Stepdad

                                               by  Jennifer  Sarah  Leeds


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 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 relathering, 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 bareskin
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."

"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 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 oldfashioned 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 incurious 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 on the bottom, and get their triumphs in other ways.  But I
wasn't a girl, I was a boy.  A boy letting another male violate him.
He pushed smoothly up me.  My breath was forced explosively from my
lungs.  It felt like he was thrusting against my diaphragm.

"W-wait, it's so big and hard.  L-let me get used to it."

Every muscle in my body had gone tense.  My legs spread wide apart to
accommodate his organ.  It was much bigger and harder than I would ever
have thought, but it felt wonderful.  My own penis went limp with the
strain of accepting him.  My hole was stuffed full and tried helplessly
to close.  I panted shallowly.

His motion stopped.  Shoved all the way up me, balls hanging against my
crotch, he said, "You like this, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I admitted in a whisper, and did my best to relax.  My whole
body trembled.

In a moment I moved my pelvis a little, rotating it, giving rise to
acute sensations in that responsive area.

He said, "You're even more darling than I thought you'd be.  You're
tight, tighter than your mother.  God, I've waited a long time for
this."

He made little thrusting motions, not enough to actually move in and
out, but the size of his malehood, and the sensitivity of my bottom
made them appear much greater than they were.  It was ecstasy; I
wriggled in bliss.

He drew back carefully, a long slow pull the whole slippery length of
his distended organ, sliding deliciously in my strained rectum.  There
was a hitch as the neck reached my muscle, then a bulge as the head
passed and pulled out altogether.  I sensed my anus gaping before he
entered all over again.  As he pushed in, his stiff meat rubbed against
a certain spot on the front side of my intestine that was somehow
connected with my genitals.  I contorted.  As before, the breath was
propelled from my lungs when he reached the end of his stroke.

It came to me that I was moaning.  I tried to stop, but couldn't.  I
couldn't control my reactions; the experience was too overwhelming.

"All right?" he husked, "I don't want to hurt you."

"Y-you're not.  At least not too much," I gasped through clenched
teeth.

He started thrusting rhythmically, holding me to him, hands now pushing
the ribbon straps of my dress over my shoulders so he could twiddle my
tender little nipples.  I gave myself to him, ass lifting to meet his
strokes, moving in circles to increase that titillating presence
against that hitherto-undiscovered place in my rectum.  The censuring
voice in my head that kept telling me to be ashamed, faded out, and I
was free to wallow sensuously in the pleasure of being fucked.

He said, "You're mine now.  When I come in you, you'll really be my
girl."

"Yes." I knew it was true.  I would have to let him use me any time he
wanted.

All too soon his thrusts shortened and gained power.  He grunted, "Huh.
Huh.  Huh," driving powerfully, and rammed in one final time.  His
rigid penis expanded impossibly, jumped, jumped again, and settled into
a measured pulsing.  The knowledge that he was filling me with his
sperm sent me into a transport of prurience; my own penis, limp against
the silken dress, spewed a long ecstatic leak as the jetting of his
seed went on.

I think I fainted.  The couch cushion I was staring at unseeing went
dim, then dark.  The next thing I knew my face was on its side, the
corner of my lips drooling, and the whole weight of his body was on me.
His hoarse breathing assaulted my ear.

The stretching of my anus diminished as his manhood softened.  My
muscle back there kept squeezing, as if to milk any remaining sperm out
of it.

The submissiveness I felt at being penetrated was beyond description.
If I had been raised a girl I probably wouldn't have felt it so
strongly.  They grow up expecting to be on the bottom, and get their
triumphs in other ways.  But I wasn't a girl, I was a boy.  A boy
letting another male violate him.  When he finished, he held me
comfortingly as I sobbed.

"You were terrific, so tender and young.  I waited a long time for
this.  Did you like it too?" His voice was deep and gentle.

Unable to speak, I nodded my head against his hairy warm chest.

"You were tight.  I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"N-not too much," I managed.

He kissed my tearful cheek and got dressed.  He sat next to me, warm
hand on my bottom.  "You're mine now," he repeated gently, and gave me
a pat before going into the kitchen.

I cried for a while, not sure of the reason.  Shame?  The trickle there
kept reminding me that I had been used as a receptacle for a man's
sperm.  Apprehension?  I had given myself to the man, and what he would
demand of me I could only guess.  Joy?  I had sexual intercourse at
last, and it had been wonderful, though not what I expected.  Scared?
My body and soul had been deeply violated, I had let myself be
violated, and I would never feel quite safe again.  I staggered when I
got to my feet.  Walking carefully, stiffly, legs held apart, I went
upstairs and sat on the toilet to drip into the bowl.

The front of my dress was wet with my own juice.  I'd have to wash it
out.  What could I wear in its place?  John had already seen everything
else I owned.  I decided on the sarong-dress.  He had liked it on me.
When Mom came back, maybe she would buy me some new dresses.

Oh God, what would she say if she found out?  Her boyfriend had cheated
on her with her own son--daughter.  I was the "other woman." Not to
speak of her finding out that her fourteen-year-old child was some kind
of pervert.  Well, it was her fault.  She shouldn't have made me wear a
dress.

I dabbed myself clean with toilet paper and stripped.  My rear end
throbbed with warmth while I rinsed out the skirt and hung the garment
over the shower rack to dry.

In the aftermath I was shy with him.  I couldn't meet his eyes at
first, but his obvious pleasure in me, the affection with which he held
me from time to time and shamelessly patted my bottom as I went by,
soon restored my composure.  At one point he told me not to be
embarrassed, what we did was only natural.  I must have looked dubious,
because he said, "Never mind about that.  It only makes it more
exciting."

I kept looking at him and thinking how handsome he was, how nice, how
pleased he was that I was dressed like this.  I wanted to be near him.
I guess I made a fool of myself, acting like a puppy dog who keeps
coming around trying to make you love him.  When he sat at the kitchen
table I maneuvered close to him, hip touching his shoulder as we
talked.  When he went into the living room I followed and sat next to
him on the couch.  Poor man, I didn't leave him alone except when I had
some kind of chore to do, like washing his shirt and underwear from
yesterday.

At one point I said, "John?  What about Mom?"

"What about her?"

"Well, I mean, she's your, uh, girlfriend."

"I get it.  Don't worry about it.  Listen, she'll be back tomorrow, but
I was thinking there's not much chance for her and me to see each other
during the week.  Suppose I invite you to Chardsville to visit for a
few days while she's working?  I'm pretty sure she'd go along with it."
"I'd love to!"

That night we slept in my mom's big bed, both of us naked.  He wouldn't
let me put on a nightie.  He said he didn't want anything between us.
I was shy about it--nude and without makeup I thought I might look too
boyish for him, despite bangs and the neat, feminine, triangle of pubic
hair.  I wished I looked more like a girl physically.

I needn't have worried.  He was all over me, kissing and hugging, and
that huge dong steamed against me, bumping and prodding with every
sensuous motion of our bodies.  I turned him on.  Mom was right.  That
thing didn't lie.  He wanted me, in a nightie or not.  He did something
different which blew my mind.  Instead of letting me roll over on my
stomach, he had me lie on my back, belly up and exposed, open my legs,
and lift my knees.  He took my hand and placed it on his hot cock.

"You put it in."

Tremulously I did as I was told, guided it to the entrance, and stifled
a shriek as he took me.  He kissed me deeply as I arched my back
spastically, abruptly stuffed full; moved down to suckle gently on my
pink nipples until they became so sensitive I didn't know whether to
crush his head to me or twist away from him.  My hole burned with the
friction of his moving cock, but at last he slipped out, leaving me
filled with dreamy rapture--and his seed.

The next morning was more of the same.  I was deliriously happy as I
lay quivering in the afterglow, blissfully remembering the lust for me
in his eyes and the weight of his body on me, holding me submissive to
his passion.

The happiness was still with me while I bustled about the kitchen
making special eggs benedict for my man.  I was in the yellow play
dress again.  Its sexiness had got him aroused yesterday; I thought it
would please him.  Deliberately I left off the panties, feeling
defenseless and excited as I went about my work.

I had to get Mom to buy me more dresses.  Four weren't enough.

Mom.  She'd be home soon.  My stomach sank.  Our idyll would be over,
at least until he got me to Chardsville.  I was guilty about taking her
boyfriend, but I couldn't help it.  By this time I was so infatuated
with him there was no way I could stop lifting my skirt for him.  I was
conscious of a feeling of pride that he found me so attractive, that he
desired me like her.

The little dress and lack of panties did please him.  By noon I was on
my back again.

At around two he left to pick up Mom.  They didn't get back for a
couple of hours.  I smoldered.  They probably stopped for a drink.  If
John wanted a drink, why couldn't he have it here?  I would serve it to
him a lot more attentively than some twit of a cocktail waitress.  Mom
was still in her RN uniform, blue cap perched on her curls and cape
adorning her starched white dress.  My annoyance dissipated the second
I saw her face light up.

"Oh Tommy!  You're darling!"

She held me and stared intently in my eyes as if searching for an
answer to a question.  I blinked, not quite meeting her gaze.  Did it
show?  Was I different?  Could she tell I wasn't a virgin any longer?

She gave me an extra hug, and turned to John.  "I'm sorry you can't
stay for dinner, dear." "I've been away too long as it is.  I have to
get back to see that the help hasn't sold the store out from under me,"
he smiled.  "Or poisoned somebody by accident.  And pick up messages.
I'll see you both in a couple of days."

We watched his car back out of the driveway.  She said, "Give me a
chance to get into something more comfortable and we'll chat.  I love
your dress.  It's just the thing for a day like this.  Gosh I wish it
would rain." Her soles squeaked on the linoleum as she turned to go.

She turned back.  "Why don't you make some nice cold gin-and-tonics for
us?  You look so grown-up with your hair down.  We can be like girl
friends having cocktails together." She came down in a skirt and
blouse, and she had exchanged her white stockings for beige.  The skirt
clung lovingly to her hips and bottom before a line of gathers made it
flare out full.  The blouse was white nylon.  I could see the outline
of her bra through it.

I broke ice into tall glasses, sliced a lime, and mixed the drinks.
She twinkled at me, knowing how mature a cocktail with her would make
me feel.

We talked about all kinds of things.  John of course, but also about
her trip, and anecdotes about patients and doctors, and her ideas for
redecorating my room.  She had only been gone a couple of days, but it
was like we had to get to know each other all over again.  I was
changed inside.  I had embarked into this crazy trip into femininity
and was adoring every minute of it, and had to keep it a secret from
her--oh God, what if she ever found out I had let John in me?  Her own
boyfriend.

The phone interrupted.  Light-headed, I divided the last of the tonic
between us while she answered.

Crestfallen when she returned, she said, "It was John.  He had a
message waiting for him.  His sister in Minnesota died and he has to go
out to take care of her funeral arrangements and read the will.  He'll
be gone about three weeks, he says."

I was as disappointed as she was.  I wanted to stay with him in
Chardsville in the worst way.

My feelings must have shown because she said, "Don't worry, darling,
he'll come back to us as soon as he can."

She sipped her martini reflectively.  "Tommy, I know."

My feelings must have shown because she said, "Don't worry, darling,
he'll come back to us as soon as he can."

She sipped her martini reflectively.  "Tommy, I know."

I tried to keep the alarm out of my face.  "Kn-know?"

"John told me everything this afternoon."

"Everything?  Wh-what?"

"That you're truly my daughter now.  That you and he--you know." Her
face was pink.  "Are you ...  all right?  He didn't--force you, or hurt
you or anything?"

Face hot, I shook my head.  I wanted to fall right through the floor.

"Is there--anything I can tell you?  Do you have any questions about
it?"

I hazarded finally, "Are you mad at me?"

"Mad at you!  I'm delighted.  I think it's wonderful."

"You do?  But I mean, aren't you ...  well, kind of, jealous, like?"

"Oh." She looked at me softly and put her hand on mine.  "No.  Darling,
I love John, but I love you too.  There's plenty of room in my heart
for both of you.  And John--well, being in love with him doesn't mean I
can't recognize his, ah, eccentricities, or that he has ...  certain
insecurities that have to be resolved by dominating those about him.
That sounds a bit harsh, but I don't mean it to be.  He's just that
way.  I want him to be happy, and if it means going along with him in,
ah, unusual ways, it's all right with me.  You understand?"

I nodded uncertainly, and she continued, "But I wouldn't be honest if I
didn't say that sharing him with you is terrifically exciting.  I love
the idea of a mother-daughter team satisfying their man.  I get all
squirmy inside just thinking about it.  --Do you think I'm awful?" she
asked abruptly.

"No!  I love it too.  I was afraid you'd hate me and think I was some
kind of a pervert to let him do that."

"Don't even think that!  You're too much of a girl to be one of those
awful people."

There was something wrong with her reasoning but I didn't care.  I was
too relieved by her approval.

She said hesitantly, "I guess you won't be going back to boy clothes
after something like that."

It rang a bell.  That's what John had been saying when I came down to
the kitchen that day.  What did she say in return?  Something like,
"Would you do it?  For me?"

I stared at her with a wild surmise.

Her lashes fluttered.  She looked down.

"Mom!  You, you, uh, you knew before you left!"

She blushed prettily, still looking down.  "We-ell ...  yes."

"You wanted me to be--to be ...  him to ..."

"It was for your own good."

My mom had colluded with him to rape me of my boyhood, to turn me into
a girl, if not physically, at least spiritually, if that was the word.

She had given her permission, no, asked, a man to violate her own son.
Or daughter.  I was so confused I wasn't any longer sure which.  It was
appalling, and frightening.  I didn't know her at all.  She had always
taken care of me, sheltered me from harm, taught me modesty and moral
behavior--and just because she wanted a daughter, she set me up to be
debauched.

I knew I should feel hurt and angry.  I didn't.

I was shocked, but the ever-present consciousness of my near-nakedness
in a dress, the delightful way my heels showed off my dainty feet and
trimmed my ankles; the perfumed taste of lipstick; lashes blinking
lightly on the skin above my eyes; hair floating about my ears and
caressing my bare shoulders ...  all made me aware of how much I
enjoyed being a girl.  More than that.  The phantom sensation of being
stretched full in there made me writhe in my seat.  How could I be
angry?

She said with tipsy challenge, "Anyway, I own you, remember?"

The submissiveness John had implanted in me was still there.  "I know."

With that acknowledgment, the last of my resistance broke.  I was in
their power.  Paradoxically, that admission brought a great
heart-easing relief.  Decisions were out of my hands.  Mom and John
would take care of me.  All I had to do was relax and enjoy it.  Tears
welled, blurring my vision.

"I'm glad.  Oh Mom, I'm so happy."

I began crying in earnest when her arms went around me and held my head
to her bosom.  "There, there, everything's all right."

