head.”

“Understand?” he punctuated his question by tapping the muzzle of his gun against Michele’s cheek.

Michele nodded vigorously.

They drove in silence for a few minutes; the only sounds were the directions given by Stan to Michele. Michele was thinking about how she could get out of the situation unscathed and hopefully get home without being exposed to the world as a crossdresser. Then she felt it! Wassa was so big that in the front seat of the small car he was almost sitting on top of her; his body was so close that she could smell his sweat and the onions on his breath from his dinner. But what she felt now was something deliberate!

Wassa’s fingers touched her thigh, just below the hem of her navy blue skirt. He stroked her leg slowly, his callused fingers rasping on her sheer stockings. Michele pretended to ignore him; there was nothing to be gained by making a scene. Then his hand slid under the hem of her skirt and slid up to the top of her thigh and came to rest on the reinforced welt of her stocking-top, his fingers explored the nylon where it cinched onto the garter strap of her suspender belt. Michele jumped as his hand touched the bare skin above the welt of her stocking.

“What the fuck is going on!” Stan growled from the backseat.

“Fuck me Stan she’s wearing stockings!” Wassa chuckled.

“So what Wassa? So was we ten minutes ago,” Davo quipped.

“Nah not them pantyhose things we had on our heads; she’s wearing real stockings with sussies. Fuck I thought only me old Mom and prostitutes wore stockings these days,” Wassa went on.

“I thought your old Mom was a prostitute!” Davo sniped back.

“Nah Davo; that’s your sister you’re thinking of!” Wassa laughed.

“Shut the fuck up you two,” Stan interrupted, “I don’t want any fucking around until we’re safely in the warehouse.

“Besides; did you ever think this bitch might be a pro?” he chuckled.

Wassa turned towards Michele and squeezed the top her thigh; a warning to her not to make another scene. Michele glanced at him and quickly nodded her compliance. In the stony silence of the dark car Wassa stroked and fondled Michele’s leg under her skirt, running his fingers up and down her stocking and stroking the cool skin above the welt. Michele concentrated on driving the car and hoped Wassa wouldn’t move his hand any higher than her thighs.

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