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Stepdad by Jenny Leeds as told by Tamara I liked John and I didn't like him. I liked him because he made my mother happy. These days she had a smile on her face and hummed or sang as she went about her housework or got into her nurse's uniform to go to her job. I didn't like him for the same reason, I guess. Plain old jealousy. My old man got himself killed in some kind of police action in Central America a dozen years ago when I was two, and I was used to being the "man of the house." That made John an intruder. He was okay, though, a big good-looking Nordic-type blond guy, and he was nice to me, always a hug and kiss on the cheek when he came in (which embarrassed me; I was too old for that kind of mush), and even nicer to my mom. I wondered if she let him dork her. It felt funny to think of her that way, but all the guys knew where babies came from and never hesitated to speculate about their parents fucking, so I did too. Still, it was hard to imagine. My mom and John were really old, right around thirty. They met at the hospital where she worked. He was delivering a prescription from his drugstore over in Chardsville right at the end of her shift. They had a cup of coffee at a nearby diner and hit it off, and began seeing each other. I knew it was a big deal for her. All the time I was growing up she never dated. I guess she had a rough time when the old man got killed. His insurance paid off the mortgage with enough left over to put her through school to become a Registered Nurse, but she was just a teenager when he died, eighteen, and there she was, saddled with a two-year-old and no husband to protect her from the hard knocks, and no time to party like other young people. She was tough, though. Very feminine, but she had a lot of determination, and sometimes you could see a hard, unyielding side of her that would surprise you. I knew. She kept me in line. After they met she began to dress in high heels and low-cut frocks when she didn't have to wear that white uniform with the little cape and crepe- soled shoes. She loved to dress up; I understood how deprived she'd been for so long when I saw the sparkle in her eyes as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. I started seeing her as a human being, not just good old Mom. She was really pretty, curly brown hair and bright blue eyes and a figure that wouldn't quit. She got married when she was sixteen. I knew something about that, that she didn't know I knew. One day I poked through her desk looking for a stamp and came across her marriage certificate. It was dated just two weeks before I was born. That meant I was almost a bastard. It also meant she got screwed and pregnant at fifteen--less than a year older than I was now. I kind of liked the idea of her being so young. It made me hot to think about it, and also gave me hope that somehow I, too, would get laid soon. Fourteen years old and I had never been near a pussy. I was too small and physically immature for the girls to be much interested. My cock kept complaining about it. I had to jerk off about once an hour just to be able to get through the day. So I had my own problems, and didn't pay too much attention to hers, except maybe to wonder why she was always so quick to agree with John about everything. That was new. It was like he cast a spell. I didn't connect with the fact that he was a pharmacist and had access to all kinds of drugs. When he came over from Chardsville to take her out to dinner or dancing he usually stayed the night on our couch. Chardsville wasn't all that far away from our home in Clara's Corners, just 30 or 40 minutes, but it was late by the time they got back and he was probably tired. Mom would make up the couch for him and give us all a cheerful breakfast before he went back in the morning. On one of those occasions John wasn't in a hurry to leave after breakfast. He stuck around all morning talking to her in the living room. It was a slow hot day in the middle of summer, the kind that you don't feel much like moving around in. I thought about going down to the schoolyard to shoot some hoops, but there wouldn't be anyone else there. I made myself a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich for lunch and sat in the kitchen to eat it and gulp a nice cold glass of milk while I listened absently to the sound of their voices in the living room. John was doing most of the talking. Something in his tone made my ears perk up. Maybe it was the mention of my name. You always hear your name, even if you don't really hear it, if you know what I mean. I got up, chair scraping on the linoleum, and went to the door where I could listen in. "The thing is," he said, "if we get married, there's only room for one man in the family. We'd have to make sure Tommy doesn't try to keep on taking that spot." "I think I understand." "You'd have to take charge and make sure he doesn't start competing with me." "Wait a minute. Competing? For me, you mean? I'm his *mother!"* "Nah, I didn't mean that exactly, though the shrinks say that's a possibility. Oedipus complex and all that. Oedipus-shmedipus, they say, just so long as you love your mother." "John Hengstrom, you're awful!" but she laughed. "No, I just mean I wouldn't want to have to spend my time keeping him in line. Especially now that he's a teenager and feeling all those hormones. He has hair down there already, you know. I saw him in the changing room at the beach yesterday. If he was a girl it would be different." There was a long silence. It gave me time to run through a series of emotions. First I was outraged that he would talk about me like that, he wasn't family. At least not yet, though it sounded like they had been discussing marriage, and why didn't she tell me? God, her name would be Mrs. Martha Hengstrom instead of Martha Harris. I didn't like it. Then I decided I better be respectful to him. After all, if he made her happy I didn't want to rock the boat. It would be kind of nice to have a dad at last, and I wanted him to approve of me. That was my main fault. I always seemed to need a lot of approval, and would do just about anything for it. He said, "You know, that's a thought. If he was a girl there wouldn't be any problem, would there?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, let's say you made him wear dresses and taught him to behave girlishly. There wouldn't be any obstacle to our marriage then." She laughed. He went on, "You did say you always wanted a daughter." "John, you can't be serious! I couldn't do that." "Sure you could, Martha. He's your son, isn't he? That's just like owning him. He has to do everything you want." That was enough for me. I knew perfectly well he was teasing Mom in that deadpan way he has, but it was certainly a peculiar kind of joke, and not funny at all to me. I went out the kitchen door and walked down the tree-lined street, keeping to the shade as much as I could, until I got to the malt shop. I was mildly pissed off, but somehow kept thinking about wearing a dress, wondering what it was like, and it got me hard. I had to stop and adjust my cock up against my belly, tucking it under my belt so it wouldn't show. A dress, for Chrissakes. Like Sally Ann Plotkin's miniskirt and stockings. That image stayed with me while I sat at the counter and ordered a chocolate malt. My hard-on didn't get any softer when I pictured myself in them. Having been raised without a father, I didn't have a clear notion of my role in life, I guess. I was smaller and skinnier than other kids my age, which compounded the problem. My wrists were so thin that the other guys could wrap their hands around them; it was embarrassing. My face was still baby-like and my voice hadn't begun to change. Every time I looked in the mirror I stopped looking and wished impatiently for my