"I know," I sobbed, "I'm just so happy.  I'll be the best daughter you
ever had.  Mom?" I sniffled, "did you mean it when you said we could
share him?"

"I'd like that."

"He's wonderful, isn't he?  Do you think he likes me?"

"He told me he was falling in love with you.  He wants us all to live
together."

I digested that.  "You mean, not, um, not like I was his daughter?"

"Far from it." I heard a smile.

"But we won't see him for weeks!" I wailed.  "Why did his damn' sister
have to die?"

My head bounced on her breasts as she laughed.  She said, "I know, it's
terrible.  We'll just have to be patient.  It'll give us a chance to
know each other."

She pulled me up and gave me a fond look.  "I'm glad you like him.
I'll tell you a secret.  I can confide girl things in you now, can't I?
The thought of you being with him ...  well ..." twin spots of color
grew on her cheeks, "...  is very arousing to me.  I like to think
about it." "You do?"

She nodded, now a bright pink.  "Was it exciting for you?"

I said finally, "Scary."

"I bet it was!  Your first time and all.  Er, what did--he do?"

"You know," I said bashfully, "Made love to me."

"He kissed you.  With his tongue ...?"

I shrugged in assent.

"Oh gosh.  Did you like it?  I do.  I just love it, I melt."

"Me too."

"So then what?

"Mom!"

She tittered.  "Come on, tell me."

I crossed my legs, tugging vainly at the little skirt to make it cover
them more modestly.  "Aw, Mom ..."

"Come on, be a sport.  This is so exciting.  What happened next?"

"He, he lay me down and did it, all right?"

"Back there?"

"Yes, darn it!" I was so flustered I couldn't see straight.

"Me too sometimes.  Did it hurt?"

I goggled.  She let him do it back there.  So maybe it wasn't only
because that was the only entrance I had.  Maybe everybody liked it as
much as I did.  The thought was comforting.

"A little at first.  He's so, uh, big," I was timid about opening
myself up to her about it.  "Poor dear.  I can imagine.  He is big,
isn't he." She giggled suddenly and looked down, a flush on her cheeks.
Her hands twined nervously.  I saw her thighs squirm together.

Why, she was as shy about this as I was!  And she did get excited
thinking about it.  It made me feel close to her.

I mumbled, "Like a horse."

We stared at each other, then burst into hysterical laughter.

"It's not ..." she gasped, "It's not how big it is, it's how you use
it," and we broke up all over again.

Our laughter cleared the air and made us easier.  Our relationship had
altered.  She was genuinely responding to me as a "daughter"--it was
amazing how a change in hair style and clothing could change the way
you felt about someone, even if you knew better--and my own outlook was
different from before.  I had matured in some ways--hey, I wasn't a
virgin--and had become more childlike in others.  Submitting to John
made me more docile, more obedient.  Feminine.  My orientation was
different.  I wasn't thinking about playing stickball with guys; I was
thinking about hair styles and cosmetics, and already longing for the
arms of my lover.

Our lover.  I watched Mom sip her gin-and-tonic and wondered about it.

She glanced at me and smiled.  "I was just thinking, we shouldn't call
you 'Tommy' any more, should we?  How about 'Tammy' instead?"

Tammy.  It was nice, not too different from my own name, but feminine.
My stomach had butterflies.  "Okay," I said shyly.  "I'll be your
daughter Tammy."

Mom was tickled.  The rest of the day it was Tammy this and Tammy that,
and her pleasure in the name was plain to see.  After a while it was
more like I was a girl friend than a daughter.  She didn't have any
girl friends in real life, just acquaintances at the hospital.  She
must have been very lonely until John and me, Tammy.  Before, I had
only been a son to raise as decently and lovingly as possible; but now
I was a different person, another girl she could identify with and
enjoy and share her life with.  She had a boyfriend and a girl friend
now.

Lying in bed that night I missed John.  I missed her, too.  It didn't
seem fair for her not to "help" me after those wonderful experiences, I
thought, as I wiped the spill with tissue.

Two weeks stuck inside the house and I began to go stir-crazy, despite
the pleasure I got from seeing my cooking and sewing improve.  When I
complained she was sympathetic.

"I'm way ahead of you.  I told the hospital I was going to take some
time off.  We can go over to Chardsville, they have a nice hotel there
called the Mariposa.  Lots of nice boutiques in town-- we can go
shopping to fill out your wardrobe.  We'll stay there until it's time
for Him to come home." We had both begun to speak of Him as if he were
God.

It would be scary to go out in public in skirts, but by now I was more
confident about my appearance, and was pretty sure I could get away
with it.  Even if I didn't, it would only be a momentary embarrassment.
Nobody knew me.  We could come back here and I wouldn't have to live
with it.

We packed excitedly, left after dark--I scurried to the passenger seat
and crouched down giggling as she backed out--and by ten o'clock we
were registered (me as Tamara) in room 203 at the Mariposa.

To me the room was truly luxurious.  Deep spotless carpeting covered
the floor.  The bed was king-sized, flanked by two elegant lamps on
bedside tables; there was a large television set in the corner.
Overall, the color decor was peach, but strong accents of other hues
relieved the blandness of that color.  The most striking feature was a
beautiful floor-to-ceiling mirror that covered fully one-third of the
wall in front of the bed.

We were getting ready for bed when Mom said, "Know something?  Hotels
always make me horny."

I laughed.

"I'm serious." She took our nightgowns from the suitcase.  "All the
time I was at that seminar all I could think about was sex.  It drove
me crazy.  I thought about you with John and wished you were both
there.  I think it's because a hotel room is private and anonymous.
You feel like you can do things you'd never dare at home."

Ouch.  My chest hurt when I took off my bra.  It must be too tight.  I
bent my arms back to scratch the itch where the elastic had been.

"I know what you mean.  I thought it was just me." I had never been in
a hotel before, but she was right.  It made you feel uninhibited.

I liked watching us in the mirror, two girls putting on their nighties,
savoring the anticipation of sleeping close together.

We got in bed and turned out the lamps and lay side by side in the
dark.  It wasn't the utter dark I was used to at home.  Street lights
filtered through the closed slats of the venetian blinds and the drapes
covering them, illuminating the room enough to see the furniture and
our bundled reflections in the big mirror.  Traffic noises came through
the front window.  Chardsville was a lot busier than Clara's Corners;
it was exciting to be here.  I wondered how John was doing.  His
sister's death was a tragedy, but the only feeling about it I could
dredge up was irritation.  It wasn't fair for him to go away so soon
after we discovered each other.  The image of his manhood was vivid.  I
remembered wanting to kiss it but not daring to for fear of what he
might think, and then remembered how Mom had kissed mine, and didn't
mind the wetness on her lips.

I said to the ceiling, "Mom?  Can I ask you a question?"

The mattress moved as she shifted to lie on her side with head propped
on her hand, looking down at me in the semi-dark.  She caressed my
flowing locks, brushing the bangs away from my forehead, soothing them
back again affectionately.

"Of course.  You can ask me anything."

"Did you ever--" and now I didn't know what word to use.  I searched my
memory for the polite phrase from Penthouse magazine.  "Did you ever do
oral sex?" My face burned.

She wasn't waiting for that.  When she finally answered her voice was
demure.  "Yes." A long moment later, "Did you?"

"No." Could I say it?  I choked, "I wanted to."

"And you didn't?  Why not?"

"I don't know, I was too shy.  And ...  suppose he, you know,
finished?"

"He's supposed to!"

"But in your mouth?"

"Yes." She added, "You swallow it."

"Eeuw!  It must be all mixed up with pee.  How could you?"

"Even if it was, pee isn't poison, dear," she said softly.  "But it's
not.  You know that liquid that comes before and leaks out?  That's to
clean out the whole passage and make everything just right for the
sperm.  So what you're getting is the pure essence, the most precious
fluid in the world."

A nurse knew all that stuff.

"Precious?  Really?"

"That's how I think about it.  It makes babies, could anything be more
precious than that?  And if a man gives it to you, it means you're
special." She laughed throatily.  "Besides, it's nourishing, pure
protein, they say."

I tittered like a ten-year-old, I couldn't help it.  "Well, but, what
does it taste like?"

"Life.  Like life.  No, I don't know how to tell you.  But it is tangy
and living, like a raw oyster in a way.  I don't mean that's the way it
tastes.  I can't tell you how it tastes.  Like egg white?  No, but it's
slippery like that.  And salty.  I don't know, you'll just have to find
out for yourself." "You think I ...  should do that?" Listening to her
I really wanted to.

"Of course.  It's a joy.  Not only for him, but for you.  They love to
see our little faces working on them down there.  And we--well, we, now
this is just between us, we love to be the ones to rob their precious
essence.  They think they're the masters making us do them on our
knees, but in reality we're the ones controlling them.  Once we start
on them, they're in our power, and pretty soon, whether they want to or
not, they have to give us what we want."

I thought about it, pleased about her including me in "us" and getting
hotter and hotter.  I thought about having John's penis in my mouth,
how it would feel, how it would be to make him erupt--

She interrupted my reverie.  "It takes practice.  At first if it goes
too far in, it makes you want to throw up.  You know?  Like sticking
your finger down your throat.  After a while you get the hang of it,
though, and you can even let it go past your mouth and into your
throat, like chuga-lugging beer."

"What's that?"

"That's when you tilt your head back, open your throat, and let beer go
directly down without swallowing.  College kids do it."

"Oh-h." Then, "Can you do that?"

She turned shy again.  "Yes."

With rueful humor she went on, "Oh God, talking like this is getting me
so aroused you wouldn't believe it.  Are you aroused too?" The hand
that had been caressing my forehead slid down until she was holding me
through the nightie.  "Oh yes." Her voice smiled.  "As always." She
hesitated.  In a smalltone, "W-would you like me to help you again?
We're not supposed to, but this is a vacation.  Once won't hurt."

All I could whisper was, "Yes."

I rolled to face her as she lifted my nightie and started pulling in a
slow gentle rhythm.  I gave myself up to rapture.  In a little while I
sensed that her other hand was moving on herself.  I was electrified.
It blew my mind.  My mom was masturbating right next to me.  I never
knew she did that.  So it wasn't only a boy thing.

When she shuddered and cried out I squirted violently on the furry
juncture of her thighs.  I cringed, expecting her to scold me, but
instead she held me and whispered, "It's all right." I think we were
both shamefaced as we went to sleep in each other's arms.

One of my problems is I never think about my body.  That is, I never
think about getting sick or hurt or fat or anything like that.  I'll
ignore a scratch, for example, never even notice it getting painful,
until it's a full-blown infection.  So the problem with my chest must
have been going on for quite some time before I became aware of it.

After my bath that first morning in Chardsville a hearty scrub with the
towel set my chest to soreness and tingling.  I looked down.  There was
something wrong with my nipples; they were enlarged.  Not just the
nipples, but the colored area around them too.

Underneath were swellings that hurt and itched when I poked them, kind
of like spider bites-- I've always been a little allergic to spiders
that sneak in and bite you when you're asleep.  I never notice the
bite, but afterwards the whole area for six inches around swells up,
sometimes painfully, more often just sore and ticklesome, like this
was.  It lasts a lot longer than a mosquito bite, a couple-three days,
but I ignore it and it finally goes away.

So I wouldn't have paid much attention, except for the condition of my
nipples, which really looked grotesque, thicker and longer than they
ever were.  A close look showed that the colored areas were also
swollen on top of the other swellings.

I wrapped the towel around my waist, noticing vaguely that my ass had
gotten fat from being stuck in the house all day without exercise,
though the rest of me was as slender as ever, and went back into the
room.

"Mom, I think I'm allergic to that bra."

She grinned.  "I think we all are."

"No, I mean it.  It's doing something to my chest.  It feels okay
during the day, but when I take it off, my chest kind of hurts, and
this morning it looks kind of awful."

She lost her smile and came over to peer at me.  Taking me over to the
window, she studied the swellings intently.  "My goodness," she said
thoughtfully.  She prodded at them.  I winced.  "A little tender?" She
was professional.

"Yes."

"The areolas are enlarged."

"What?"

"Areolas.  The pink around your nipples.  Some people say 'aureoles,'
but aureole is a word for halo.  Areola is right."

She brushed the side of her finger up against each nipple, waited a
moment, then did it again.  Even I could tell the first touch had
caused them to get harder.

She looked in my eyes as if trying to read my mind.  Finally she said,
"I don't think it's the bra.  It looks like a touch of gynecomastia.
Don't worry, it's harmless.  Here." She removed the pads from the bra.
"This will probably feel better.  If it doesn't work we can get an
elastic bandage to wrap around your chest."

She helped me on with it and shortened the shoulder straps a fraction.
She was right, it did feel better, but it looked funny.  The bra cups
gathered the swellings and made them look like little tits.  Well, that
was kind of what a bra should do.  It helped my disguise.

The next day it was worse, but I had already filed it under "harmless,"
so I didn't pay any more attention.  I was having too much fun to worry
about trivial stuff.  I really liked Chardsville.  I knew it was only a
small college town, but it was bigger than Clara's Corners, and there
were lots of shops and boutiques and things to do, yet it was small
enough so everybody was friendly and neighborly.

The streets were lined with trees and the wide boulevards were filled
with traffic.  There was an air of growth and prosperity.  Houses and
buildings, few of them more than two stories in height but very
elegant, seemed to be going up everywhere.  I kept seeing "Joiner &
Wilcox Construction" on the nicest ones.

We shopped a lot, starting with Dresser's, an upscale department store,
which we practically denuded of frocks, mix 'n match skirts and
blouses, sheaths, shirtwaist dresses, jumpers, chemises, wraparounds,
lingerie, nightwear, shoes, purses, sweaters, coats, gloves, and
fripperies.

Getting to Dresser's that first morning was genuinely terrifying,
starting from the moment I woke up next to my darling mother in a
strange bedroom in a strange town.  My heart started pounding.  The day
had come when I would have to test my disguise in front of strangers,
out in public exposed for all to see.

By the time I was bathed I was already a nervous wreck.  Mom said the
peach silk wraparound would be easiest to get out of and into, in the
dressing rooms.  The thought of trying on dresses in public practically
gave me a heart attack.  My fingers quivered uncontrollably as I
applied lipstick.

Room 203 opened on a covered walkway on the second floor.  At that hour
of the morning it seemed like every guest on the floor was moving
about.  I cringed close to my mom as we walked the length of the
balcony to the carpeted stairs.  Passing men stared at me, women
smiled.  My stomach trembled in terror.  Everybody knew!  I wanted to
bolt back to the room and hide under the bed.

Mom squeezed my arm happily.  "You see?  You had nothing to worry
about.  I'm so proud of my new daughter."

