Chapter One of my new novel

Following is the first chapter of my new novel, "The Scandal at Scanty Panties."
It's a humorous murder mystery set in San Francisco in the M2F crossdressing community.
I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but face it, I'm a crossdresser myself. Hey, sex is sex! LOL!

The Scandal at Scanty Panties

By Suzie Quezie

Chapter One: Priscilla Passion

Carrie was all the way up my ass and working like a pump jack when one of the most gorgeous creatures I’d ever seen opened the street door.

I looked up from where I was sprawled tits first across the top of Carrie’s reception desk. The lovely at the door spotted us – how could she not? – and raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t seem perturbed.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, partially closing the door behind her, no doubt to shield the scene inside our office from passersby on the street.

“Unnh – No! – unnh!” I grunted. “It’s – unnh – fine. We’ll be done here in just a sec, I’m sure. Unnh!”

The newcomer stepped inside the office, fully closing the door behind her, and found a seat. She was this close to passing – if men just didn’t have Adam’s apples! My friends tell me I make a good-looking girl, but this interloper had me beat all hollow.

She sat, her short skirt riding up the grandest set of legs I’d ever seen. I was fairly stiff from Carrie’s attentions, but the sight of those legs – sheathed in sheer stockings – made me even stiffer; sent me over the top, in fact. I spunked all over the top of Carrie’s desk.

Just then, Carrie came inside of me.

“Oh, god, girl!” she exclaimed. “Oh my fucking god!”

Carrie’s ten inches made a plopping sound as she withdrew. I could feel her cum oozing out of me.

Carrie stepped back to pull up her thong and tuck and I reached for tissues from a dispenser on top of her desk to mop up my own goo. Carrie left for the lounge, no doubt to pour a cup of chamomile for our guest.

“Hi,” I said to Miss Lovely. “I’m Dominique Devalier, but call me Nikki. And you are?...”

“Priscilla Passion,” she answered.

Priscilla Passion. Just a short time before I had taken a voice mail from my business partner, Vela, telling me that a lady named Priscilla Passion was headed my way and to be “triple nice” to her.

Triple nice? People who were very important to Vela only rated double nice. This Priscilla Passion must be very special, indeed!

In addition to being my partner, Vela also is the advertising representative for Glory! I’m a Girl Magazine and consultant to about half the gay-owned businesses in the district. She’ll sell you an insurance policy or a new car, book you into the five-star hotel of your choice in Lahore, and manage your stock portfolio. Where she gets time for all that AND a sex life, I’ll never know.

“Vela called me about you,” I said as I threw the used tissues into the waste basket next to Carrie’s desk, then stooped down to draw my panties up my legs and adjust the rest of me.

That reminded me of my manners.

“I hope you weren’t offended by our little afternoon tryst,” I said, somewhat apologetically. “We here at Glory! I’m a Girl Magazine believe in open sexuality. We believe it confers physical, mental, emotional and spiritual benefits that are just unavailable when you try to block your natural feelings. Besides, when Carrie gets a case of the mid-afternoon hornies, she’s useless as a receptionist until she gets her rocks off.”

“Oh, foo,” Carrie pouted as she returned with the tea and set it in front of Priscilla. “You wanted it as much as I did, you slut.”

“That’s true,” I admitted. “I’m horny all the time. But you see my point, I hope, Priscilla. People just aren’t at their best when they’re frustrated. So it’s company policy to frustrate the frustrations.”

“Actually,” Priscilla answered, “that’s more or less why I’m here. I’m in the frustration-blocking business myself.” Priscilla took a sheaf of papers from her handbag – a super-yummy Michael Kors – and laid the pages out on Carrie’s desk. They didn’t stick, thank goodness.

“I just signed a contract with Vela for a year’s run of display ads in Glory! I’m a Girl for an on-premises club for crossdressers I’m opening. Vela thought the grand opening this Friday would make a good spread for the magazine. I’m calling the place Cilla’s Scanty Panties.”

So that was it. Vela has eyes for only two things: cock and money. I don’t know which one rates higher in her estimation, but whatever does, it’s probably green. Vela thought it would be good business to sweeten a terrific ad contract with a little free publicity.

I’m not against featuring playpens in the magazine; it’s just that in San Francisco, there have been so many sex clubs that have opened to great fanfare, only to disappear within three months. It takes a special kind of person to make one of those things go. Especially in the crossdressing community.

But Vela is no dummy. She wouldn’t have thrown Priscilla Passion my way unless she thought the woman had what it takes.

So we went into my office to talk about it. While we sized each other up, I told her about Glory! I’m a Girl. We serve the crossdressing community – not the transsexuals, they have their own – oh, I almost said “organs,” but I managed to say “media” instead.

We serve the entire CD community, I told Cilla, not just the sluts. There are boys who just like to spend the day dressed as June Cleaver and clean house. Then there are those who just like to hang out in wedding dresses. There are those who want to dress in leather lingerie and be whipped. There are those looking for true love with a straight guy and those just looking for a straight lay. We cater to them all.

Like any good general interest magazine, we have our departments: cosmetics, fashion, reviews, and recipes (those are for Mrs. Cleaver). Of course, we do have sexy features,  and a nude centerfold.

I paid closer attention to Cilla as she told me about her dream project, Scanty Panties. It was to be an upscale party house in a former mansion only minutes from the district. It was to be for crossdressers only – no guys whatever. “There’s nothing I like better than a huge, girl-on-girl orgy,” Priscilla confided.

“We’re all lesbians under the skin,” I agreed.

After the grand opening, the place would be open weekends only to girls who could afford a stiff, yearly membership fee. Cilla would manage the place personally.

Once she got those details out of the way, Cilla began to talk about herself. She’d started dressing in her sister’s castoff panties when she was only six years old. “Even back then, I felt God had made a mistake with me,” she told me. As she grew older, she’d hoard pennies in order to buy her own panties. By the time she was in high school – this was in Ohio – she’d put together a secret wardrobe that would rival Christina Aguilera’s. By the time she entered The University of Texas, she was a full-time CD and her sexuality was in full bloom, too.

“I balled so many football players back then I could have been elected homecoming queen,” she said.

I examined Cilla closely as she spoke. Her face had exquisite bone structure, and she shaped it subtly with a skillful use of cosmetics. Her blond, wavy hair – it was her own, not a wig -- was swept back across her skull and extended to her hips. She was dressed as a business woman, naturally, but there are gradations of that look and her style only emphasized the sexy woman underneath the clothes.

By the time Cilla stopped talking, I was in love. She had brains, she had beauty, she had a sex drive to match my own. To top all that off, I was convinced  I saw attraction in her violet eyes.

I not only agreed to feature Scanty Panties in our next issue, I offered Cilla the centerfold and the cover.