beard and mustache to come in, like my classmate Barry Sullivan, who had to shave his upper lip every other day. When I got home John was gone. Mom was quieter than usual while she set the table and dished out dinner. She took a bite of casserole. "You know, John said something kind of interesting today. He said I owned you. I never thought of that before, but it's true, isn't it? You're my son. I do own you in a way." "Own me!" "Yes. It's like slavery days. I'm responsible for you until you're eighteen but by the same token you have to do everything I say. Even after eighteen, if you still live here. That's 'owning' someone, isn't it?" "Well," I said reluctantly, "yeah, I guess." "It's kind of neat. I like the idea," She giggled and then thankfully dropped the subject, but it came up again at bedtime. She came into my room while I was sitting up in bed reading an Action Comics. She was in her nightgown. Her nipples showed through the lace cups. Warmth began growing at the join of my legs. Her tits weren't huge--I remember her saying something about a B-cup--but they were nice. It gave me the willies to be thinking about my own mother like that, so I quit. "Tommy, I want you to do something for me. Take off your pajamas and put this on." She held out a slinky bit of white nylon. "What!" My voice squeaked. I remembered John joking about putting me in a dress. "I bought this nightie and some other things for you this afternoon. I want you to wear it to sleep. It will prove to me that I really do own you, like we were talking about before. Come on, darling, do as I say." She held out the garment until I took it from her with trembling fingers. I don't know why, but the thought of putting it on affected me the way the thought of putting on Sally Ann's miniskirt and stockings had. My penis got so rigid it was painful. I stared at her slack-jawed. "I can't wear this, it's a girl's nightgown." "Yes you can. Because I say so." A jumble of emotions bedeviled me. Anger at John for having put this stupid notion in my mother's head, humiliation, and emerging at last, the shamed realization that I *wanted* to wear the delicate garment. The nylon in my hands felt exciting. I could wear the nightie free of guilt--my mom was making me do it. I'd jerk off in it. I caved in. "Do I have to?" "This instant." I waited for her to leave so I could put it on, but she just stood there expectantly. Finally I took off my pajama top, figured out which was front and back of the gown, put my arms through the shoulder straps, and slipped the nylon over my head. I lifted my hair out from under; it tickled my bare shoulders. Squirming in self- consciousness I wriggled my pajama bottoms off under the bedclothes and dropped them on the floor. My cheeks were hot. She said, "You look *adorable!* Absolutely *precious.* Stand up and let me see." My mouth opened a couple of times before I was able to say, "I c-can't." "Of course you can. Get out of bed and let me see you in your nightie. This is so exciting. I always wanted a daughter." She would see my thing. "Mom, I--" She cut in. "Do as I say, Tommy." I climbed out of bed and stood with my back toward her. The knee-length gown was tented out. "Turn around." "But Mom," I whined. She took me by the shoulders and turned me around, holding me at arm's length. "Whatever is the matter with you? You look just-- Oh!" as her eye fell to my midsection, "Oh, I see. Oh dear. You do like your nightie, don't you? I think we're going to pretend you're my daughter a lot from now on. But this is very unladylike of you. Get back in bed." Gratefully I scrambled back under the covers. She went to the bureau and took a Kleenex from the box on top, sat on the bed next to me, and pulled the sheets down, exposing my shame again. "Poor baby, you're not going to be able to get any sleep that way, are you? Let me help. Don't be embarrassed, I'm a nurse." She drew the nightie up to my waist, put a cool hand around my thing, and began pulling back and forth. My mouth dropped open. My mom was masturbating me! I couldn't believe it. She said, "It's all right. Let yourself go ... Oops!" I spurted wildly. The first jet took her by surprise. It splashed on her breast. Hastily she covered the head of my cock with the tissue, then had to adjust it, for I kept discharging in such quantity that the drools escaped and ran over her hand. When I was finished, she got some more tissue and cleaned us off. Just touching me softly there kept me stiff long past the time I should have become limp, as did the sight of her dabbing at the soaked nylon lace on her breast. She covered me with the nightgown and tucked me in and kissed me on the lips. "There now. Are you all better, baby? Sleep tight and have sweet dreams. Oh, it's so nice to have a daughter." The funny thing was, as she turned out the lights and left and I snuggled in the sheets with that frilly nightie sinuous on my skin, and remembered submitting to her ministrations in such a private way, I almost did feel like a "daughter". Blissfully I thought if she would do that I would wear a nightgown anytime. The next morning I swam up out of sleep feeling happy about something. I stretched luxuriously. It took a long minute for me to understand why my pajamas were so silky and my shoulders bare, and then I remembered everything. My piss hard-on instantly turned into a raging rock-hard erection. I jumped up to go to the bathroom, the nightie's hem swirling dainty and exciting about my thighs, and bumped into my mother at the door. She said, "Oh good, you're up." She was in her nurse's uniform. Her eyes widened and twinkled as she took in the flagpole in the nightie. "My goodness, you are up! Never mind, if you're a good girl for Mommy, she'll help you again. I've run a bath for you. Do your business and then get in the tub, all right?" "I was going to take a shower." Baths were for sissies. She pinched my cheek affectionately. "Bath." It was a lilac-scented bubble bath. Talk about sissy stuff. Kind of nice, though, very soothing on my skin. Without the nightie my hard-on declined. I amused myself by lifting and dropping great chunks of bubbles and swirling the water to make more. There was a perfunctory knock on the door and Mom came in. "Everything okay?" "Uh-huh." I wondered. Ever since I grew up she made it clear that I couldn't any longer just come in when she might be naked, and in turn had given me privacy. For her to pop in like this was unusual. "Tommy, I want you to wear a dress today, so you have to have a special bath. I came to help." "A dress! You're kidding." "Not a bit." She was firm. "Aw, Mom." "Like last night, only in the daytime." She put two fingers on my lips, stifling my protest. "Shh. No arguments, remember? Don't worry, it's just us. Nobody will know." "What if somebody comes?" "Nobody's going to come. If they do, you can just stay upstairs until they leave." "By accident. I'd die if somebody saw me." "Nobody's going to see you! Now remember, I'm your owner, you have to do what I tell you. I want to enjoy having a daughter today, and you're elected." I'd look like a complete jerk in a dress, but it was easier to go along with her than resist. Gently, "I know you're shy for me to see you these days. That's why I put on my uniform. Make believe I'm somebody else. I'll be the nurse and you be the patient. Just relax and let me do everything. First a shampoo. Duck your head and get your hair wet." She squeezed a generous dollop of perfumed shampoo into her cupped palm and worked up a rich lather on my head. Her moving fingers on my scalp felt good. I relaxed and enjoyed having my mother pay so much attention to me. It was like when I was a little kid. She washed my hair more thoroughly than I ever had, rinsing twice with the hand sprayer and re-lathering, and ending with conditioner. "Your hair is lovely. I wish I could let mine grow that long, but the hospital has regulations." I guess the luxury of it all made me stupid and slow, because I didn't react when she meticulously sectioned off the front portion of my hair and combed it down over my face, and used scissors to trim it off at eyebrow level. She dropped about a foot of wet hair in the wastebasket. I started to say something, but she put her fingers on my lips again. "Lift your arms and clasp your hands behind your head." She took her razor from the cabinet along with a can of girly shaving cream. When she spread the fragrant stuff on my underarms, I burst out, "You're not going to shave me *there!"