Gradually I became aware that the looks and smiles were directed at
both of us.  The passersby were only curious and friendly, though I
detected a hint of something more than curiosity in the men, and their
glances were often directed at the open-and-close of my skirt front.

Then it was out on the street to walk the two or three long blocks to
Dresser's under the open blue sky with a breeze flirting with our
skirts, reminding me with little cat's paws of freshness between my
stockinged legs of the uncertain, less-than-secure protection of a
dress.

In the store at last, the very air perfumed, crowds of women all about,
mysterious muted dings of bells sounding sporadically, my anxiety
increased.  Perspiration trickled from my bare underarms.  I was more
afraid of women than men.  I had the idea they were members of an
exclusive club and would be able to recognize an interloper
immediately.  It didn't happen.  I received nothing but friendly
glances, and the salesgirls were attentive and helpful.  Even in the
dressing rooms I was able to try on dress after dress with no one the
wiser, though in the booth I had to turn my back on the flimsy curtain
that didn't quite close--my darn single minded male parts kept trying
to betray me.

I had mixed feelings when I saw her buying so much for me.  She was out
of control.  I loved the dresses, but there were so many!  It was as if
I would never wear boy clothes again, or, such was her obsessiveness,
as if she were desperately trying to convince herself of that.  But
there was school to worry about, I thought practically.

"Mom!" I caught her hand as she held up a beautiful chemise to measure
it against me.  "Too much!  You're spending too much.  Take it easy,
you'll go broke."

"It's all right, darling.  I've been setting money aside for years in
an account for a super vacation or a special occasion.  This qualifies
as both, I'd say.  It's a special welcome for the newest member of our
family.  Just enjoy.  Don't deny me this pleasure."

"But--" I finally got her to promise to buy something for herself for
each thing she bought for me, and laid my guilty conscience to rest.
By the time we returned to the hotel after an exhausting but happy day,
I was ready to explode.  All day I hadn't dared to use any of the
ladies' rooms we passed--I didn't know then that powder rooms all had
doors on the booths--and now I ran into the bathroom, hiked up my
skirt, pulled down the front of my panties, and let go with a sigh of
relief.

Mom came in.  "Tammy, what are you doing?"

"Going to the bathroom."

"For heaven's sake, sit down to do it!  You're driving me crazy."

The wonderful successful day had caused my uneasiness to diminish, so
when Mom announced we were going to dinner at La Belle Veuve, one of
Chardsville's most elegant restaurants, I jumped at the chance to wear
a full-skirted sleeveless blue cocktail frock and once more expose
myself to the view of strangers.  Before we left, Mom brushed a touch
of eye shadow on my upper lids, showing me how to fade it off to white.
As long as I kept my face impassive to hide a delighted grin, I thought
I looked quite the mature young lady.

The waiter was attentive, holding our chairs for us and hovering about
to pour ice water and make solicitous adjustments to the bread basket.

Mom put her hand on his forearm and asked him sweetly if he could
recommend the best of the chef's specialties, and the wine to go with
it.  We were new in town, she said, and enthused innocently about what
a lovely restaurant this was, and how we would rely on his expert
advice.  He was instantly smitten with her, and eagerly recommended two
different dishes, one for each of us.

"Can I get you something to drink while you're waiting?"

"I'd love a margarita."

"And for the other young lady?"

Mom cut in before I had a chance to say anything.  "You're so nice, I
wonder if you would do us a teensy favor?  This is a special dinner to
celebrate my sister's Sweet Sixteen birthday," she lied shamelessly
with a dazzling smile and coquettish flutter of lashes.  "Would you be
a dear love and ask the bartender to make a drink that looks like a
Shirley Temple but has real rum or gin or whatever?  We'll be very
discreet and I'll take full responsibility."

He gave her a co-conspirator's wink.  "I'll see what I can do.  --Happy
birthday, Miss."

When he left I stared open-mouthed at her flirtatious manipulation of
the man.  She stared back until a fit of giggles took us.  There was
more to my mom than I ever knew.  She was suddenly not my mom, she was
a saucy teasing older sister who knew how to get her way with men.

Inevitably at the end of our meal the pianist broke into "Happy
Birthday," the waiter came out with a cupcake impaled with a sparkler,
and sang unmusically.  We laughed hysterically about it in our hotel
room.

It was out of pure mischief that she told the waiter I was her sister,
but it was believable.  Due to my makeup and the mature kinds of
clothes we bought I looked older than I was.  Her vivacious demeanor
and bright face left no doubt she was much younger than she was; so
there weren't enough years between us for us to be mother and daughter.
We continued the fiction.

The next day dawned bright and clear and cooler than it had been, a day
to lift your heart.  We set out to explore the town, heels clicking on
the sidewalk, Mom in a deceptively-simple navy-blue skirt, cream silk
blouse with a bright ribbon tie that provided a splash of red, and a
bolero jacket cut so it didn't close.  Her brown hair was a cap of
curls and gold hoops in her ears glimmered with the red of her ribbon.
I was more casual in an unaffected sky-blue shift, though a black
patent-leather purse and pumps dressed it up a bit.  The skirt was
narrow enough so I had to trip along in shorter steps to keep up with
Mom.  It made my bottom jiggle.  Uncomfortably aware that although my
rear had expanded shamefully, my waist and hips remained practically
the same size so walking caused the straight dress to show my
midsection in brief glimpses, when if my waist were narrower than my
hips it wouldn't show at all.  I stopped at a boutique's display of
elegant French foundation garments.  My mother looked at me curiously
as I stared at a sexy lace-covered wasp-waisted concoction.

When I asked if we could go in, she was unaccountably hesitant.  I
believe it was the only boutique in Chardsville she didn't want to
pillage.

"My figure's so straight up and down, Mom.  Something like that would
help."

"That merry widow?" She gauged me.  "We'll see," she said finally.
"Time enough for that." It was as if she knew something I didn't.

A little farther on we stopped to peer in the window of a small shop
sandwiched between a couteri`ere and a fast-food restaurant.  On display
was an elegant variety of hand-crafted jewelry.  Without a word she
took my hand and entered.  The proprietress was a pleasant willowy
woman in her forties with rich braids like an Indian that fell to
mid-chest.  She wore a long loose bright-patterned cotton dress and
about a dozen bead necklaces.  Her feet were bare.

While Mom introduced herself and chatted with the woman I looked
around.  I coveted it all.  There were sparkling bracelets, necklaces,
anklets, earrings, brooches, chains, finger rings, everything you could
imagine.  In fact there were some things you couldn't imagine.  Mom
explained later that the little gold arrows with a light chain between
them were for pierced nipples; certain rings with dainty locks and
chains were to secretly adorn men and prevent them from straying, or to
compel obedience.

A section of counter was given over to cuff links, tie pins, and
old-fashioned watch fobs.  An intricately-cast pair of gold cuff links
depicting a staff and snakes caught my eye.  They would be perfect for
John.

"Oh, a caduceus," Mom said when I brought them over.  "They're
beautiful.  What good taste you have, Sis.  John will love them." She
turned to the woman.  "She'll take them.  They're for her boyfriend.
Can you gift-wrap the box?"

She held a pair of earrings to the sides of my head, pushing my hair
back.  "These will be perfect."

They were gorgeous.  Rough-cut garnets loose in cages made of gold wire
gave off muted flickers of red as they dangled from golden rings.  I
wanted them badly, but ...

"They're lovely, but they're not clasp earrings."

The woman smiled at me.  "Your sister and I have been talking about
that.  Sit over here on this stool and we'll make sure I don't lose a
sale."

I flinched when she took a spray can and froze my lobes with short
bursts of icy vapor, and flinched again as she carefully positioned a
device that reminded me of a conductor's hole punch, squeezed the
handles, and painlessly inserted stainless steel posts in my ears.  My
heart rippled.  Pierced ears!  I was getting more girl-like every day.
I gave my mom a grateful look.

For good measure she bought half a dozen more earrings.  "We'll share,"
she said, which gave me a warm intimate glow.

Following the woman's advice I turned the posts in my ears every so
often.  In a day or so the lobes healed and I was able to wear the
garnets.  I loved the way they dangled, constantly reminding me of
their presence.  They were as beautiful on me as I hoped, and added
another year to my age.

Mom took the opportunity to drop in to Chardsville General and inquire
about work.  She was received enthusiastically and told there was a
shortage of nurses; with her credentials there would be an opening for
an advanced position.  One supervisor asked me if I would consider
volunteering as a candy-striper.

This week was turning out to be the happiest time of my life.  On
Sunday we went to a band concert in the park, and picnicked with the
hotel caterer's box lunch on the lawn.  Men of all ages came over and
flirted with us.  What astounded me was that Mom flirted back
outrageously.

I watched her carefully, and began to understand just what it was she
did.  She teased and charmed them in such a way that they felt
desirable, but so light in touch that they knew it was only a passing
delightful flirtation, not serious; at least until she turned up the
volume- -sidelong glances, cute innuendoes, a barrage of flattery, and
outright teasing--and then they began to wonder if they had been
favored by heaven.  It kept them on their toes, anxious to please,
complimented by her attention.  In turn she made each feel, however
briefly, that he was the most wonderful man in the world.  When time
came to leave, she did it in such a way they were sure she was
genuinely regretful.  She sent them home to their wives with newborn
self confidence.

I began to imitate her with young college men, awkwardly at first, but
with growing success.  It was a two-edged sword.  The joy and terror of
my experience with John had altered my values violently, so it should
come as no surprise that in trying to attract them, I became attracted
to them.  I was always embarrassingly hard and I kept wishing that,
like John, they knew about me and were only turned on by it.  I even
caught myself wondering if I could get away with performing an intimate
service of the kind my mom had recommended, and get away with it
without being discovered.

After an afternoon in Chard's Lake park, an enormous expanse of
greenery, trees, lawns, and picnic tables bordering the east side of a
two-mile lake, I said to Mom, "I thought he was going to pass out when
you kissed him on the cheek.  He thought he had a chance with you."
"We-ell ...  if it wasn't for John ...  he would have."

"You're joking."

"I thought he was very nice, didn't you?"

"But he was so homely.  Bald and a pot belly."

Her smile flashed.  "It's nice if they're good-looking, but looks
aren't everything.  A man doesn't have to be handsome to be sexy.
--How about you and that cute college freshman?  My panties got all wet
when he put his hand on your knee.  He was a beautiful boy.  Were you
tempted?" It was hard to get used to her talking to me in that teasing
coarse way.

I blossomed in Chardsville.  My shyness fell away.  Men were so
predictable; their minds were controlled by their balls, but respect
for females was so ingrained they were easy to control.  Most of them,
anyway.  One time down in Chard's Lake park Mom left me at a picnic
table to get hot dogs for us, and a scruffy young man in a motorcycle
jacket came up.  I batted my eyes at him, and the next thing I knew I
was struggling in his grip, desperately trying to keep his hands off
me.  Only Mom's return with the hot dogs saved me from discovery and
maybe worse.  But most of the men we met weren't like that, and women
...  women were friendly and open, assuming automatically that I was a
junior member of the club.  I loved it all.

Fooling people gave me a special kick.  It was amazing how different
they treated you when they thought you were a girl.  Salesmen, waiters,
bellhops, cab drivers, policemen, men you asked directions from, all
treated you as if you were helpless and fell all over themselves to
render assistance.  Women clerks and chance acquaintances were warm and
casual and chatty, a far cry from how they would act if you were a guy.

Underlying the pleasure of the busy days was the anticipation of the
nights in bed with my mom.  It was wonderful to sleep in her arms, my
nose full of the fragrance of her body, her warmth cuddling me.  It
made me feel safe and loved.  I admit to using our closeness to
sneakily touch her breasts.  At first I merely rested my hand on her
when she was asleep, but as I became bolder fondled them gently.  I
remember how hard my heart beat the first time I took advantage of a
fallen shoulder strap to cup her naked breast, nipple caught in the
fork of two fingers.  When she sighed and snuggled against me I was
pretty sure she was awake, but she gave no sign of it, tacitly
consenting before going back to sleep.

The week passed in a haze of delight.  By the time we got back home we
were both rested and happy.  It had been a real vacation.  I put away
my new clothes, sighed in pleasure at the sight of all the dresses in
my closet--and now it was time for work.  Mom continued my cooking and
sewing lessons.  I took to them with an enthusiasm that I would never
have believed possible.  I pictured myself darning John's socks and
cooking him elegant meals, though I knew it would be my mom instead.

At long last he telephoned.  I didn't even get to talk to him--I was
taking a bath and didn't hear the phone ring.  She was crying when I
came downstairs.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing.  Everything's wonderful.  John called.  He asked me to marry
him and I said yes." She blew her nose.

I threw my arms around her.  "That's terrific!  Oh Mom, I'm happy for
you."

"He's been delayed a week, but as soon as he gets back we'll be married
at a justice of the peace.  You're going to have a brother," she said
unexpectedly.

I looked at her, blank.

She explained, "Not exactly a brother, a cousin-in-law, I suppose, but
he'll be living with us so you'll be more like brother and sister.
It's his sister's child.  His name is Peter."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen.  Poor boy, to have his mother taken away so young."

Sixteen.  That was two years older than me.  I wondered what he was
like, not at all sure I liked the idea of another kid living with us.
I was prepared to share Mom with John--I shivered inside, since in
another way she would be sharing him with me--but I wasn't keen on her
dividing her attention between me and some stranger, mothering him like
me.

"Where will he be?  There's not enough room."

"John wants us to sell the house and move in with him.  His duplex
above the store has three bedrooms."

Chardsville was a wonderful exciting place, but the idea of giving up
our home and friends and neighbors left an empty feeling in my chest.
It was one thing to visit there, an altogether different thing to live
there permanently.  It would be hard to give up the peace and
restfulness of Clara's Corners.

It did solve the problem of my dresses.  All this time I had been
working hard at being as girlish as possible, supported by my mom's
approval and instruction, and had grown to love it, but in the back of
my mind I knew it would have to end when school started.  There was no
way I could suddenly appear in class in skirts.  The kids would call me
a fag and torment me mercilessly.  If we lived in Chardsville, however,
I could go to school as a girl.  A tingle made itself known in my
tummy.

"Would he--?  I mean, does he have to--?  Is he going to know?"

"About you?  I can't think of any reason he should.  You'll have your
own room and privacy.  Just don't forget to lock the bathroom door,"
she smiled.

"That's one good thing, anyhow."

"Don't look so woebegone.  I know, it's hard.  Everything will change.
John and I discussed it before he left, but I'm sure it must come as a
shock to you.  Let's sit down and talk about it." We settled
comfortably on the couch, legs folded under our skirts.  She said,
"Tammy darling, our lives will be different when John and I are
married.  John will be your stepfather.  He wants you to call him Dad.
Since he'll be the head of the house, I won't have any more
responsibility for you.  We can be sisters like we were that week at
the

Mariposa, instead of mother and daughter."

