Dad is Mommy

Editor's Note: this story contains male-to-female transsexual content. If this is not something you want to read, please stop now.

*

Leslie waited impatiently on the taxi line with her bags. She had been patient for the two years since she'd made up her mind and began plotting this move; now that she was here, and so close, she was getting anxious. She hadn't seen her Dad in eight years since her parents had divorced when she was ten. And now here she was, in his city, and she was only a cab ride away. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed at seeing her, and she felt a last twinge of guilt at not telling him she was coming. But she buried that feeling under the relief at being out from under her mother's bitter and hostile control.

He had kept in touch with her after she had moved across the country with her mother after the divorce, but her mother had won sole custody, and he wasn't allowed to visit. And her mother took every opportunity to remind her of that, from the very beginning. She called him vile names, called him a pervert, a freak. Leslie never understood why her mother couldn't see that children see themselves as a part of their parents, and that if her mother thought her Dad was a freak, then she must have thought that her daughter was half a freak, too. It had crushed her when she was younger, and inhibited her as she grew; the verbal abuse, the constant anger, the bitter regret that her mother carried with her, and spread to all around her. She had withdrawn, made friends slowly in their new city, and had poor social skills born of a low self image. It was only these last two years that she had emerged from her shell, making some friends, mostly with the wild kids.

The only bright spot had been the letters from her Dad. A first he had sent them to her Aunt, her dad's sister, and she would give them to Leslie when she visited, and would help her write back to him. Of course, her mother had found them, and blew a fit, and then Aunt Kelly wasn't allowed to come by anymore. But Diana was fourteen then, and was passing friends with the girl next door, and her dad would sent the letters there, to Leslie's friend, and their correspondence continued.

And oh, what letters they were! He would tell her of his life and his adventures; of the places he'd seen and visited, and of the friends he'd met. He spoke quite frequently of the many ladies he'd met, and how wonderful they were, how well they dressed, and the fun times they had going out together. And every letter he would tell her how much he loved her, and how sorry he was that they couldn't be together; that he missed her, and that he wanted her to visit if she ever got the opportunity.

At age sixteen she began looking at colleges. Her grades were spectacular, and she got a full ride at several prestigious schools. But she wanted to take a year off, she told her mother, see the world, travel the country. She had saved quite a bit from her waitressing job, and convinced her mother that after graduation she would make plans to travel. But secretly she planned to leave right after her eighteenth birthday, and the day after her party, after her mom went to work, she had called the cab for the train station.

And now here she was, come to see her Dad, after eight long years of letters. She hoped he would be as excited as she was. As the cab rounded the corner onto his street, she sat forward, craning her neck, trying to pick out his house. Was it the blue one? No, he wouldn't live there, She scanned the numbers, trying to estimate as the cab slowed. This one? The white one? No? There? The yellow one with the small porch; it was wonderful! She just knew that she was going to be happy here, and she knew that her Dad was going to love having her here, together again after so long.

She paid the cabbie, and took her bags from the curb, and trudged under their weight to the front door. It was Saturday afternoon; she had planned it so she wouldn't arrive while he was at work. She hoped he was home as she nervously pressed the doorbell and waited. What if he wasn't here? What if he had gone on one of his adventures, visiting friends in another city? She shifted anxiously from one foot to the other until her heart leaped when she heard the lock turn.

The door opened and a tall, blonde woman was there. "Oh, hi," she said demurely, a little disappointed that her Dad hadn't rushed out and hugged her. "I'm Leslie, I'm Harry's daughter-" she managed before the woman charged through the door and swept her into her arms in a strong bear hug.

"Leslie!" the woman exclaimed in a sultry voice, and then lifted her off her feet, and spun her around, saying her name over and over. Leslie was confounded and overwhelmed by the emotional welcome, and wondered, as the woman set her back down, if this was one of her father's lady friends.

"Let me look at you," she said, holding her at arm's length by her shoulders. "All grown up! What a fine, wonderful young woman you turned out to be! I knew it! I always knew! God, how I've missed you!"

And at those words, she looked, and saw. The woman WAS her father!

*

She woke up on the couch with a cold towel on her forehead. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the face of the blonde woman who had greeted her. And then she remembered it was her father! She blinked rapidly, and struggled to sit up, but he held her down.

"No, easy, baby; rest," he soothed in his woman's voice, and smiled as she relaxed back into the couch. "You passed out, I guess," the face observing her said. The woman's face. "I guess I kind of surprised you."