* "I have to." "What if someone sees?" "Why? You're not going to take your shirt off in front of people, are you?" "At the beach!" "That's all right, you're young yet. People will think it's natural. Besides, it grows back before you know it." "Aw, Mom." "Stop fussing. Today you have to do everything I want." I sat in the bubbles, suffering and aggrieved, while she shaved my underarms bare. Finished, she soaped my torso with her own soft cloth. I tried to think of her as a nurse instead of my mom. "Do you ever give people baths at the hospital?" "Of course. Sponge baths, though--if they need me, they are too weak to get out of bed." "Guys, I mean." "Sure. It's all part of the job." It made me feel a little better, but I wondered about her seeing men down there, and if it turned her on. Urging me onto hands and knees, she lathered me back there. A soapy finger slipped into me and pushed back and forth several times, making me jump and utter a sound of protest. She said, "What, don't you always do this? You have to be clean inside and out." It was embarrassing, but I kind of liked the way it felt. Sexy. Well, just about anything felt sexy to me these days. The shaving cream made its soft hiss once more. When she spread its coolness between my cheeks and on my crotch, I made a strangled noise, then resigned myself to letting her do her thing. "There," she said. "That's ever so much daintier. Keep yourself like this and you won't have backtracks in your shorts any more. Now stand up, we have to do your legs." The only hair on my legs was blond peach fuzz. Nevertheless she shaved me thoroughly with long, smooth strokes of the razor until my legs were as bare as a newborn baby's. God, she was going all out. Apprehension about all this feminine stuff kept my penis limp and hooded. She stared directly at it with a speculative expression. Scissors in hand once more, she snipped carefully at my pubic hair, thinning and shortening it. I didn't complain until she spread shaving cream over the area. "Don't shave me there too!" "I'm not, I'm just going to shape it a little. You don't want it creeping out from your underwear." She used the razor to trim it into a clean-edged inverted triangle. It looked like an ornament; bare skin at its sides met the bare skin between my legs. "There! Bath all done. Whew. It'll be easier next time. Rinse off and come with me into my bedroom." I lowered myself into the tub. The water swirled silky about my shaven legs and crotch. My mind was temporarily out of gear, so the enormity of the things she had done to my body wasn't registering. "Wait a minute, we might as well do this now while your hair is wet." Swiftly, skillfully, she put pink rollers in my hair. It felt strange, like I was some kind of Martian. I remembered seeing Sally Ann Plotkin in the market with a scarf loosely covering her curlers and thinking how ugly it looked. Urging me up out of the bath, she patted me dry with a fluffy towel before using a powder puff on my skin. A dress. She was going to make me wear a dress now. I shivered in the cool morning air. It was strange to be walking naked in the house with this attractive white-uniformed nurse. The rollers were tight on my head and made me feel like an idiot. Laid out on her bed was a peach-colored dress and a bunch of lingerie. She picked up the dress. It was all open and shapeless like a robe. She closed one side over the other and modeled it against her front. "Isn't it darling? It's real sand-washed silk." "I never saw that one before." "It's new! I got it yesterday afternoon just for you." She put it back on the bed and picked up a thin little nothing of dangling elastic. "Here, put this around your waist. Fasten it in front, then turn the clasp around to the back." It tickled. The garters hung lightly titillating against my thighs. She broke open a package of beige nylon stockings and helped me on with them. I can't describe how sexy they felt as she smoothed them up my shaven legs. I thought I would pass out. My heart pounded and I gasped for oxygen. Despite all I could do to prevent it, my prick jumped to attention. She looked up from her kneeling position and said with a glimmer, "Oh- oh. I see I'm going to have to keep my promise after all. We'll take care of that little business after you're all dressed. Oh, Tommy, I'm so glad you like these clothes." Pink bikini panties and a padded training bra to match followed. She didn't know that much about penises--at first she tried to bend it down into the crotch of the panties. I winced and pinned it up against my belly. The panties were too brief to cover it all, though. The head showed. I blushed some more. The dress went on like a sleeveless coat. The left side pulled over and fastened to a little Velcro tab inside the right hip. The right side crossed over to tie in a bow at the other hip. The dress had no lining: the thin silk showed pretty much everything when it got taut on one or another part of me as I moved. I saw why she shaved my underarms. They showed. A tug at its bow would make the dress fall open. Even "closed," the skirt was open to mid-thigh, so the whole thing was pretty daring. High-heeled shoes of a salmon color were next. They looked so tiny I didn't think I could get them on, but the sleekness of the stockings allowed my feet to slide in painlessly. I was flabbergasted at how delicate they made my feet. Their constriction was delicious. I almost fell over when I stood up. The heels were three inches long. I was as tall as my mother. Of course, she was only wearing low-heeled hospital shoes. She faced the chair away from the vanity. "Sit over here. I don't want you looking in the mirror yet." She put her hand over her breast. "Gosh, this is exciting. My heart is going a mile a minute." So was mine. When I was seated, the skirt parted halfway up my thighs, revealing my stockings and a hint of their tops. She clicked a blow-dryer on and whirred it over my hair until it was almost dry, undid the rollers, and combed the hair gently while she finished drying it. It felt strangely light and full, and the front fluttered against my forehead. Finished with the comb, she pulled the hair up at the back of my head and fastened it there with a rubber band. Her busy fingers did something with a pink ribbon before taking my hand, splaying out my fingers, and working on them with a file and lemonwood stick. I squirmed uncomfortably as she applied a deep pink nail polish. "Don't worry," she said softly. "It comes off." Her breath was icy cold as she blew on my fingertips to get their drying started. "Now hold still. This will pinch." She touched my eyebrow with a pair of tweezers. I yelped. "I know," she soothed. "Be brave. It'll be over soon." I resigned myself to innumerable sharp little stings until at last she sat back and examined me appraisingly. Her eyes softened. "Almost done. Just a couple more things. Hold still and don't blink." She painted a line around my eyes and pressed false eyelashes to the upper lids; then brushed mascara on my lower lashes. I felt like a Barbie doll or something. Her whole manner was like a serious little girl playing with her dollies. She wet a tiny brush with lipstick and drew