It gave me a pang.  Mom not responsible for me!?  I had a lost feeling.
Always before, no matter how reluctantly I might do her bidding, it was
a haven of security for me to know my mom was there enforcing limits on
my behavior.  It kept me in line, and even if I grumbled about it from
time to time, it made me feel safe and loved.

This was very unlike her.  More of John's magic, I supposed.  The man
could talk her into anything.

She said, "You can help me with Peter.  He's going to need
understanding and sympathy.  We'll both have to defer to his wishes,
I'm afraid.  John says that even if he's only sixteen he is a male, and
we women have to go along with it.  We won't see him until after Labor
Day--he's working as a junior counselor in a summer camp.  He went back
after the funeral.  John says it's best for him to keep busy so he
doesn't grieve too much."

I grumbled, "I have to let this Peter guy tell me what to do?  That's
crappy."

"Tammy!  Watch your language.  Listen, dear, that's the way it is.  Men
are the ones in charge.  John explained it all to me.  We have to do
what they say.  For example, I have to work in the pharmacy.  And you
know that's not exactly what I'm trained for."

"I thought Chardsville General wanted you."

"John says doctors and interns are all sex fiends and he doesn't want
me around them any more.  Besides, he doesn't like the idea of me
seeing naked patients."

That much I could understand, but it still wasn't fair.  It gave me
something to think about, but I didn't have much time to think during
the next week, which passed in a flurry of activity, packing, arranging
to have the furniture stored, talking to real estate agents, and
cleaning.  My boy clothes and toys we donated to the Salvation Army.
The day came when the moving van rumbled off with the last of our goods
bound for the warehouse, and we stood in an empty house with a realtor
enthusing about how she knew just the buyer for the place.  Mom gave
her the keys and we took our leave of the old homestead, not without
tearful backward glances.

We were dressed for a wedding, Mom in a sleeveless white sheath; me in
an old-rose chemise.  We met John at the local justice of the peace,
and in less than half an hour the deed was done.  I guess I qualified
as maid of honor, since I stood up with her during the ceremony.  She
was as demure and rosy as a schoolgirl.

I hadn't seen John for a month, and thought I was reconciled to our
strange relationship, but the sight of him made me weak.  He was so
handsome, tanned and masculine, so "take charge." I wished it was me
marrying him instead of Mom.  I remembered how it felt to have him make
love to me, and wondered what would happen now that he was my mother's
husband, my new stepfather.

I hadn't seen John for a month, and thought I was reconciled to our
strange relationship, but the sight of him made me weak.  He was so
handsome, tanned and masculine, so "take charge." I wished it was me
marrying him instead of Mom.  I remembered how it felt to have him make
love to me, and wondered what would happen now that he was my mother's
husband, my new stepfather.

John's pharmacy --No, I had to call him Dad, Mom said.  Okay, Dad's
pharmacy was located on the ground floor of the brick building he
owned.  He showed us around.  It was bigger than I imagined and sold
all kinds of greeting cards, perfumes, and sundries in addition to
prescriptions.  Sales clerks and the assistant pharmacist welcomed us
and congratulated him.  It wasn't until he gave them the rest of the
day off and closed up that we were able to escape up the back stairs to
his duplex on the second and third floors.

It was a nice apartment with tall ceilings and bigger by half than our
house.  My room was at the front, adjacent to the master bedroom, small
and Spartan, though it had a double bed.  Dad agreed to have it
furnished with feminine furniture and frills when Mom put her hand on
his arm and looked at him with big blue eyes.  I would have preferred
the much larger bedroom in back, but it was reserved for Peter.  He was
already losing points with me fast.  Dad put his arms about our waists.
My insides turned to quivering Jell-O.

"When Pete gets here we'll have to be very discreet, but in the
meanwhile we'll have some intimate time to ourselves.  I've been
looking forward to being with my beautiful wife and daughter.  I'm
sorry we can't go on a real honeymoon," he said to Mom, "I've taken so
much time off already, but we have a couple of weeks before Pete gets
back from camp.  He's staying on after Labor Day to help clean up and
get the place ready for winter."

He treated us to dinner at a neighborhood restaurant.  It was plain
fare, but he made it more like a wedding dinner for Mom with a couple
of bottles of champagne.  By the time we got back we were feeling no
pain.

They went upstairs to their bedroom carrying champagne and glasses, Mom
hanging adoring on his arm.  I was being left out.  She would be making
love with him--my man.  I tossed and turned all night.

When morning finally came I bathed and groomed carefully, and sat at
the vanity to make up my face.  Mom came in.  I noticed moodily that
she looked tired but radiant.

"Oh good, I'm just in time.  Don't put on makeup.  No lipstick.  Just
scrub your lips with a washcloth to make them pink.  Your dad wants you
to look very young today."

"But I wanted to look grown-up.  I had my sixteenth birthday a few
weeks ago, remember?"

She laughed.  "Today young, tomorrow grown-up.  Here, let me help you
do up those cute twin ponytails.  They make you about twelve years old.
And then a short skirt and middy blouse, white cotton undies, those
darling Mary Janes with ankle socks."

"Aw, Mom.  I'll look like a baby."

"Just for today.  That's what he wants." And that was that.

After I was dressed she applied remover to my nail polish.  My hands
were strangely bare.  It was okay, I'd been wanting to change the deep
pink polish for a more glamorous color anyway.  When this "baby"
business was over I could do it.

I felt like a child when I saw myself in the mirror.  I looked like a
child.

I was glad of it, though, when Dad came down to breakfast.  One look at
me and his face filled with lust.  He picked me up bodily to embrace
me, tongue spearing momentarily between my lips, and throughout the
meal made me blush and flutter my eyes with his continual leers.  I
realized he was hot for young kids, at least this morning.

It probably had something to do with marrying the mother.  I played up
to it by acting as young and girlish and tremulous as I could.  I saw
Mom look at me in surprise, and then saw approval in her gaze.

After breakfast he went down the back stairs to the pharmacy while she
and I washed the dishes and straightened up the kitchen.

"You were wonderful," she said.  "You were just what he wanted, you
little mischief."

I giggled, and broke it off when we heard him returning.  He carried a
white paper sack like the one he brought when Mom was at her seminar.
I remembered the injection and wondered how I had put it out of my mind
all this time.

He said, "It's time for another shot.  Let's go upstairs."

"A shot?" She took the bag from him and looked in.  "Estrotase IM? Oh
John.  I wondered.  You gave this to her before, didn't you."

"It's a time-release oil-based product.  It lasts for a month at a
time.  We should be seeing results in a week or so, and steady
development from then on."

"In a week!" She laughed.  "Where have you been?  There already are
results.  That's why I wondered."

"Really?" He regarded me with interest.  "Let's see.  C'mere, let's
take off your blouse." With a proprietary air he divested me of my top
right in front of her as if I were the young child I appeared to be.
"Son of a gun!  Would you look at that."

She said, "My mother was a C-cup.  Maybe it's going to skip a
generation." Bewildered, I looked where he was looking.  My chest was
much worse.  I knew the bra was tight, but wasn't prepared to see the
swellings bulge fatly from its edges.  I was allergic to the damn'
thing.  It scared me, so when he said, "Take off your bra," I did it
with alacrity.  Maybe he had some medication for it.  I was mad at my
mom for not getting me that elastic bandage.

When it fell away, the bra left red marks where it had been
constricting my skin.

I flinched when he hefted the swellings in his hands.

"Ow.  It's kind of sore."

Very slowly something about the way he touched them reminded me of
fondling Mom's tits at night.

Crash!

The masses, topped by swollen nipples, were exactly like breasts!

My stomach turned; blood drained from my face; my knees went weak.
With a sudden preternatural certainty I knew they were breasts.  The
memory of those first injections and that business about "results" came
together in a staggering flash of illumination.  "You--I--they're ...
Mom, you knew!"

"I didn't really know, I was just guessing," she said calmly.

"B-but you said it was gyne--gyne--a disease."

"Gynecomastia.  It's the medical term for it.  It's not a disease, it
just describes it.  It means 'woman's breasts.'  "

"Oh." I looked at Dad, cheeks hot.  "Daddy, why--?"

Still holding my ...  oh God, tits!  ...  he said, "You looked so
pretty and natural I wanted you to have everything about girlhood you
could.  You're beautiful.  They're beautiful.  By the time they get
through growing, you'll be the sexiest young girl around."

His expression was pure lechery.

Breasts!  How could I ever return to male clothing if I wanted to when
I was older?  And they'd get bigger, he said.  I stared down as he
weighed them.  They were already big enough to be obvious in a shirt.
How could I not have noticed?  I felt really dumb.

Male clothes were a door that was locked behind me.

A tear leaked from the corner of my eye.  "W-will they go away?"

Dad said matter-of-factly, "The way they're developing, probably not.
You'd have to have an operation.  But why would you want to?  You'll be
perfect in dresses.  Your mother and I both want you to keep wearing
them, so it's completely appropriate."

"That's right, Tammy, you're going to be beautiful.  You already are."
She hugged my shoulders and I heard a smile in her voice, "I'm going to
be envious if you do take after Grandma."

He said hoarsely, "Let's go upstairs.  Bring that stuff."

I saw a long bulge stretching the material of his pants away from his
thigh.

Mom saw it too.  Her eyes flickered, and she turned them away to peek
in the paper bag once more.  "What's this, an injector and vaginal
jel--?  Oh."

Her expression got rosy and humid.  "Let's go up." They each held one
of my hands, causing me to feel even more childlike as we climbed the
stairs to my doom.  My top was bare; the--tits-- jiggled.

Their bed was still unmade, white sheets rumpled and suggestive of the
night's activities.  Dad sat on the edge of the bed and patted his
knee.  Obediently I lay across his lap, wild with excitement inside,
remembering that first time.  My ponytails swung forward.  So did my
new treasures.  I couldn't understand why I never noticed them before.
When I felt my cotton panties being stretched down, I wriggled.

"You're getting quite a little tush, too.  Round and firm," he said.
He stroked my ass softly.

I didn't know if having my mom right there was good or bad.  I could
think of it as embarrassing; or reassuring.  Come to think of it, it
wasn't all that reassuring.  She had guessed about my breasts but
didn't say anything to me, and now she was just standing there letting
him give me more of that drug.  Also, she saw the jelly he used to make
me slippery, so she knew what he was going to do to me, but she wasn't
protesting.  All she did was become aroused.  I didn't know what got
into her.

The needle bit briefly; his big hand massaged the sting away.  I
whimpered upside down, still being a little girl for him, but the
emotion was real.  It was scary to have them combine against me like
this.

"Hand me that thing, and hold her cheeks apart for me." In a moment my
mom's hands spread me open.  There was a cold touch and a sensuous
penetration, and a slow chill as the contents of the plastic tube were
forced in.

Quite deliberately I uttered a pitiful, "Please don't make me, Daddy."

His prick leaped against my bare tummy.

He couldn't wait.  He put me down on the bed, hauled my panties off
right over the Mary Janes, unzipped his pants and freed that enormous
organ.

"I'm going to fuck our daughter.  Hold her."

My mom got on the bed behind me and held my head to her bosom, one hand
comforting on my forehead.  The beating of her heart made my ponytails
flutter.

"Oh, please, no, Daddy."

My words were an act to satisfy his fantasy, but as I uttered them it
occurred to me that if they were in earnest I'd be in trouble.  The man
was bent on debauching me; he wouldn't take no for an answer; it would
be rape, pure and simple.  My mom would be no help.  As my glance
flickered up to her I saw she was totally engrossed in the sight of his
rigid bulbous-headed shaft poking against my tiny entrance.  Her eyes
held a mixture of lust and a peculiar satisfaction, as if to say,
"There, you wanted to be a girl, now you know what that means," or even
something like, "You people have done it to me, it's about time one of
you got it too." I cried out and my whole body went taut as the
pillaging member shoved in on the slippery film of, what did she call
it, vaginal jelly?  I wasn't sure what that was but it sounded like a
big feminine no-no, and gave me a delicious little thrill to overlie
the much more intense thrill of his cockhead forcing me open.  I had
forgotten how big and hot he was inside me; I had also forgotten how
supremely vulnerable it felt to be on my back, legs open, knees up,
accepting his stiff meat, awaiting the imminent pollution of my body by
his seed.  I wanted it.  I wanted him to satisfy himself on me.  My
heart swelled breathlessly in anticipation.

The man was beside himself.  He couldn't wait.  It took no more than a
minute and a half.  He slumped on me, breathing raucously.

My little act had been an unparalleled success-too successful.  I hoped
next time he would be able to contain himself longer.  Still, I was
proud that I got him so excited.  Crushed submissively under him, I put
my arms around his back.  My new nipples were proud against his chest.
Involuntary movements down there massaged his softness contentedly as
Mom stroked my brow.

They had ganged up on me.  I knew I should be outraged and horrified
and mortified ...  but the only thing I felt was excitement.  Awareness
that she was watching only added to the thrill.  Why I didn't feel like
a complete degenerate I'll never know.

Marriage, and having a stepchild, I guess, changed him.  Before the
ceremony he was nice as pie to Mom and me, loving and tender.  A day
later his attitude got progressively domineering and possessive.  I
don't mean possessive like jealous, I mean like ownership.  Mom had
"owned" me in that gentle, half-serious way; now it was Dad who owned
both of us, and not all that gently, starting that morning after their
wedding night.

He took to ordering us around, get me this, get me that; do this, do
that, don't do the other thing; day by day getting worse; and all with
a perfect air of confidence that we would obey unquestioningly.  And we
did.  With a readiness that kept me surprised at myself and even more
surprised at Mom.  She started to turn from an independent woman into a
dutiful, anxious-to-please housie-wife.

Those two weeks before Peter arrived were weird.  Earlier, Mom
mentioned something about Dad's "eccentricities" and his "need to
dominate." I thought she just meant him having her put me in dresses
and, er, doing me, but it turned out to be more than that.  He began
leading us from depravity to depravity, things we would never have
imagined before.  He unlocked secret chains that had restrained dark
passions we never knew were there.  I say that because no matter how
debauched the act, no matter how frightened we were at first, we ended
by embracing each new iniquity with bewildering eagerness.

In the evenings we would join him for a glass of wine (I was starting
to like wine, especially the cold white kind) and he would lecture us,
about what I never could remember, though I tried, fearing I might have
missed something important that I was supposed to do, and incur his
displeasure for having forgotten.

On Tuesday after Labor Day I started school as a sophomore in
Chardsville High.  Mom used ink eradicator and pen to alter my school
transcript, changing the name from 'Thomas' to 'Tamara' and checking
the box marked "F" for female.  It was so cleverly forged I could only
gape in admiration.  I learned something new about my beautiful mother
every day.

It was a bigger, noisier school than the one at home, frightening at
first.  I found myself in skirt and sweater, sitting demurely in a seat
at the front, skirt smoothed under me, knees together, instead of
lounging at a desk at the rear to avoid the teacher's look, and made
friends with a couple of girls my own age.  They chattered about boys
and were a lot more innocent than I had become.  While they were
debating about the proper time to let a boy get to first base with you,
I was dreaming about the next time I would be able to make love with my
stepdad.

After school I went straight to the kitchen and tied an apron on after
I did my homework.  Since Mom was working full time in the store now,
cooking dinner was my job.  I was becoming a good cook, and was glad
for the lessons she gave me when we were still in Clara's Corners.



I don't know what I expected from living in Chardsville, probably the
excitement and leisurely sight-seeing and shopping we had enjoyed
during that week, but I soon learned that "home" anywhere is pretty
much the same.  My days were full of chores, school and housework from
morning to night.

But there was sex with Dad to relieve the tedium.  I had been dismayed
by him doing me right in front of my mom that day.  The same night it
was her turn.  I sat on their bed and watched him paw her.  He pulled
down the top of her nightie to free her breasts and lifted the gown to
expose the open juncture of her thighs, deliberately inviting me to see
what she had down there.

Her eyes flickered at me with such shame that I held her hand to
comfort her.  I couldn't look away, though.

He husked, "Talk the way I like."

Apparently he had trained her, because she moaned, "Oh John, I'm so hot
for you.  Give me that big cock of yours.  Oh yes, that's right, stick
your prick in my cunt.  Fuck me.  I need it so bad.  Unh!" She grunted
as he thrust in.

I was horribly embarrassed.  My mom saying things like that.  It was an
unbelievable turn-on, though, and the sight of him plunging back and
forth caused me to ejaculate in my nightie without warning, and again
when she spasmed and mewed like in the hotel.  That night we both slept
on wet spots.

In the morning she and I could hardly look at each other, but it was
only the beginning.  Day by day he introduced us to further enormities,
and day by day we accepted them.  He kept coming up with something new
for us to do.  It was like he was trying to cram every possible
experience into the brief two weeks before Peter arrived, when, he
said, we would have to behave with complete discretion.  I would no
longer sleep in their bedroom, and would always be clothed modestly, no
more running around half-dressed.

I finally found out what it tasted like--time and again--and watched
Mom do the same and worse, and learned from her with increasing success
and submission.

On the night before Peter was due, he introduced the ultimate
debasement.  He started by telling us to lie naked in each other's arms
and nurse on each other's breasts.  We stared at each other appalled.
Abruptly Mom made up her mind to go along with it, dipped her head, and
sucked in my nipple.  The swellings were bigger now-it seemed they had
only been waiting for me to know what they were before going into a
frenzy of growth-and still tender, but the softness of her lips and
tongue was so gentle she sent rockets of ecstasy from nipple to groin.

We took turns until I realized Dad was speaking breathlessly.  "...
pair of lesbians!  Lizzies use dildos sometimes, don't they?  Tammy has
one, why don't you make use of it?"

I didn't know what a dildo was, but Mom did.  She stiffened in my arms.
"John!  That's a perfectly terrible joke."

"No, really.  I'd love to see it."

"It's incest!"

"There's not much between that and what you're doing."

"It's not intercourse!"

"Come on," he wheedled.  "You know you'd love it, and I'd love to see
it."

I said, "What is it?"

She whispered, "He wants us to make love.  The real way."

I stifled the sudden expression of hope and dismay and horror I felt
changing my features and stared at her.  She gazed into my eyes a long
time.  She said, "W-want to?"

The answer must have been in my face because a look of happiness came
over her, and she whispered shyly, "So do I."

I wished we were alone.  Having Dad there added spice but took away
some of the specialness.  Still, if we were alone she probably wouldn't
do it.  It was only because Dad wanted her to, that she let her
emotions overcome her inhibitions.

He was being little-boy cruel to us, pulling wings off flies.  He meant
to show off his power by shaming us, but he miscalculated.  It was pure
bliss.  Mom spasmed repeatedly, overcome by love and lust.  How could I
perform such a depraved act without guilt?  I didn't know.

In a momentary respite she grabbed my hair and drew my head down
fiercely and panted so softly in my ear that I could hardly hear her,
"Let him do it to you.  I want to go to sleep knowing you were the one
in me."

I thought she meant afterwards, but her hands slid down my back to
spread my cheeks.  She gave Dad a meaningful look over my shoulder.
The mattress sank; his knee thrust between my legs to open them between
hers.  Mom held me and convulsed while he had his way with me.

The next day we avoided being alone together, too embarrassed even to
look at each other.  After a time, however, our eyes would catch every
once in a while; we'd see a glimmer of memory.

Peter arrived at last, late for school, a husky young man brown with
the sun.  He had the same Nordic good looks as Dad, but his expression
was subdued.  He was obviously ill at ease in a strange house, mother
gone, a new family to try to fit into.  Mom and I tried to take him
under our wing, but right from the start he rejected our attentions and
trailed after Dad.  What he wanted was male companionship.  We were
only females, second-class citizens.

In turn, Dad took to Peter right away.  I guess two weeks of being
surrounded by women was enough.  In a twinkling they became pals.  When
Dad came up from the store at six each evening, he and Peter would sit
in front of the TV watching ball games, totally ignoring us except to
call for beer and nuts.  I was surprised he let Peter have so much to
drink.  The boy was only sixteen, after all.  True, he and Mom let me
have a cocktail from time to time, and a glass of wine with dinner, but
at least I never staggered when I went up to bed.

Mom said something about it.  Dad looked at her as if she was speaking
a foreign language.  "Give the kid a break," he said.  "He has to learn
how to handle liquor sometime.  Might as well be now, here at home,
instead of in some crummy dive.  So he gets wasted once in a while, big
deal.  It's a man thing."

We all spoiled Peter, I guess.  Especially me.  It's one thing to
accept all the things your parents do for you--and Mom and Dad were his
parents now--you expect it in a way, they're supposed to do things for
you and take care of you, and if they don't give you chores to make you
a responsible member of the household, well, good, you got away with
it.  It's another thing for your "sister" to do things for you.  That's
really being spoiled.

It wasn't long before he figured out that he was in the driver's seat,
as far as me and Mom were concerned.  We obeyed Dad unquestioningly,
but Peter was a different story.  If he walked in while I was watching
a romance on TV and turned the channel to wrestling without even
noticing I was there, or said, "Hey, get me a beer," or tossed his
dirty underclothes at me, "I need these for tomorrow morning," it got
my back up.  I went along with it, however sullenly, knowing Dad would
approve.  Pretty soon Mom and I were like slaves for not one, but two,
masters.

I worried a lot about Peter suspecting the truth about me.  I did what
Mom said, locked the bathroom carefully, and made sure to be covered
always.  I acted as girlishly as I could, sickeningly sweet, and so far
as I could tell he had no inkling.  I worried anyway.  If he knew, his
malicious teasing would make life hell, and maybe he'd even tell kids
in school.

He was doing okay in school, only a year ahead of me despite being two
years older.  He was slow in some subjects I was good in, such as
English and literature, and got left back.  I was tickled to learn he
had to take remedial reading, not that I could brag, since it was all I
could do to keep up with algebra and chemistry, which he was good in.
He didn't have a lot of friends, though the girls thought he was a
hunk.  Most people said he was arrogant and stuck up, but I think he
was just shy.  He came off like the big man to me and Mom; in the real
world he lacked self-confidence.

In the meantime Dad meant it when he said we would behave "discreetly."
In the evenings when Peter was around he ignored me.  Even at night
when my cousin was asleep, I wasn't allowed in their bedroom.  It
wasn't a complete loss.  Sometimes when I got home from school a little
after three, he would take me down to the storeroom, especially on days
that Mom had her period.

Nevertheless it was tough.  Not only was I at exactly that age when the
urge for sex was paramount-young enough, virile enough, prurient enough
so not even the hormones Dad gave me could diminish the drive much-just
wearing dresses kept me erect all day-but I had also been introduced to
the fantastic kind of intercourse that drove me mad with passion, and I
was as spoiled as Peter was, in a different way.  Putting out for a man
was mind boggling.  A consummation I couldn't get enough of.  It was
utter confirmation of my femininity.  I sometimes tried to remember
what it had been like to be a boy, but couldn't.

By the close of the year my breasts stopped growing and hurting.  I was
proud of them.  They were bigger than Mom's and swayed and bounced
instead of jiggling.  Since I was still shorter and smaller than her,
they looked a little oversize.  I discovered the wonderful sensual
pleasure they could give.  Just by fondling them, relaxed in the
bathtub as they sought weightlessly to float, pinching and pulling at
my nipples, I could make myself come without touching elsewhere.

They were not the only thing to grow.  My ass developed a luxurious
roundness, and a layer of fat padded my hips.  But for my still-thin
waist I would have looked kind of pear-shaped.  I didn't need that
merry widow in the boutique window to fit into sheaths.

Dad and Peter were close buddies now.  They huddled together and
guffawed and slapped each other on the back as they told dirty jokes,
cheered at sports events, confided men things to each other.

If one of us came into the room they would stop talking and grin at
each other, and eventually come up with a demand for some kind of
munchy to eat or beer to drink to get rid of us.  Big men secrets, who
wanted to know anyhow?

Then came an evening in January, warm and cozy inside with the chill
winds rattling the windows, when Dad was feeling his oats and decided
to pick on me.  In his mind it was only teasing.

"Hey," he said from the couch as I put potato chips on the coffee
table, "how you coming along?"

"Fine."

"Looking good, there."

I didn't know what he meant.

He took a swig of beer.  "C'mere, let's see."

He was staring at my chest.  I wasn't wearing a bra; my nipples showed
against the cotton of my bodice.  "Oh, Daddy," I blushed, and sneaked a
glance at Peter.  He was staring at one of those girls-on-the-beach
shows on the TV.

"Come on, let's see.  Come closer."

Nervously I approached.

"Open up," he gestured at the buttons on the front of my shirtwaist.

I know I turned red as a beet.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter
tear his gaze from the television and look curiously at us.

Dad said, "Come on, Tammy, open up your dress and let me see how you're
coming along."

Mom protested, "John ..."

"Don't worry about it.  A father has a right to look at his daughter,
doesn't he?  Come on, Tammy," he repeated.  "Do as I tell you."

I was afraid not to obey him, but murmured, "Please, Daddy, not in
front of Peter."

He tugged strongly at my dress, pulling me down beside him.

Shrugging off Mom's tentative restraining hand, he said, "When I tell
you to do something, I expect you to do it." Roughly he opened the
front of my dress.  I thought buttons would spray.

My bare breasts fell out.  I squirmed in embarrassment, casting a
frightened glance at Peter.  He leered.  Dad weighed them in his hand.
His touch made goose bumps prickle my flesh.  I would have loved it if
we were alone, but as it was, I thought I would die.  I held very
still.  Mom looked as distressed and anxious as I was.  This was a side
of Dad that scared both of us-dominant, aggressive, bullheaded.

I peeped at Peter again through lowered eyelashes.  He was in his
glory.  I was not only being humiliated in front of him, he was getting
an eyeful.  His mouth hung open; a bulge began forming in his crotch.

Dad swiveled me around to face Peter and bounced my treasures in the
palm of his hand.

"What do you think, Pete?  Nice, huh?  Your cousin's getting all grown
up."

He tweaked a nipple, making me jump.  Peter's mouth closed and formed a
lascivious smile.  His eyes gleamed.  "Yeah.  How about if I get a
handful?"

"Sure, why not, join the party."

I shrank in Dad's grip as Peter turned to me and reached out to fondle
my boobs.  Like Dad's, his touch sent an unwonted thrill racing from
breast to genitals.

The boy's jeans bulged obscenely.

Mom made an inarticulate sound.

Dad saw it too.  All at once aware that he might have gone too far, he
said, "That's enough now." To me, "You can close up.  Martha, get me
another beer, would you?" He finished his can, freeing me to button my
top in haste.

Totally humiliated, covered with confusion, I burst into tears, and ran
upstairs to sit weeping on the edge of my bed.  I crossed my arms
protectively across my chest and tried to tell myself it didn't matter,
we were all a family now.  Mom came in to comfort me.

"Don't feel bad, Tammy.  He didn't mean anything by it.  Men are like
that sometimes, rough and insensitive.  He'll be sorry in the morning,
you'll see."

"He let Peter ..." My tears flowed anew.

She held me tenderly.  "Sh, sh.  Don't cry.  It'll be all right." A
suspicion of humor entered her tone.  "You'll have your revenge
tonight.  He won't be able to sleep, will he?"

I sniffled, thinking about it.  Seeing my tits had turned him on, all
right.  He'd probably have to jerk off--more than once, if he was
anything like me.  It tickled my vanity.  Anyhow, there was one bright
spot.  I didn't think I had to worry about him being suspicious of me
any more.  There wouldn't be any doubt in his mind that I was a girl.
I returned Mom's hug and got ready for bed.

She tucked me in and kissed me tenderly.  At the door she said, "They
are beautiful, you know."

The next morning was Saturday, no school.  I dressed modestly in
another knee-length house dress and faced Peter with all the bravado I
could muster, pretending hard that last night's incident never
happened.  He wouldn't leave me alone.  He followed me about as I did
my housework.

Abruptly he said, "Uncle John said you were a boy."

My heart stopped.  My dad had betrayed me.

"He was kidding you.  Do I look like a boy?"

"No."

"Well, then."

"He said you were anyway.  Lemme see.  I'll show you if you show me."

"No!"

"Come on.  If you're a girl, prove it.  If you're not, we could have
some fun."

"Leave me alone."

"Uncle John said it was okay.  It was his idea."

An even worse betrayal.  "Well, it's not my idea.  Please, Peter."

He took on that stubborn, self-indulgent attitude that we had seen
becoming Dad's hallmark.  "Show me.  Take down your underpants."

I set my jaw.  "No!  Go away."

He grabbed my arm and twisted it.  It hurt.  He was strong.  When I
tried to pull away he had no trouble holding me.

"Ow!  You're hurting me.  Let go," I cried.

His face was stony.  "Lemme see, I said." His free hand dove under my
skirt and grabbed me between the legs.

I shrieked.

He sneered.  "Do girls have these now?" He squeezed my genitals.

A fountain of tears poured from my eyes.  I couldn't see.  He yanked my
panties so hard they tore like paper, then ripped apart my top.  When
he saw that unlike yesterday I was wearing a bra, he bent me over with
my twisted arm and pushed my top down over my shoulders until he could
unhitch the bra.  He snatched it off.

My tits tumbled free.  I gave a loud sob.  He handled them before
hauling up my skirt.