a careful line around my lips, then filled it in. "Press your lips on this." She put a folded cigarette paper to my mouth. "These are better than tissues for blotting lipstick." My mouth was waxy and perfume-y; my face hot with discomfiture. She smiled broadly. "There! All done. Stand up and let me see you. Turn around for me." Teetering uncertainly on the high heels, I made a 360-degree turn. The skirt swayed lightly against my legs. Air swirled under, making me feel almost more naked with it on than if I wore nothing at all. As I moved, the garters tugged lightly at the stockings, causing a constant reminder of their presence with wicked little caresses. My hair bounced and floated at the back of my head. Her smile faded. "Why Tommy." "What?" "You're really quite perfect, you know," she said seriously. "So feminine it's hard to believe you're a boy. In fact you look more like a girl now than you ever looked like a boy. I don't know if I said that right. What I mean is basically you're more girl than boy." She saw my expression and said, "Don't be mad. I think it's wonderful. Best of all, you like these clothes, don't you?" She touched my erection through the silk dress. "See? You do. Men sometimes lie, but this part of them never does," she grinned. She left her hand in place. "I bet you wish you really were a girl so you could wear dresses all the time. Don't you." I had never even considered such a thing, but the new thought made the thing in my panties jump. She felt its movement. "You see?" She changed the subject. "Gosh, you are absolutely adorable. Come look at yourself in the mirror." It was too much to take in all at once. I just couldn't handle it. My mind could only manage one thing at a time, kind of like looking at each individual tree until you finally realized you were in a forest. The first thing I saw was my hair. It was two shades lighter than before. A very light brown, almost blonde. I wondered if there had been bleach in the shampoo, or if it was just clean. I had bangs! I knew that, of course; I had known it the moment she combed my hair forward and cut it at eyebrow level, but there was an appalling difference between knowing it and seeing it. Bangs. How could I ever fix *that?* When I was back in my own clothes, I mean. They were too short to comb back; they'd keep falling forward. Oh God, a ponytail. I was used to clubbing my hair down at the nape of my neck, but she had brushed it way up and now it flounced from the back of my head, tied with that pink bow. Then I saw my face. *The girl in the mirror's face*--it wasn't mine any more. My stomach leaped. She was looking back at me with startled eyes as blue as my mom's, set off by long thick eyelashes. She had tender rosy cheeks and full inviting kissable lips that practically begged for an embrace. When Mom plucked my eyebrows I thought she was just getting them even and thinning them out. I was totally unprepared for the delicate arches I saw. They would make me look like a sissy when I was in my own clothes. Maybe I could wear a baseball cap pulled low until they grew back. I'd have to. They *would* grow back, wouldn't they? I wasn't sure. Maybe the whole root pulled out. It made me nervous. My heart was in my throat as I backed away to stare at her slender figure. I blinked, eyelashes touching above and below. It was hard to believe. That wasn't just me in a dress, that was a pretty teenage girl a few years older than me, soft and glowing, innocent yet alluring, the kind you'd like to jump her bones the minute you got her alone even if she didn't have a lot in the way of tits. High heels trimmed her ankles; her legs were shapely in nylons; they made her look precociously grown-up. Her arms were bare and slender-wristed. Open innocent eyes were belied by a generous, sensuous mouth that held a suffocating provocative invitation. The softly- shining ponytail danced with every motion of her head. Mom was right. The image was unmistakably feminine. There was no hint of maleness about it, though I felt a concealed essential masculinity straining at the elastic of my panties. I stared, full of confusion, lust, pleasure at how excellent my disguise was--I didn't look at all as foolish as I had feared--and a kind of sick feeling of apprehension. I was too good. What I saw in the mirror confirmed my mother's "You're more girl than boy." As a boy I wasn't up to my ideal of what a boy should look like; as a girl, I was perfect. Not to mince words, I was beautiful. That wasn't just an egotistical opinion, it was an honest reaction to who I saw in the mirror. She wasn't just female, she was a beautiful female. At last I tore my gaze away and cast a shy glance at my mother. Her knowing expression was sympathetic. "You see?" I blushed. She took some tissues from the vanity and said, "Come and lie down on the bed. You'll be even more ladylike after we do this." Heart pounding so hard it shook the bodice of the dress, I lay on my back. Her mattress was softer and more cuddly than mine. She undid the bow at my hip and I heard the *scrick* of the Velcro tab as she pulled the dress open, and all at once cool air caressed my bare skin. I lifted my hips to help her tug down my panties. The sight of the perfect pubic hair triangle with its naked margins made me glad she had shaped it. It was a private secret we shared, nobody else could know. I moaned when her soft hand encircled me. She whispered, "It's so hot and hard. Poor child, you really need this, don't you?" She bent swiftly and gave me a soft peck on the shiny tip. A viscous string stretched momentarily between it and her lips as she straightened up. I was shocked. One hand stroked me; the other fondled me lower down and tickled the inside of my thighs. I gave myself up to bliss, but did my best to make it last. In my head I recited *The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,* the longest and most boring poem I knew, to stave off the gathering storm of rapture. I wanted this moment to go on forever. Her expression was intent; happy and childlike. "It's almost like a clit," she murmured. "What?" I gasped. "Clit. Clitoris. It's what women have instead of a pee-pee thing. You're so pretty in lingerie I could almost believe this was your clitty." "I thought girls had ..." "They do, but they also have a thing like this. It's smaller than boys' things," she explained. I couldn't stand it any more. The muscle in my crotch clenched violently and I uttered a cry of ecstasy as I gave up my sperm in a rhythmic series of spasms. She was ready for it this time, and covered the tip with Kleenex. She continued stroking me, fingers now deliciously slippery with semen, as I jetted into the tissue. When I began to soften she did something so sexy I almost got hard again. She squeezed me on the upstrokes, milking out the remaining pearly fluid. She used the rest of the tissues to clean me off. I flinched when she stripped back my foreskin to dab at the head, which was now so sensitive it could hardly bear the touch. She compressed my now-wiggly privates down between my legs and covered them once again with the silky nylon of the pink panties. "There." Twin spots of color showed on her cheeks and she didn't meet my eye. "Now aren't you glad I'm a nurse? Pull your dress together and come downstairs to help me with breakfast." Balancing on the heels made my hips sway and shortened my stride. I held the banister to negotiate the carpeted stairs, spike heels plunging in and threatening to overset me, nylons pulling naughtily at the garters. The dress swung tantalizing against my legs, opening and closing in front as I moved. It was scary going down clothed like this--the privacy of her bedroom was one thing; the bright kitchen, where anybody might come around back and look in the window, was another. I set the table thoughtfully. "Mom? Do you, uh, do