"Puh, p-please, Peter," I wept.

"I gotta say, you make a great-lookin' cunt.  Let's see if you fuck as
great as you look.  You faggot pussy."

He levered me over to the couch and pushed my face in the cushion,
muffling my squeals.

It was the worst experience of my life.  I felt totally defiled when it
was over.  Ravaged.  Helpless.  Terribly frightened.  Now that he knew,
now that he had satisfied himself on me, he'd be back for more.  He
left his seed in me--I'd have to submit.  I couldn't tell Mom, I was
too ashamed.  Dad would be no help.  Peter said he had given him the
okay.

The awful thing was that in spite of his brutality, his ruthless
self-indulgence at my expense, he had made me orgasm.  I didn't know
what to think of myself.

I cried miserably in my room.

When I next saw Peter, he acted as if nothing happened.  He continued
to treat me like a servant, but was apparently only biding his time,
because he looked at me more often than he used to-I had sometimes felt
invisible-with a glitter of anticipation.  I heard him and Dad talking
in low tones.  They guffawed from time to time, and when I entered the
room, I saw a humiliating knowledge in Dad's glance.

I took to bundling up in clothes when I went to bed.  What good that
could possibly do I didn't know, Peter would only make me take them
off, but I couldn't help it.  I lay awake listening to every creak in
the building, chest filled with anxiety, and got circles under my eyes
and a hunted look.

Mom would have noticed, but she had her own troubles.  She worked long
hours in the store and hardly ever got to go out except to the market
or the cleaners.  Peter took to sassing her right in front of Dad, who
did nothing about it.  Daily she got more timid and submissive.  It
broke my heart.  Dad was nice to her from time to time; her gratitude
was pitiful.  More often he ignored her, though, taking her and her
services for granted.

That was how things were when I happened to overhear Dad say, "Hey,
Pete, why don't you make us cocktails before dinner?  Your aunt Martha
could probably use one.  Here."

It was so unusually thoughtful that I left the roast and stepped to the
kitchen door to see.  Mom was upstairs taking a shower after a long
day.  Peter pocketed a small bottle Dad handed him, grinned, and went
to the liquor cabinet to fix the Old Fashioneds he was fond of.  He
wasn't all that good at it.  Clumsy.

I was about to turn away when I saw him take the bottle from his pocket
to finish making the drinks.  His back was to me so I couldn't see.  I
wondered what the stuff was, some kind of special flavoring like
bitters or grenadine, I guessed.  Casually he knelt to put the little
bottle in back of the liquor cabinet, stirred the drinks with a glass
rod, and garnished them with fruit, ugh.  One of the glasses he
positioned a little apart from the others.

I returned to the roast.  The outside was nicely browned, but prying it
open with a knife revealed that it needed another hour.  I returned it
to the oven, put potatoes alongside it, and turned the heat lower.
There would be plenty of time for a cocktail, even one of Peter's sweet
drinks.  A glance at the wall clock assured me I was getting good at
this-the meat and baked potatoes would be ready exactly at dinnertime.
Five minutes at the end to simmer the green beans and toss a salad, and
we'd eat.  It gave me a good feeling of control to time everything
accurately.

I thought about Peter making the cocktails.  That was usually my job.
Don't do me any favors, I thought, and then frowned.  There had been
something surreptitious about his movements, and he had given the
stairs a quick nervous look before adding the bottle's contents to the
drinks.  I wondered what the stuff was.

I'd find out soon enough.  I heard Mom come down and went to join them
in the living room as I was expected to.

She was in her nightgown already, covered decently with a negligee
which managed to combine modesty with allure.  She smiled wanly at
me--I guess it had been a hard day--and asked if she could help with
dinner.

"Nope.  Everything's coming along just right," I said with more than a
touch of pride.

Peter said, "Hi, Aunt Martha.  I made this special for you." The ice
tinkled as he held out one of the Old Fashioneds.

"Why, thank you, Peter." She was taken aback.  "That's so nice of you."

I got the tray and offered glasses to John and Peter, and took one for
myself.  It tasted all right.  What was special about the flavoring I
couldn't tell.  After a quarter of an hour chatting with them I went to
check dinner.  When I got back, Dad was watching a game on TV, and Mom
and Peter were deep in a low conversation, heads bent together on the
sofa.  It was surprising but nice.  Peter apparently turned over a new
leaf, at least as far as she was concerned.  He was acting friendly.  I
was glad for her.

In a little while he whispered in her ear and they walked to the
stairs.  Mom's face was expressionless.

I said curiously, "Where are you going?"

"Upstairs with Peter." There was something trapped and frightened in
her eyes.

"Mom, what's wrong?  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, dear.  We're going to talk privately."

Dad said, "Hey, Tammy, make me another of those things.  Can't fly on
one wing, you know."

I watched them go up the stairs, Mom's body proclaiming misgivings.
Her movements were wooden.

I shook my head and mixed Dad's drink.

"Take a load off," he said, and patted the seat next to him.  He
clicked the remote to turn off the television.  "So tell me, how's
school?"

His arm went around my shoulder as I began to chatter about the day's
activities.  He drew me to him.  I melted, just melted, and then sighed
when he stroked my breast lightly through my sweater.

"Mmm.  That feels so good.  Oh Daddy, I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart." He kissed me on the corner of my lips.
It was a sensitive and erotic spot.  I writhed in happiness and desire.

Very conscious that Peter might come downstairs at any moment, I pulled
my sweater off and let the shoulder straps of my slip fall so he could
touch my bare tits.

   He bent his head and sucked my nipple in.  His tongue swept
lusciously around it, sending repeated streaks of sensation to my
nether parts.  I shook.

He said, "Let's take these off."

"But Peter ..."

"Don't worry about him."

If he didn't care, I didn't care.  I gave myself over to him, and to an
hour of rapture.  When it was over I came up for air and began to worry
about Peter coming back down and catching us.  As Dad pulled up his
trousers and zipped them, I heard them at the head of the stairs.  I
scrambled to my feet, yanked my sweater on, found my panties crumpled
on the floor and-- stuffed them under the couch cushion.  There wasn't
time to put them on.

I gave the two of them a wild look, noticed in passing that Mom was
disheveled, shoulders slack, and had a peculiar dispirited look.  Well,
anyone talking to Peter at length was liable to feel that way.  I
hastened to the kitchen to take the roast out of the oven and put the
beans on.

"Dinner in a minute," I called cheerfully, heart pounding.  It was a
close call.  I hustled the meal onto the table and within five minutes
dished it up to them.  Peter was animated, joking and laughing; Dad,
complacent; I was still all a-flutter.  My panty-less bottom kept
shifting in my seat.  Mom was subdued; after a while I stopped being so
full of myself and mired in self satisfaction that I was able to wonder
what was wrong.

She gave no clue.  In the belief that whatever it was, was private
enough not to ask her in front of Dad and Peter, I determined to wait
until I could catch her alone.

It wasn't that night.  Although Dad had been eminently satisfied, he
developed a lech for his wife, and took her up to bed early.  I escaped
to my own bedroom, both fearing to be alone with Peter and wanting to
be alone with my thoughts.

I bolted awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, the vivid
memory of Peter's furtive actions while preparing the drinks connecting
at last with Mom's trapped look as she went upstairs with him.  In my
nostrils was her body smell as I leaned over her shoulder to put a
plate in front of her at dinner, an odor that teased my consciousness
at the time, but which I failed to identify.

It was unmistakable.  It was the aroma of sex.

Oh God, she had sex with Peter!

Had he done to her what he did to me?  Raped her?  Impossible.  Not
with Dad in the house.  She would have fought or screamed.  He wouldn't
have dared.

Then she had gone with him willingly.  I remembered her casual voice,
"We're going upstairs to talk." I also remembered the look in her eyes
and her sadness when she came back down, and the glitter of conquest
cloaking Peter.

The glowing numbers of my bedside clock told me it was after three.  I
listened.  Total silence, other than the occasional susurrus of cars
passing in the street outside.  The house was still.

I got out of bed and went to the door.  Very quietly, very carefully, I
inched it open.  I reviewed what I would say if I was caught.  "Just
going to the bathroom," or, downstairs, "I couldn't sleep, I need a
glass of warm milk."

Noiselessly I padded down the stairs.  Not daring to turn on the light,
I stepped inch by inch, arms outstretched, orienting blindly by touches
on the furniture.  Ah, here was the couch.  A faint lingering musk
reminded me of my earlier ecstasy.  Funny, Dad hadn't seemed worried
that we would be interrupted.

If I hadn't been walking carefully I would have barked my shins on the
coffee table.  The whisper of my nightgown hem warned me.  I bent to
confirm its presence, nylon slipping luxuriously against my firm broad
ass, breasts hanging supported in the cups.  Still in pitch darkness I
made my way to the liquor cabinet, squatted, nightie sliding down from
my knees to reveal me to the cool night air, and used my fingernails to
pry open the spring catch of the cabinet door.  I reached in, hoping
against hope that Peter hadn't removed the mixture, feather-touching
each bottle until I identified the small glass container.  My fingers
told me it had a cork.

As I drew it out, it tinked sharply against one of the bottles.  I
froze.  Listening to the blood pounding in my ears, I waited long
minutes to see if it had been heard.  The house remained silent.  I got
to my feet and stood trembling.

A faint rectangular diminution of darkness showed me the position of
the doorway to the kitchen.  It was in front; light from the street
relieved the blackness.  Moving as carefully as before--I didn't want
to crash into a misplaced chair--I crept to the door.

More confident now that the light from the street outside showed the
way, but still stealthy, I carried the bottle to the sink counter and
slid open the tool drawer.  My hands found the flashlight.

Now to see what this stuff was.  I covered the lens with my fingers and
let the smallest possible crack of light shine on the bottle.  There
was no brand name, only a list of chemical ingredients, and the name of
the manufacturer, Belle Corp., at an out-of-state address.  I turned
the bottle around, noting it was almost empty of the clear liquid
inside, to look for some clue to what it was for.  No luck.  Not even
directions for use.

Well, just great.  What now?  I was no further ahead.  I still didn't
have the slightest notion of what this stuff was.  I pulled the cork
and sniffed.  All I smelled was cork and glass.  It might just as well
be water.  Belle Corp.  That was vaguely reassuring.  It sound like a
manufacturer of something for ladies, to remove wrinkles or moisturize
the skin, or like that.

I was taking chemistry in high school, but for all that was worth, it
might as well be Greek.  Maybe Mom would know.

My heart skyrocketed into my throat as something made a loud creak.  I
was paralyzed.  By the time my lungs told me I had to take a breath or
die, I realized it was only the building settling, the kind of night
noise common in any house.

Panting, I took the bottle over to the pad and pencil on the wall that
we used for shopping lists.  Carefully I printed the list of chemicals.
Later I would laugh at my tearing each perforation one by one until the
page came free, but at the time I was too terrified of making a sound
to do otherwise.  I folded it small in the palm of my hand and used the
flashlight to guide me back to the liquor cabinet.  I wasn't sure
exactly where to replace the stuff, now that I saw the array of
bottles, but secreted it approximately where I had discovered it.
Peter wouldn't remember, anyhow.

After returning the flashlight to the kitchen I went back upstairs.  My
door was still ajar; I slipped inside, closed it softly.  Back safely
in bed I wondered if I was going to faint.  A remnant of a sense of
humor made me think that if I was, this was the place to do it.

I wakened early, thinking of the events of the night before, the warm
glow from the memory of Dad, the thrill of fear and a triumphant sense
of accomplishment from pulling off a successful spy mission.

After a careful bath I returned to my bedroom and stood in front of the
mirror inspecting myself.  I looked closely to see if there was any
hint of my bottom sagging.  There wasn't.  It was taut and round and, I
thought, pretty sexy.  The padding of fat on my hips made them contrast
with my narrow waist.  My breasts were full and pert.  Someday gravity
would have its way with them, but that was in the future.  The nipples
were pink, erect, and suggestive.

A few days before, Dad mentioned a hormone prescribed for one of his
customers.  It was called prolactin, and made new mothers produce milk.
In passing, he said it did the same to men.  Privately I thought it
would be fun to take.  Maybe someday I could nurse a baby.

All in all I was satisfied.  I was as well developed as any girl in
school, and better developed than a lot of them.  Better than most, to
tell the truth.  At least the boys thought so.  They had begun flocking
around, and although there was no chance of any of them getting beyond
first base--I knew I couldn't allow myself to get involved--it was
flattering and reassuring.

A schoolgirl, I put my hair up in a ponytail and dressed in skirt and
sweater and loafers with knee socks.  My panties were cotton for a
minimum protection against the cold--a skirt didn't do much for that.
No lipstick.  Though some girls wore lipstick, and Patty Perkins and
Judy Harper even wore stockings, it was the wrong thing to do.  It gave
them the reputation of being class whores.  I didn't think they were,
Judy at least, they just didn't know any better.  School wasn't the
place for that kind of thing.

Mom came in to help with breakfast while the men still slept.  It was
the usual routine.  She looked drawn, even after I hugged her good
morning.  While she started the coffee I rolled out biscuits and cut
huge ones with a ring made from a tuna-fish can.  "Mom?  Remember when
you and Peter were having a drink together last night?"

There was a pause.  "Yes."

"What were you talking about?"

"Nothing much.  I don't really remember."

"Then you went upstairs.  You were gone an hour or so.  What were you
doing so long?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her cheeks flame.  I could only guess
the effort to keep her voice steady when she answered, "We were just
talking."

"What about?"

"Oh nothing much.  This and that."

"Well, I mean, you looked unhappy when you came down.  Did you have a
fight with him?" "No, we were just talking.  Why are you asking me all
these questions?  Mind your own business."

"I just wondered."

"Well, don't."

I put the biscuits in the oven and went to the stove to start the bacon
and eggs.  "I saw him put something in your drink last night."

"What?"

If I was right, this wasn't anything to tease about, but her refusal to
talk about it with me made me wait a long minute before saying, "I
don't know.  Something from a bottle from the store."

I used my apron to wipe bacon grease off my hands.  "I copied the
ingredients.  Here."

I handed her the slip of paper.  She read it carefully, lips moving a
little.  She said, "I don't know what this is.  This compound looks
sedative-y, and this one might be a tranquilizer, but I have no idea in
the world what this one is." She read off a long chemical name.  "Are
you sure you copied it right?"

"Pretty sure."

"I'll check the PDR at the hospital.  The Physician's Desk Reference.
It has all the drugs on the market."

She looked at me directly.  "Don't say anything about this."

As soon as she heard me come home from school, Mom came up the back
stairs from the pharmacy.

In a low voice she said, "I buttered him up and told him we had to go
to the market for dinner things.  It wasn't easy, I begged off once
already to go to the hospital.  We have a lot to talk about.  Put your
coat on and get your purse."

She looked sad and nervous and afraid.  Behind that expression was
suppressed anger.  Her jaw was clenched and her lips quivered.

They were still quivering when we sat in a booth in the coffee shop
down the street.

She said, "I looked up Belle Corporation's products in the PDR. The
drug you found wasn't listed.  Then I went down to the pathologist and
showed her the ingredients.  She recognized them right away.  It's
called Matrix, she said.  I was right, there's a sedative and a
tranquilizer-and a hypnotic.  It was designed to be a sleep-inducing
agent.  It's tasteless and odorless and dissolves readily in water or
alcohol.  It showed promise, but when they discovered it made patients
abnormally suggestible, the FDA ordered it withdrawn from the market.
They felt there were too many chances for abuse.

"The usual meaning of a 'hypnotic' is something that's used to overcome
insomnia.  In this case the combination doesn't put people to sleep, it
just makes them happy and so openminded they'll accept any suggestion
as God's truth, the way people are under hypnosis.  There's a black
market in it, for perverts who want to seduce women.  Even high school
children use it.  They can have willing sex with a girl, tell her to
forget about it, and the next day the girl doesn't even know it
happened.  The only persons using it legitimately now are
psychiatrists."

She said bitterly, "That's what Peter put in my drink."

I thought about it, toying with a sweet roll.  "Daddy too, I bet.  He
was the one who gave Peter the stuff.  And there were lots of times
when he talked to us and I couldn't remember what he said."

She was about to cry.  "Yes.  Your dad too."

Her face changed.

She slammed her cup down, spilling coffee into the saucer.  Heads
turned.

She said in a low, intense voice, "I'm mortified!  No, I'm furious.
How dare they.  I feel so violated."

"I know.  Me too.  It's like being raped."

Her eyes flashed.  "I was raped.  Last night.  By that little puke
Peter.  I was ashamed to tell you because I didn't fight it, I just
went with him.  Now I know why.  And then--" she turned a bright red,
"--I can't stand it--he made me like it!  I ...  came."

I patted her hand.  "That must be what they do.  They tell us to like
it." Tears welled.  I blinked, and blotted my cheeks with a paper
napkin.  "Peter raped me too, only I guess he forgot to give me any of
that stuff.  He forced me."

I didn't tell her about me coming too.  That was something else, not
the drug.

"Forced you!  You poor child.  Are you all right?"

"I'm afraid he'll do it again and I'll let him.  I think even if he
didn't force me, I would have obeyed him."

"Yes, they make us obey them.  All this time I've been wondering why I
was catering to that snotty little bastard."

Her language shocked me.  She was genuinely pissed, angrier than I had
ever seen her, including that time I came down in boy clothes.

"That's been bothering me, too.  Why I do everything Daddy and Peter
say."

"Well, wait a minute," she said more reasonably.  "Peter's only a boy,
but we do have to obey John.  He's the man of the family."

"I bet he told you that.  Don't you remember how you were before you
met him?  You never took orders from people before just because they
were men."

She swallowed her coffee reflectively.  "You might be right." She
frowned.  "You are right.  I think.  Oh, what are we going to do?" she
moaned.  "We can't let them get away with this."

It was hard to think about it.  The trouble was, I had been so
brainwashed I didn't know where it began or ended.  God knows I didn't
feel brainwashed.  I wasn't in a daze or anything like that.  I felt
perfectly normal.  Did it start with my wearing dresses?  I didn't
care.  I loved being a girl so much I would never think of going back
to boy clothes.  But that was exactly the problem.  They probably made
us like everything, so how would we know if it was normal for us, or
not?  For example, I knew making love to my own mom that time was the
height of degeneracy, but I couldn't feel it; the memory held no
repugnance, only joy.  I loved my mom; she loved me; why shouldn't we
love each other in that way?

Wait a minute, wearing dresses wasn't because of the drug.  It started
before.  That first "blackout" evening when Dad was baby-sitting me, I
was already in a dress.  So skirts, at least, were a legitimate
craziness.  For me anyway, I didn't know about Mom.  And if he made me
want him to make love to me, well ...  I loved that too.  I couldn't
see anything wrong with it.  If I was being a girl, it was only right.
I knew there was something wrong with that rationalization, but the
knowledge had no power to curb my desire.  I was betrayed and furious,
but I loved him.

"Could your friends at the hospital get you some of that stuff?" "I
suppose so.  Why?  We already know what it does."

"That's the point.  What would be wrong with us using it?"

A slow smile quirked the corners of my mom's lips.  "I think I'm in the
presence of genius.  You mean--brainwash them.  Do to them what they
did to us.  It's perfect."

"We can use it on ourselves too.  Take away the bad stuff they left.
We can each take it at separate times and un-brainwash ourselves."

It wasn't going to be all that easy, I realized.  Looking into myself,
there wasn't too much I wanted to be changed.  How much of that feeling
was the result of the drug I didn't know.  I did know I wanted my mom
to be out from under Peter's thumb; I wanted to be too.  And Dad's
thumb too, I supposed.  All the rest of it, sex with multiple partners,
life as a girl in Chardsville, a loving family, I wanted to keep.

Mom felt the same way.  We decided we would take it slow, first rid
ourselves of the compulsion to obey the men, see how that worked, and
maybe go on to erasing other instructions at a later date.

We'd drug their beers tomorrow and implant a compulsion for them to
please us.

It's interesting that we never considered confronting them.  Whether
that was a natural feminine reaction, or the perception that it would
certainly do no good, and might even do harm, I don't know.  Our
instinct was to sneak around behind their backs.

Peter, at least, had one last fling as a free man.  He came into my
bedroom in the middle of the night.  There hadn't been any kind of
"lecture", but the entire time I wondered if he had added a "like it"
command somehow, because that's what I was doing, liking it, not just
obeying.

I cut school and Mom managed to beg her way out of the pharmacy for
another day.  We met on the street corner and went directly to
Chardsville General to get the stuff.  Package stowed safely in her
purse, we had coffee in a diner for her to re-read the pamphlet of
directions and to make plans.

Overnight we had come to the sobering realization that all this was
serious.  The men had gone overboard irresponsibly, that was the way
men were, but we were vividly aware that what we were about to do could
have real consequences.  We'd have to exercise care to be more moderate
than them.  We agreed that we would only put things back to normal.



  We felt strongly that a woman's place was to take care of the home
and her man.  How much of that was due to the brainwashing sessions and
how much was our own idea, we didn't know, but there it was, that's the
way we were.  We'd feel guilty if we made ourselves the bosses.  What
we wanted was only more equality, a chance to do things because we
wanted to, not because they wanted us to, or because they made us want
to.

So in the end we decided to more or less confine ourselves to saying in
our own sessions, "You feel no compulsion to obey them.  If they order
you, you don't have to do it, you'll make up your own mind about
things," which would free us to be ourselves, but wouldn't take away
the essential femininity of letting them see themselves in charge.  We
made notes of what we were going to say, just to be sure.

We found a cheap motel down by the tracks.  The manager said, "Five
bucks an hour and ten for each john you bring in.  Gimme twenny in
advance."

We were too nervous to laugh; we just closeted ourselves in the room.
She measured out doses that would last the minimum amount of time--an
hour--yet be strong enough to do the trick.  She took the first dose.

"Remember," she said, settling comfortably into a chair, "Don't be nice
about it.  You have to tell me what to think.  That's what the
directions said.  I think why John had to do it over and over was
because he was trying to pretend it was a normal conversation, so he
just suggested things mildly."

We waited fifteen minutes for the drug to take effect.  "Okay?" I
asked.  "Time's up."

"Shoot."

I stared.  She sounded perfectly normal, in fact pleasantly
good-natured.  Was something wrong with the dose?

I cleared my throat.  "Y-you know ...  you don't have to obey Daddy or
Peter any more.  If you feel like doing ..."

For the better part of an hour I repeated the message in a lot of
different ways, wondering if I was getting through.  She would nod
agreeably from time to time, but if I stopped and asked her how she
felt, she told me she was fine in such normal tones that I began to
despair.  Something had gone wrong.  Then I asked her if she had to
obey John and Peter.  She laughed merrily.  "What an idea.  Obey them!
I think that may be the strangest notion you ever came up with."

"Didn't you believe you had to, before?"

She went back in her memory.  "How strange.  I think I did.  But how
absurd!" She laughed again.

In a little while she got a less cheerful expression.  "Those
bastards," she volunteered inelegantly.  "Those bastards.  I'm furious
all over again.  Peter raped us and John encouraged him to.  He was all
excited last night.  I read somewhere that some men get a thrill out of
letting another man use their wives.  We'll fix them.  Here, take
this." She handed my potion over.

The manager watched us leave.  Mom said cheekily, "No johns today.
Business is bad."

"Ain't it the truth.  Been bad all week."

She whispered to me, "I know where there's a John," and we laughed,
accomplices in an exciting secret adventure.

That night when they called for their second beer we looked at each
other smugly.  Popping the tabs on two cans we carried them
in--undrugged, the dose in the first ones was more than enough to last
all evening.  Mom turned off the television.  We didn't want any stray
commands from it.

That iron will that had been so lacking in recent months underlay Mom's
tones, as did the suppressed anger I had seen in her this afternoon
when she remembered how she had been jumping mindlessly to obey them.

"You don't want to watch the ball game now.  You know how Tammy and I
hate it when you spend all evening glued to the set and don't pay
attention to us.  You want to be nice to us.  Let's sit and talk a
while."

"That's a terrific idea, sweetheart.  We haven't had a good talk in a
long time."

It was spooky.  They were so normal, alert, and responsive, but you
could see every suggestion we made take effect.  They concurred with
everything we said.

We didn't let go, we kept coming back to the main points over and over,
reinforcing the message, making sure it sank deep into their
subconsciouses.  They wanted to please us.  They wanted to be nice to
us.  They loved us and making us happy made them happy.  They didn't
expect us to obey them.  Instead, they would be quick to comply with
any direct order we gave.  They would be more sensitive to our needs.

Daddy said, "I haven't been very attentive sometimes, have I? I don't
deserve either of you.  If you give me another chance I promise I'll
change."

"Me too," echoed Peter.

See what I mean by spooky?  Not in a trance like you expect hypnotized
people to be, not dazed, but perfectly lucid, rational--and wholly
cooperative.

She held in that submerged anger for a couple of hours, but toward the
end of the session she gave in to it.  I admit, I was glad.  My own
resentment demanded relief.

She glanced at me to be sure I was paying attention and said something
I never expected, so vulgar I couldn't believe my ears, but which sent
my heart wild.  "Peter, why don't you suck your uncle John's cock?"

They looked startled, and laughed.

She said, "What's the matter?"

Peter lost his grin.  "Aunt Martha, that's awful.  I don't do things
like that.  I'm not--" he swiveled his eyes at me, "--uh, gay or
anything."

I rephrased it as an order.  "Peter, suck Daddy's cock."

"Oh.  Yes, okay." The same trapped look I had seen in Mom's eyes the
other night formed in his.

He got on his knees in front of Dad and undid his pants.

We watched in fascination.  Mom said at last, "Swallow it.  That's
right.  Now John, do it to Peter.  You can see he's all excited.  It's
his turn." Her thighs squirmed together.

She was really enjoying this.  So was I. I was so turned on I couldn't
believe it.

She said, "You both liked that a lot.  You want to do it again, and
everything else too.  You'll have plenty of chances, because from now
on you'll sleep together in Tammy's room.  She and I will share the
main bedroom.  We'll call you when we need you."

So much for "equality" and "putting things back to normal."

She paused, watching the news sink in.  The trapped look disappeared
from their eyes, and excitement took its place.

John said, "Good idea, I don't know why I didn't think of that before.
What do you say, Pete?  Let's share a room, no use making two beds in
the morning.  Tammy's going to sleep with her mother, we can have her
room.  It's right next door, so if they want us ..." Peter flushed.
"Yes," his color deepened, "but they'll know what we're doing."

We smiled at each other with delight.  Mom said, "Your embarrassment
about it will make you want to be even nicer to us.  Now, a couple more
things.

"I want you to forget we ever had this conversation.  You know how much
you want to please us, and all those other things we talked about, but
you won't remember us talking about it.

"Also, and this is very important, you will forget the existence of
Belle Matrix, and if you ever learn of it, you will never dare use it
on us."

I was full of admiration.  So simple and important a thing, and it
hadn't even occurred to me.  Trust my mom to close all the loopholes.

Still rankling about Peter's "gay" comment, I said, "Peter, You know
I'm not gay.  I'm a woman, and you'll treat me that way from now on."

"I never said you were.  Of course you're a woman.  I love you as much
as Aunt Martha." He nodded up and down ingratiatingly.

Mom said, "It's ten, time for bed.  It's been a long day.  By the way,
John, I won't be working in the shop any more, so don't wake me in the
morning.  I'll be going to the hospital to see if I can get a job
there.  It's work I enjoy."

He took her in his arms.  "I'm glad.  I know you wanted to help out in
the pharmacy, but it's better this way.  I want you to be happy.  Have
a good night and pleasant dreams.  I love you, sweetheart." He kissed
her tenderly at length, something I hadn't seen him do since after the
wedding.

He turned to me.  "Good night, my other sweetheart.  Take care of your
mother." He kissed me deeply.  His mouth had a taste.

Peter came over to say good-night.  Right in front of Dad he kissed Mom
on the lips.  I was surprised when she welcomed his impudent tongue.  I
guess she had forgiven him.

I forgave him too.  When he kissed me good-night I got the same taste
Dad had given me.

He mumbled, "Is it okay about the other day?  I'm sorry I was so
rough."

I patted his cheek.  "It's all right, I'll see you tomorrow."

I was fairly bursting with triumph as we went to Mom and Dad's, no,
our, bedroom.  This thing had surpassed my wildest expectations.  I was
now a total woman, with men who would be dancing attendance on me.
What a feeling of power!

"Hold me," she gasped.  She was shuddering.

"What is it, what's wrong, Mom?"

"I was so scared!  Thank God that's over."

"You were great.  It was perfect.  That was smart telling them to
forget about the stuff."

"We had to.  Ah ...  do you think I went too far?  Making them ...?"

I wasn't sure, but I said, "No.  It was just right."

Her trembling diminished, stopped altogether.  I petted her, stroking
her lissome back.

"You let Peter kiss you," I said curiously.

"It's different now that he's under control.  You know what?" She bent
her head into my hair so I couldn't see her face.  "I was thinking ...
it would be fun to have both of them, one after another."

"Both!  That's terrible.  Me too.  A gang-bang," I laughed.  "I love
being a woman!"

"I know.  I love you to be one."

"Oh gosh, Mom.  A lot of things are going to be fun around here from
now on, aren't they?" I said wonderingly.  "Everything's changed."