that to patients in the hospital?" She turned red. "Tommy! What an idea." "I'm sorry. You said you were a nurse before. I thought maybe ..." "Oh. No, it was just for you, darling. Because you were so cooperative ... and because I guess an owner gets to do anything she wants with her property." It was my turn to blush. She thought for a moment, then said soberly. "Tommy, what I did wasn't right, you know that, don't you? I'm your *mother*. I was just so happy to see you in these clothes, and wanted to reward you, and ... but we can't do that any more. Or at least--" she saw my expression, "--not very often. If the pressures get too great for you, maybe ... All right?" I shrugged disconsolately. Those two times had been the most exciting of my life. After breakfast I straightened up the kitchen while she rinsed the dishes. It wasn't as if I'd never done housework before. With only the two of us and with Mom having to work, it was only natural for me to have chores, but wearing a dress made a difference. It gave me a tingly feeling to be dressed like a girl and do girl things too. She put the last dish in the washer, turned, and gazed at me as I sat at the table with a glass of milk. "I can't get over how *adorable* you are. John will love you." "John!" "What? Where?" "No, I mean what do you mean John will love me? He's not going to see me like this." "Well, of course he is. He's coming by tonight to pick me up. We're going out to dinner." "Mom, you promised! You said nobody would see." "I didn't mean John, silly. John's not just anybody. Besides, he'll be just as thrilled as I am." Her voice held a note of finality. It was suddenly all too much for me. The stress of the bath, the shameful delights that I knew I wasn't supposed to like, being down here where a delivery man could come knocking at the kitchen door at any minute, all crashed in on me. I couldn't help it, I started to cry. Not out loud, but tears leaked from my eyes and ran down my face. "Mom, please don't make me." "What--?" Her eyes softened. "Oh dear, don't. Your mascara's running." She dabbed at my cheeks with a paper napkin. "What's the matter, are you shy? Don't be. You look wonderful. You look much better this way than as a boy in all those horrid boy clothes, you know." "I *am* a boy," I wailed. She stood next to me, put her arm around my shoulder, and drew me to her comfortingly. My cheek rested against the soft swell of her belly. The perfume of her body was in my nostrils. She said, "But I don't want you to be." "What?" "I don't want you to be a boy any more. I love having a daughter. I didn't know how much until I saw you in your nightie last night. I don't want to give it up." "How can I be a girl, anyway? I'm not, uh, built that way." "Nobody's perfect. All you have to do is dress like a girl and behave like a girl, that's ninety percent of it. I know you like your girly clothes. They're exciting, aren't they? I loved buying them for you. They're what I never had when I was your age. So just keep on wearing them." "What, every day? I'll be stuck in the house. I can't go out and play with my friends. Please, Mom. Maybe if I did it on weekends or something. I don't have to do it every day, do I?" She voiced the worry I had been trying to deal with ever since she styled my hair. "Even if I were willing, how do you think you'd look in boy clothes with your hair and eyebrows that way? You must see it's not possible." "What about school?" "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." "This is all his idea, isn't it? To make me not compete with him. I heard you and him talking in the living room." "He mentioned it, yes, but I agree with him, it's a wonderful idea, and remember, I own you, so you'll do what I say, young lady, and no arguments. You're not too old for a good old-fashioned spanking." Young lady. I started crying again as she held me to her. What would it be like to wear these clothes all the time, instead of just this one adventure? She was right about one thing, they were exciting. Even in the midst of my dread, I was conscious of the way the skirt tickled my stockinged legs and the sensuous compression of my shoes and that my prick was already getting hard again. Better not press the issue. This was just a new thing to her, and sooner or later she'd be more reasonable. But it was painfully clear that tonight I'd have to endure the humiliation of John seeing me like this. I resigned myself to it. If he laughed or called me a sissy, it would be ammunition to use against Mom; if he didn't say anything, well, I wouldn't feel so bad. That afternoon she spent a couple of hours in the bathroom and getting dressed. The morning's "toilette" gave me insight into all the personal things ladies did in the bath, and the care they took with makeup and hairdo and dressing--I no longer wondered why she took so long to get dressed when John was coming. It was worth it. She looked beautiful in a low-cut black cocktail frock with white lace petticoats filling out the skirt and peeping from the hem. A pearl choker set off her slender neck; pearl earrings dangled from her lobes. Her hair was a shining cap of curls. Blue eyes enhanced by eye shadow and mascara sparkled. She enlisted me to help prepare a pitcher of martinis so they could have a cocktail before going out. We stored it and a couple of glasses in the freezer so everything would be ice cold. I noticed she made the martinis by tipping a small amount of vermouth into the pitcher, swirling it around, and pouring it out before adding gin. "Dry martinis," she explained. I would serve them, she said, and showed me how to make lemon peels-- very thin, little or no white showing--and twist them over the drinks to sprinkle the oil on top. I was just finishing dinner when his car pulled into the driveway. My stomach jumped in alarm. I didn't know if I could do this. I suddenly felt ridiculous in the wraparound and stockings and heels. Mom warned, "Stay right there." Light-hearted whistling, brisk footsteps on the concrete outside, and John was at the kitchen door, handsome in a dark suit and tie. Mom kissed him hello. He said, "Martha, you look great! Ready to paint the town red?" His glance fell on me. "Hello. Who's this, Tommy's date?" I gave him a sharp glance. Was he kidding? He looked at me blankly. After a breathless moment Mom put her hand on his forearm. "It's my daughter!" "Your d--" He did a double take. Recognition grew in his eyes. "Tommy? ... Tommy ... It is Tommy! Good God, you're *beautiful!* I can't believe my eyes. You're--you're--she's--" His mouth worked, but nothing came out. My eyelashes fluttered and I looked down. Anyway, he wasn't going to laugh. I *was* beautiful, I knew that. The mirror told me so. But it was nice to have it confirmed by somebody else. Especially a man. "Stand up and let me see you. God, you look great! I can't get over it. You take after your mom. You're almost as pretty as she is," he said tactfully. He gave me the first of many close hugs that kept me flustered until they left. Nothing would do but that I join them in the living room for cocktails--Mom acquiesced to my having "just one" with a small shrug-- and he made me sit on the other side of him, and kept *touching* me. Nothing off-color, just little presses on the arm or shoulder as he talked, but like I was a girl instead of a boy. I glanced at my mom. She looked pleased that he was reacting to my appearance that way. When they went--with a final warm embrace from John, a feminine "don't muss our makeup" cheek-to-cheek kiss from Mom--I sat and watched television for a while. I touched myself, letting my hand rest casually on my knee, then slip down where the skirt parted and trail up my inner thigh to where the stockings ended. I was making myself crazy. I went upstairs to bed. Cold cream on my face to remove the makeup and hair