She held me tighter, breasts soft against mine.  "We can do anything we
want," she agreed.  "We still have plenty of the drug.  You know, I got
aroused when they ...  It served them right, didn't it?"

"Yes," I whispered.  "I did too.  Get aroused, I mean." That wasn't the
kitchen flashlight pushing into her tummy.

She pulled my ponytail down to turn my face up, and kissed me.  "Let's
go to bed."

Later I said in mischief, "Talk the way I like."

She laughed softly in the dark, but in a sudden passion she clutched me
to her and whispered, "Fuck me, darling, I love you to fuck me."



Epilogue



That was fifteen years ago.  Petey and I are about the age my mom and
John Senior were then.  She and Dad are in their mid-forties.  Although
he is beginning to look distinguished with a touch of silver threads
among the gold at his temples, you'd never know Mom's age to look at
her.  Despite having had another baby--now a boy well into puberty--she
looks as bright and youthful as ever.

I sometimes look at young Jack--John Jr.--and Karen, Petey's and my
adopted daughter; she's thirteen, the same age as Jack, a winsome
little baggage--and wonder if they think we're as old as I thought Mom
and Dad were, way back when they were first dating.

There's another reason to look at them.  To watch them, I mean.  Last
night I heard Jack's bedroom door open and close softly.  I didn't like
the quiet sound of it.  Jack is a straightforward kid who is liable to
bang doors open and never consider that the noise might disturb
somebody.  I got up and found Karen sitting on the edge of his bed
talking with him, clad in the almost-transparent baby-dolls we gave her
for Christmas as a kind of "You're growing up, congratulations"
present.  She wasn't wearing the bottoms, and poor Jack's eyes were
practically crossed.  They didn't know which way to look.  I sent her
packing off to her own room, but she managed a final flirt of her saucy
derriere before going out of sight.

A couple of years ago they used to skulk down to the storeroom in the
basement-the very same storeroom that served Dad and me so well-to play
Doctor.  It was harmless enough then, but she has her monthlies now,
and things could get complicated.  I think nostalgically about my mom's
obsession with having a daughter, and wonder for heaven's sake why?
I'd much rather be responsible for a boy.

Whatever problems we have, pale into insignificance compared to the
happiness we found after we discovered what had gone wrong with our
lives, and our use of Matrix to remedy it.  Those dusty bottles still
exist, somewhere in a hidden corner of the attic.  I haven't thought
about the stuff for many years.

But in those days we had a use for it.  By trial and error we modified
the original session, and really did put things more or less back to
normal.  Normal for us, that is.

Men are so dumb.  Impatient.  Mom has a little poem:  Patience is a
virtue,/Possess it if you can./Seldom found in women,/Never found in
man.  If Dad had only been a little more patient, we'd all have ended
up exactly as we did anyway.  I loved my new daddy to distraction and
would have done anything he wanted, and was still young enough to
embrace unconventional new ideas.  I loved Mom and she loved me; once
we got past society's taboo, going to bed together would have been a
natural outcome in the circumstances.  And then both of us would have
come to welcome Petey's attentions, considering our already-unorthodox
lifestyle.  He was young and virile, and when he got over his lack of
self-confidence, very nice.  In turn, he was still in the throes of
adolescence.  He'd have done anything at all to get relief from sexual
pressure, including experimenting with Dad.

After a week of putting the men down, we got ashamed of ourselves and
used Matrix to reverse our extravagant commands--and then discovered we
had unearthed an element of homosexuality in them that none of us
suspected was there.  Just as we had unleashed lesbianism in ourselves.
Frequently, though less frequently as the years went by, Daddy and
Petey, and Mom and I, found ecstasy together.

More rationally, Daddy's original interest in me betrayed a bisexual
side to his nature that was bound to show up in other ways; Petey, like
any adolescent boy, was in total thrall to his genitals, adventuresome
and amoral.  It was only a small step from me to Daddy.  On the other
hand, though having a man make love to me was supreme happiness, a
heart-stopping reassurance of my femininity, I retained sufficient male
urge to make fucking a woman irresistible.

As for Mom, I was a haven for her, someone she loved deeply, who loved
her blindly in return- and who was safe.  She felt in control, able to
express secret urges freely with me.  For example, when she caught
sight of the men in a sixty-nine position during that first week, she
practically dragged me into our bedroom to set about teaching me how to
please her.  Even now, though we're both married and respectable
mothers of pubescent children, we find opportunities to be together.  I
love falling asleep that way, head resting between her legs, lips still
touching hers, the ineffably attractive aroma of her sex in my
nostrils.

Being in charge rapidly palled, for both Mom and me.  We put them back
in the driver's seat.  Minus, of course, our cursed obligation to obey
them.  Now when they get very macho about a family decision, we smile
at each other, knowing we don't have to go along with it, though we
usually do let the dears have their way.  It's a nice feeling to have
them in charge of us and know that they adore us and would change their
minds on the spot if they thought we were truly unhappy about it,
rather than momentarily displeased.

We settled down to a kind of almost-conventional monogamy.  Avoiding, I
think wisely, those excesses of the first few weeks when we all slept
together in Mom and Dad's bed, we got a double bed for Petey's room and
exercised enough self-control to alternate partners.  One month I would
share a bed with Petey, the next with Dad.  We might have got pretty
jaded otherwise; this way we retained enormous excitement for each
switch.

It wasn't long before I fell madly in love with Petey, and he with me.
I was still in love with Dad-whoever said you can only love one person
at a time is nuts-but Petey was my age, more or less, and had a
vibrancy about him that Dad lacked.  He developed endurance.  At first
he was like a rabbit and was no good for anything for at least half an
hour, but experience eventually gave him a semblance of composure, and
I no longer had to wait for that second or third time to be satisfied.
He had a natural insatiableness that matched mine and kept me all but
exhausted by morning, and in the afternoons after school.

A side effect of the whole thing was that Petey's grades in school
improved.  No longer sexually frustrated, or obsessed with trying to
work himself up to a pitch of asking girls out, his concentration on
schoolwork increased.  Eventually he won himself a scholarship to
Chardsville College and majored in pharmacology.  Like father, like
son.  He's now a full partner in Hengstrom & Son Pharmacy.

With Petey's help in science and math, my own grades perked up.  High
school was a wonderful time for me.  I was pretty popular-I got asked
to join all kinds of clubs and to be a cheerleader.  I really regretted
turning that down, but I was much too well hung to risk wearing those
ultra-short skirts and letting people see my panties.  I became best
friends with Judy Harper, one of the girls everybody thought was
promiscuous, but who wasn't, and to this day we remain best friends.
She's married now, to one of the high-school jocks, Sam Weathersby.
She still doesn't know about me.  Either does he.  When we go to each
other's house for cocktails, he usually corners me somewhere and sneaks
a kiss.

I was part of a clique made up of Sue Ballard, Jane Foramen, Ramona
Isaac, Liz Nelson, who was editor of the school paper, and a few
others.  None of them could understand why I insisted on including Judy
in the group, and only grudgingly accepted her.  I've lost touch with
all of them except Judy.  I often wonder what became of Liz.  In those
days we had a special closeness, each sensing some special quality in
the other that somehow made us want to be more than friends, but she
moved out of state after graduation and I don't know where she is.

The boys all asked me out, but for the most part I turned them down,
afraid I'd get carried away.  Like the boys, I had an instinct for
variety.  I often wanted somebody new, just because he was new, and was
scared that I might not control the desire.  It might have been
different if I didn't have the kind of home life I did, and it was
different in my senior year.  More on that later.

I was nicer than other girls when I turned them down.  I was in a
unique position to know how hard it was for boys to work themselves up
to asking for a date, and how rejected they felt if the girl said no.
Remember my learning from my mom during that wonderful week in
Chardsville?  I flatter myself that I sent them away feeling good about
themselves, and wanting to be friends with me, if not
boyfriend-girlfriend.

Dad was beside himself when he learned Mom was pregnant.  That was in
senior year, right at the beginning.  You never saw such a fuss.  He
wanted her to quit work immediately and take to bed.  She laughed at
him.  "I'm preggy, not sick.  There's a difference." He took me aside
and instructed me not to let her do anything around the home.  I was to
do all the cooking and housework.  He hovered over her in the evenings,
fluffing pillows behind her as she sat on the couch, holding her hand,
and by the third month kept patting her belly, wondering out loud why
he couldn't feel the baby kicking.

We got through it all right and in the spring Mom gave birth to a fine
healthy baby ...  boy.  She said, "Thank heavens.  I already have a
daughter, it's nice to have a son."

Dad went around offering chocolate cigars to everybody in sight, proud
as a peacock in mating season.  He had a son!

People always say, "Oh, look, he has his uncle Ralph's nose," likening
that cute little nothing of a button to the pendulous beak of the beery
adult blinking down at it.  You really can't tell much about who
they're going to look like in those first few days.  Their eyes are all
blue, and if they don't have hair you can't tell anything about the
color.

But I took one look through the nursery window when we first went to
see the baby, and shot a look at Mom.  She returned my gaze equably and
warned me with her eyes not to say anything.  The kid was nothing like
Dad.  Or Petey.  He looked exactly like Mom ...  or, since I looked
like her, like me.

I didn't know what to think.  If my guess was right, I didn't have a
half-brother, I had a son!  We never discussed it.  Never.  In all
these years.  Jack is Mom and Dad's son, that's all there is to it.

Just as Karen is my daughter and Petey's.

I said above that Judy wasn't loose, but in senior year she got
pregnant.  She confided her worry tearfully when she missed her second
period.  I got her to talk to Mom, who gave her a pregnancy test from
the hospital.  It came out positive.  Mom discussed the options with
us, and offered the services of one of the doctors at the hospital to
perform an abortion.  He owed her a favor, she said.

Judy burst into tears at the thought of killing a baby, even if it
wasn't really a baby yet.  "I can't!  I'll keep it.  But ...  my mom
and dad--they'll throw me out.  Mom told me if I ever got in trouble
she wasn't going to take care of a baby at her age.  And--oh, what am I
going to do about college?"

"Does the father know?"

She shook her head.  "I haven't told him.  You're the only people that
know."

"What will he do?  I mean, will he help?"

"He would want to marry me.  But then he'd drop out of school and get
some crummy job at a fast-food place." She started crying again.

Mom got all the adults and Sam and Judy together for a long family
discussion and set the bottom line by announcing that Judy was my
friend, we would take her in if she were evicted from home.  The upshot
was that Judy would have the baby, but give it up for adoption, and the
two young people would go on to undergraduate school.  Neither set of
parents was happy about the situation (Judy's parents, the Harpers,
felt disgraced), but each recognized that the others were decent
people, and that the two youngsters were basically nice kids, and
chalked the whole thing up to "modern times" and the "deplorable moral
climate." Sam's parents offered to pay the bills; Sam himself
volunteered to work in the afternoons to pay his share.  It was hard on
Judy in school.  As soon as she began to show, the whispers began.
Except for Liz, my group dropped her-and me, too, when I refused to
abandon her.  You learn who your friends are, don't you?

She fell in love with my mom, and used to come home with me after
school so we could do homework together and so she could chat with her,
learning all about having babies.  The two would compare each other's
bellies and symptoms and show identical fulfilled secret expressions
common to pregnant women.

In the meantime, Peter was working hard in his freshman year in college
and I hardly ever saw him except in bed, and even then he always seemed
to be too tired to pay me the attention that, as I saw it, I deserved
and needed.  I finally gave in to my urge toward variety.  I cheated on
him.  The first slip from grace was with my old chem-lab partner Jeremy
Anders, the one who helped me pass in freshman year.  He was a darling
boy, but nobody could understand why I went out with him, since he was
a total nerd.  He was brilliant, wore thick glasses, a big head on a
skinny neck, not much taller than me (I could never wear heels with
him), a sweet boy so starved for attention from the opposite sex that
he fell all over himself.  How I told him about myself, and after him,
Mike Bedrossian, captain of the soccer team, and what we did together
until we regretfully decided to part, and why I was so sure they
wouldn't tell others about me, is another story.  But the experiences
were an affirmation of my femininity.

In the last two months of Judy's pregnancy the school officials asked
her to stay home.  They arranged for her to keep up with the class
work, and sent exams to Mom to serve as her proctor.

One evening I watched her and Mom, both now big-bellied and waddly,
laughing together complacently, genuinely envying them their coming
motherhood.  When I put that together with the impatience I felt for
Peter to come home from a late evening at the college library,
inspiration struck.

That night in bed I said softly, "Petey?  Do you love me?"

He rolled over and took me in his arms.  My breasts felt the firm
muscularity of his chest and my ear thrilled to his murmur, "You know I
do."

"Enough to marry me?"

It took him aback.  He asked finally, "When?"

"In June."

"Tammy!  I'll still have three years to go in school.  And what about
your own college?"

"Mom and Dad are going to put us through school anyway.  The only thing
that would change is we'd be married."

"We-ell ...  I'd feel kind of funny if I was married and not supporting
my wife."

A long time later I said, "I want a baby."

I held my breath.

He squeezed me closer and started shaking with laughter.  "I get it,
it's a joke."

I got mad.  "I'm not joking, I'm serious.  Judy's going to put her baby
up for adoption.  Why not us?  That way she could see it, instead of it
going to some unknown couple."

That's what happened.  It took a lot of talk and persuasiveness to get
around Mom and Dad, and there was a problem with my birth certificate,
and endless legal things, but we were married in the spring, and at
last Judy delivered her baby girl, a darling tiny creature with all ten
fingers and toes.  Judy went home from the hospital without ever seeing
Karen, since the best advice we had was to avoid any possibility of
early bonding, which would aggravate the pain of separation.

By contrast, I was on hand from the beginning, holding and cuddling my
darling daughter.  I had asked Dad to provide me with the hormone he
mentioned so long ago, prolactin, so as soon as she started wanting
food I was able to nurse her, right in the hospital, to the surprise of
the staff, who concluded I was a wet nurse, and continued at home,
basking in the approval of my mother.

After a few weeks Judy came over to admire my baby.  I say it that way
because that's how she acted.  She was determined to live up to the
agreement, and at the same time not lose touch with the child she
carried for nine months.  She is still Karen's doting "Aunt Judy," and
Karen can count on her for more realistic and sound advice than a
mother could give.  I'd tell her about Karen's bedroom visit to Jack.

Writing about all this has filled me with happiness and a need to be
close to Petey, my wonderful husband who has been a rock of
supportiveness and love from the beginning.  It's time for me to put
pen and paper down and get in bed and pet him and caress him and do
what I had an impulse to do when I saw young Jack reacting to our
daughter and remembered my mom's "help," and whisper to Petey, "Want me
to talk the way you like?"

(c)  Copyright 1996 Jennifer Sarah Leed