ribbon pulled to free my hair to fall about my shoulders, I felt virtuous about putting on the nightie--I knew she'd want me to--and took tissues from the bureau and jerked off, remembering the touch of her fingers this morning. They got home late. I was awakened by a tipsy giggle in the hall. The door opened and a shaft of light fell across my face. I pretended to be asleep. John whispered, "I just had to get another look at him." "Her," she corrected. Butterflies moved in my belly. "Her. Look at her. No makeup or anything, yet she's as sweet and girlish as ever." "She is, isn't she?" My mom was complacent. "I'm proud of her." "Be proud of yourself. I don't know what you did, but to say the least it was effective." "She wants to go back to being a boy." "Good God, why? She looks much better now than before." "I know. I tried to tell her that, but I think she was embarrassed." "Maybe I can help. I've got some ideas. We can talk about it tomorrow. God, what a turn-on." There were rustling and breathing noises. Through slitted eyes I saw their silhouette in a close embrace before Mom reached out and silently swung the door shut. The next thing I knew, her bedroom door closed softly and in a little while there were muffled exclamations and giggles. It made me mad. I didn't have any right to interfere in my mother's private life, but at least she could be discreet about it, not have a man in her bed just across the hall from me, even if she thought I was asleep. A thought struck me. I got up and padded down to the living room trying not to hear the noises they were making, nightie floating around my hairless body. Sure enough, they hadn't even made up the couch. Maybe this was the first time. Or maybe she thought it was all right for a "daughter" to know she was sleeping with a man. I went back to bed wondering what he was doing to her--as if I didn't know--and how she felt with his strong arms around her, and ground my teeth. I woke up the next morning still ticked off, so annoyed that just to show her I ignored the dress and lingerie folded on a chair for me, and got carelessly into my regular clothes. I clubbed back my hair and went down to breakfast. My loafers were clumsy; my blue jeans, coarse and scratchy on my denuded legs. John glanced up in surprise. Mom turned around in her chair and took one look at me. Fury distorted her features. "How dare you," she said. "How *dare* you! Go back upstairs this instant, take a bath, get dressed in the clothes I laid out for you, do your face and hair, then come back down like a proper young lady." Her voice trembled; her face was white with rage. I quailed. I had gone too far. Her mouth opened and shut voicelessly. "How dare you! We've discussed this, and I'll not have this kind of disobedience. In front of John too. Apologize to him this very second. You're not too old for me to turn you over my knee." "I'm s-sorry," I said quickly. "I apologize." She turned her back. "Get upstairs." Behind me I heard her say, "Sorry, John, I know you were looking forward to seeing her." "Take it easy, it's okay. Did you notice she looked like a girl anyway? A tomboy." Boy was she pissed off. I decided I better not fool around. She really meant it about having a daughter. I took pains to repeat yesterday's bath and used her razor just in case, though there was still no sign of stubble in all those places. I even pushed my finger in my bottom the way she had. In spite of my discomposure, getting dressed aroused me exactly the same as yesterday. The dress was a simple sky-blue chemise, cut straight down so it was snug about hips and chest, loose at the waist. The hem fell to just above the knees, and the skirt was so narrow it hampered my steps as I went timidly downstairs. They had finished breakfast. The table was littered with their napkins and empty plates. My place was still set. The cold scrambled eggs didn't look all that appetizing in the bright morning sunlight. John was saying, "... there would be no going back after something like that." She said, "Would you be willing?" "For you, anything. I--" He broke off and smiled. "Here's our pretty lass now." Mom brightened when she saw me. It made me ashamed. If she got such pleasure out of seeing me in a dress, I shouldn't deprive her of it. School was only two months away. I could hold out that long. John stood up courteously, which flustered me. Mom said, "That's better, darling." She hugged me. So did he. It lasted a little longer than it should have. I felt overwhelmed by his strength and the fact that even in heels the top of my head only came to his chin. I toed the mark all through breakfast, eating the cold food without complaint, washing up after, and generally trying to be an obedient "good girl" for Mom. They left me to do the dishes and went into the living room to hold a hushed conversation. I was sure they were talking about me, so I continued on my best behavior. I got another of those extended hugs before John closed the door behind him. Out of the corner of my eye I peeped bashfully at my mom. Was she still mad? She said, "You do look very nice now. We'll say no more about what happened, but I'll not be embarrassed like that again. Do you understand? I want you to keep on being my daughter until further notice." "Yes, Mom, I promise." "Good. Now tomorrow evening I have to leave for a nursing seminar down in the city. I'll be gone tomorrow night and Monday and Monday night, and I probably won't get back before the two-fifteen train on Tuesday afternoon. John has agreed to baby-sit until then. You be a good girl for him and do everything he says." "Baby-sit! I don't need a baby-sitter." "I'd feel much better about leaving you alone. You like John, don't you? I'm sure you'll have a good time together." At least it would be company. Two or three days all alone in the house would be really boring. It would keep me honest, too. I wouldn't be tempted to sneak out in boy clothes. I wasn't afraid of him seeing me any more, though I wouldn't look forward to all those smoochy little huggies he thought was the way to treat girls. He came over about five on Sunday night to take Mom to the railroad station. While he waited in the car, she embraced me and studied my face almost tearfully. "You'll be all right?" "Sure, Mom. It's only a few days." It was like she was leaving me forever. Her eyes wanted to tell me something. "Don't worry, Mom, I'll be fine. I'm not a kid any more." She said slowly, "Yes. You're old enough ... Oh, Tommy!" She hugged me fiercely. "Be good. Do everything he wants." When she released me her eyes swam with moisture. A horn beeped outside, reminding her it was getting late. She laughed weakly and took a hanky from her purse to dab at her tears. "Oh, look at me, I'm so silly. 'Bye!" She hastened out without another word. Mothers sure get emotional about small things, I thought. I tied on an apron and set about making dinner. It was a fancy French stew to be served over butter noodles. I didn't have much to do; Mom had cooked it in advance, so all I needed to do was warm it up and make the noodles and toss a salad. John was in high spirits when he returned. He joked and kidded around and made me laugh while I set the table. When we sat down to eat, he did something that knocked me over. He held my chair for me. It was really strange. As I seated myself with him hovering over the back of my chair I was covered in blushes and confusion and didn't know quite what to think. It gave me my first insight into what a difference wearing a dress made, how it triggered ingrained responses even if you knew better. I liked it. He had a bottle of wine with him, and insisted on my having some with dinner. I didn't care for it, wine tasted sour to me, but it made me feel grown up so I drank the whole glass down. He was an appreciative guest, saying nice things about the dinner and my appearance. I was wearing a pink shirtwaist dress and had my hair tied up in twin ponytails on the sides of my head. Privately I thought I looked cute; I was pleased when he thought so too. The wine must have gone to my head, because when I woke up the next morning only bits and pieces of the evening surfaced in my memory, and they somehow got entangled with a crazy kind of dream. I remembered us talking a long time before I went up to bed, but what about, I had no idea. At that point the dream intervened. The memory of it made me squirm and pull the sheet up over my head. Wearing dresses must have been bothering me, because in the dream John took me upstairs to my room, undressed me, helped me on with my nightie, and tucked me in. All the time I had this terrific hard-on, and when he bent over to kiss me good night he reached under the sheet to hold it. His tongue went in my mouth. Ugh, a French kiss. It was so real I could still feel it. The only thing that gave it away as a dream was that I didn't resist. Instead, my own tongue met his, and my arms went about his neck until he pulled away. That could never happen. The really strange thing, as I lay luxuriating in the silkiness of my nightie, was that I wasn't revolted by the dream-memory. It would be kind of nice to kiss that way-- intimate, like. I wondered if Sally Ann did that. Then I realized kissing her would be different. It would be my tongue in her mouth, and what was especially nice about the dream was that it was his tongue in mine. I sat up blushing furiously. He couldn't know what was in my head, but the thought of facing him after a dream like that was mortifying. Where was he anyhow? The house was silent; from the sun it was around ten o'clock, he should be up. Maybe he went out, I thought with relief. Relief, but disappointment too. During the evening my feelings had subtly altered. He was good company, I wished he was here, I really liked him. He was good- looking and cheerful. Being close to him was nice. I put my hair up and took a long dreamy bubble bath, doing all the stuff Mom taught me. I was clean, pink, and relaxed when I returned to my bedroom to select the only thing I hadn't worn yet, a bright yellow play dress. Its nylon had slashes in it at the sides and the short skirt was slit up the left thigh to the hip. A pair of bikini panties went with it, meant to be seen as the slit flared open. The dress was about as provocative as anything I ever saw, and made me wonder about Mom buying it for me. I hesitated. I couldn't wear stockings with this dress. I liked them--their sleek sexiness turned me on--but the short skirt would reveal their tops and the garter belt would show in the slits at the waist. Oh, well, it was a warm day. Nylons would probably be too much, and this dress would be a lot cooler, there was hardly anything to it. Wearing only the yellow panties and a strapless padded bra I went into my mother's room and sat at the vanity. Without stockings and in the middle of the day I should probably limit myself to lipstick, I thought, but I couldn't resist the false eyelashes. The face looking back at me in the mirror was fresh and pretty. I had always been self-conscious about the fullness of my lips--men should be thin-lipped--but now I was grateful for it. Somehow it put the finishing touch on my disguise. My hair I brushed till it shone, parted it carefully in the middle, and let it fall loose to my shoulders, abandoned and curly and much more grown- up than a ponytail. I found Mom's barrettes and took one, a silver filigree kind of thing, to control the tendency of my hair to sweep over the side of my face. Returning to my own bedroom, I put my arms into the dress and let it down over my head. I adjusted the ribbon straps so the bra wouldn't peek up through the bodice, but there was nothing I could do about the back, which I now saw was bare. The bra strap showed plainly. I decided to take it off. Who cared if I was flat-chested, anyway? The matching yellow shoes had two-inch heels, feminine but more comfortable than the three-inch heels I'd been wearing. I preened in front of the mirror, stomach jumping to see just how short the skirt was and how revealing the slashes in the sides, and how the silky material showed every line of my body except where the skirt flared, which was good, because I was still unspeakably erect. God, it wasn't a miniskirt, it was a micro-miniskirt, the kind that was just asking for trouble. My bare shaven legs looked long. Legs all the way up to my ass, I grinned, admiring the way the shoes slimmed my ankles. I knew I should wear something more modest in front of John, but stubbornly told myself it was just right for so warm a day. It would be okay. He was practically a member of the family, and wanted me to wear dresses as much as my mother did, something about not competing with him. I turned off thinking about him; it reminded me of my dreams, and that was far too embarrassing to cope with. It was already too hot to cook, so for breakfast I smooshed yogurt and cold cereal together and topped the mess with fresh strawberries. I was washing the bowl when I heard his car park in the driveway. My heart leaped in my throat. The car door slammed; a tuneless whistle approached the kitchen door. I grabbed the bowl out of the dish rack and set about washing it all over again, wanting to appear busy and unconcerned. "Hi!" He blinked from the sunshine outside. He seemed to fill the room. He was in slacks and a polo shirt that showed his muscles. His tanned arms were as big around as my legs. "Hi." I couldn't keep a tremor of nervousness out of my voice. He liked me yesterday, but would he still like me, in the clean light of a new morning? He whistled. "Wow, you look good! Grown-up and sexy." He put a white paper bag on the table. I said shyly, "Thanks. Did you go shopping?" "No, I went over to Chardsville to get something from my pharmacy. I thought I'd be back before you woke up. You were up late last night." "I was?" I tried to remember what I did, watched TV or read a book or what, but the fragmented images of the humiliating dream kept interfering. "Don't you remember?" "Sure I do." The weakness of my response gave me away. He chuckled. "I guess the wine at dinner was too much." "Why, was I a jerk?" I said into the sink. "You were charming." He certainly knew how to give a girl goose bumps. That feeling of wanting to be close to him returned. I put the bowl in the rack to dry and smiled at him. He grinned back. I could see what my mom saw in him. What any woman would. He was big and handsome and warm-hearted, and gave off this really masculine aura of barely-controlled sensuality. I hoped he and Mom *would* get married, it would be nice to have him around all the time, even if it meant I had to keep on wearing dresses. That prospect no longer seemed so bad. He approved of me in them; it made me feel better about the whole thing. Almost as though he had been reading my mind he said, "You know how happy you're making your mother, don't you? She said it was a dream come true, she always wanted a daughter. I suspect it's more than that. It's kind of like making up for lost time. She wants to give you everything she missed when she was your age and share in it vicariously. It's okay, isn't it? You don't mind dressing this way?" I looked down at the floor and shook my head, hair caressing my cheeks. "Good. Better watch out, though," he said humorously. "The way you look, the boys are bound to make passes at you. You might like it, though. Like we were talking about." I couldn't remember. With a flash of humor, "Can you imagine if they found out? They'd kill me." He grinned. "Some of them, maybe. A lot of them would be nothing but turned on. It *is* a turn-on, you know, to see you and know that underneath you're not exactly ... well, you know what I mean." That was the sexiest part of it for me too. To look like a girl but secretly be a boy under my skirts. "Anyway," he picked up the paper bag he brought from Chardsville, "I have the stuff for your shot. Let's go in the living room, it'll be more comfortable." "What shot?" "The injection we were talking about last night. You remember." I didn't have a clue. "Oh, that one." My heels clicked on the kitchen floor as I followed him like a puppy dog. Filtering up out of the fog of the evening before was the notion that the injection was supposed to be good for me, and that I wanted it. I hoped it wouldn't hurt too much. I didn't wonder why I was so curiously *in*curious about it. For all I knew it could be heroin or poison, but I trusted John completely. Away from the sunlight in the kitchen, the living room was dim and quiet and still morning-cool. A distant mother called her child. John said, "We have to find something for you to bend over." His eyes flicked about the room, resting briefly on the coffee table, then the back of a chair. "No, wait, you can get across my lap. That'll be better." He sat on the couch, dropped the paper sack next to him, and patted his knee. When I didn't move, he smiled and said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to give you a spanking. This won't hurt a bit." I was in a turmoil. It would be a humiliating position, and if he was going to give me a shot he would see my panties. What the heck, I decided, we were both men, it would be okay. Mixed in with it was my mother's "Do everything he says." But as I awkwardly leaned over him and placed my hand on his thigh to shift forward I was galvanized. Instead of his thigh, my hand rested on a rigid pillar in his trousers. Fright shot through me as I snatched my hand away and wriggled forward. He was turned on! *By me. I* turned him on. He hadn't been kidding before. The thought that we were alone in the house paralyzed me. I lay across his lap head down, hair falling over my face, toes and hands touching the carpet, terribly conscious of the stiffness in his pants squeezed against my belly. It wasn't only my upside-down position that caused the blood to rush to my head. I quivered when he lifted the short skirt and stretched the back of my panties down to expose my bottom. The paper bag rustled. In a second I felt the sting of a needle. "Ow." The needle withdrew. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" His warm hand massaged the area. I felt a new bite in the other cheek. "Ouch!" He mused, "A double dose just to get things started. All done. You were a brave girl." He removed the needle, but continued caressing my ass thoughtfully. "You have a nice tush. I like it." The staff under me twitched upward against my tummy. He stroked me lightly between the thighs. "You shave down here," his soft voice rumbled. "It looks nice." Decision entered his tone. "I think we'll do this now." The paper bag crackled again. I waited, stewing in embarrassment. His hand spread my cheeks. A cold tube touched my anus and shoved effortlessly in. Spreading viscous chill inside told me I had received another kind of injection. I gasped when he took out the tube, dropped it in the bag, and slid a finger inside me. My hole was very slippery as the finger moved in and out a couple of times. My mind took a jig to the side--all I could think was that I was glad I had soaped myself there this morning. His moving finger was exquisite. A second finger joined it, stretching me. My ass tried to clamp shut, but soon relaxed to let him have his way. He said, "Does that feel good?" I couldn't speak at first. Finally, through my fall of hair I muttered shakily at the floor, "Yes." "I have something even better." He sat me up on his lap, panties still in disarray. He put his arm around me and tilted my chin up. He leaned slowly forward and pressed his lips on mine. Oh jeez he was making love to me! As if I really was a girl! I could scream and wrest myself away, or I could give in. I chose to give in. His tongue slipped between my lips. The shard of dream came back to me. On its own, my mouth parted to let him probe inside. With a kind of terrified despair I felt my body yield to his embrace, helpless and trusting, my attention centered on that meaty moving tongue touching mine so sensuously. My arms crept about his neck. A thrill on my inner thigh shocked me. There had been times when the sexiness of a skirt had lured me into touching my own legs, but oh wow, what a difference to have somebody else do it! His hand moved excruciatingly upward. I became aware that my body had gone ahead without me--I was erect, so stiff it vibrated in the panties that still covered my front, though my slippery rear was bare. In a moment he tugged the panties down and clasped my penis with cool fingers. I made a small mewing sound, feeling utterly vulnerable. This was wrong, a voice kept shouting in my head, but I could no more heed it than stop breathing, which I almost did as the kiss went on. The hand left me and pulled the panties down to my knees. They fluttered to the floor; I lifted one foot, then the other, to step out of them. My heel caught briefly. He moved me off his lap onto the couch and without a word undressed swiftly. My eyes widened when I took in the size of his manhood. It was huge compared to mine. It was so engorged the foreskin didn't even make a roll back of the head; it was stretched taut. A long leak of pre-come hung from the tip. Remember, I was innocent. My mind raced in circles. When he touched me under my skirt, I somehow got the idea he was going to masturbate me like my mother did. Now I wondered if I was supposed to do it to him. I was quickly disillusioned. He kissed me, tongue briefly tingling between my lips again, turned me over, and put me down flat on the cushions. Against all reason, my position, coupled with the slipperiness of my hole, told me what he was going to do. My heart thudded in my chest. The room got dim. Panic swept through me. I began panting desperately. In the midst of my terror I felt swollen warmth in the silken skirt compressed against the cushions. I knew I should squirm free, get up and run, but a dizzy wave of desire overcame me. In the past year or so all I ever wanted was to have sex. At last it was going to happen, but it was all turned around. Instead of me getting in a girl's pants, it would be a man getting in mine! The crazy thing was, I was just as excited--more excited--by the bizarre reversal. I wanted to see what it would be like to lose my virginity--as a girl! But I was scared. He was so big, a lot bigger than the two fingers that had stretched me. Would I be able to take it? He lifted the brief skirt and stroked my ass. His gentle kiss pressed on each of my cheeks before he wedged his knee between my legs, opening them. It was a defenseless feeling. He got on me, weight resting mainly on his elbows. When he lifted my hair and shifted forward to kiss the corner of my neck and shoulder, his organ pushed between my cheeks. My breath got shallow. In a trance I tilted my hips upward so the pressure was centered on my opening, a rubbery prod directly on the spot. It felt so good I couldn't believe it. The pressure increased, and now the size of his manhood was evident. If he had hesitated one more instant I'm sure my asshole would have clenched up in hysteria, but as it was, the head of his penis slid in on the film of lubricant. My ass strained open, but it was not until his cock head was past the muscle that my anus clamped quavering down on its neck and I felt just how hot and hard and big the organ truly was. He was in me! I was being fucked! The realization was appalling; the submissiveness I felt, beyond description. If I had been raised a girl I probably wouldn't have felt it so strongly. They grow up expecting to be