"Dad?" she asked. She had not been prepared for this. "You're -- you're a woman?" Her head swam again and she felt her field of vision narrowing.

"Breathe, Leslie; breathe baby," the woman's voice called to her through the fog, and then the shroud of unconsciousness receded, and she felt her breath catching, and then drew a deep breath, and another, and her vision cleared as her brain kicked back into operational levels.

"What -- what's going on --" she sputtered, "What are you- why are you dressed like that?"

"I'm sorry, honey, I never meant to hurt you." Leslie watched the woman's face soften, becoming sad, and she felt the love and caring she remembered from childhood, the emotions from his letters, and she knew it was him. But it was a HER! She saw a smile creep into the face then, gentle and understanding, and then her father stood and scooted her into the back of the couch, and sat on the edge, next to her, tucking her foot underneath herself in a very ladylike way. He gently stoked her arm. "I've wanted to tell you for so long," he said, his woman's voice steeped in emotion. "I can't even tell you how many letters I've torn up and thrown away over the years." She smiled wistfully down at her, and Leslie had a fleeting impression that she was seeing him as a woman, although she knew he was still her father. "I dreamed of the day that I would invite you here, that I would show you the real me, the woman I am now." She turned suddenly sad. "I never wanted it like this; I'm so sorry, Leslie."

"It's all right," she said, stopping short at calling him Daddy.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

She thought about it for a minute before answering. It was an important question. Was she okay with the idea that her father lived full-time as a woman? She'd be staying with him; she couldn't very well go back home, and she didn't want to. She thought back to all the letters he'd written, the emotion he had conveyed, and realized he had been a woman all that time. She looked at him, his woman's body, his woman's face. All the love she had felt, all the love he had for her, all that time; it was there, inside, as she had always known it would be. It was the reason she had come here.

"Yeah, Dad," she said, sitting up and kissing his cheek. Her cheek. "I'm sure." They hugged, and she sat back. And she surveyed the woman sitting next to her, her elegance, her poise. She was pretty, and looked comfortable with herself. "But I'm a little jealous," she grinned. "You're a lot prettier than I imagined." She felt herself relax into the couch, then struggled to sit up next to her father, and took his delicate, womanly hands in her own, remembering holding them when she was younger, how much larger than her own the slender fingers had been. "I figured I'd be the pretty one in the house!" she blurted, and laughed, as she would with a girlfriend. "But I've got some competition!"

Her father smiled lightly and brushed a lock of hair from Leslie's face, tucking it behind her ear. "You're beautiful, Leslie. You've grown into a lovely young woman."

It was a few weeks later, while they were eating dinner, that Leslie asked the question. She had settled in, and they had become accustomed to having each other around; he, getting used to having someone else in the house, and having his daughter there, she, getting used to a new city, and new house, and growing less resistant to the idea of her father as a woman. A bigger adjustment, however, was the concept of having a female influence living in the same house who was not hostile and bitter, who was supportive and loving and caring, and uncritical. She had no doubt that her mother loved her, but her bitterness and regret was always close to the surface, and she made no bones about blaming her father for everything wrong in her life, even after all the years that had passed. Having her father here, as a woman, and sharing his house; well, she had thought frequently over the last week, it felt just so right. Like it was the life with her mother she had always wanted, but never had.

Harriet, that was the name she used now, had been living as a woman since her Mom had split and taken Leslie across the country, she learned over the long late-night conversations. He's begun wearing women's undergarments while they were still married, and eventually began dressing as a woman in private. Harriet had explained that Leslie's mom had been tolerant at first, but soon lost patience when she saw it was not just a phase of kink. It was what had broken them up, she sadly reminisced, and regretted that they couldn't come to a solution that would keep them together. After the split, he had moved, began living full time as a woman, changed her name and her job, and had been happily living as Harriet ever since. His revelation of their lives together when she was young put a new perspective on the names her mother had called her father, and she felt a better understanding of her mother's situation, although she still could not reconcile how she held on to that hostility for so long.

But now, here was a woman who loved her, and welcomed her, and was happy with herself, and with Leslie. She had begun thinking of her as a woman, not just seeing her as one. When she thought of things her dad said to her, she used the feminine 'she' in her mind. But it wasn't just getting used to her dad being a woman; it was their connection together, their bond with each other, their acceptance of the other's life and wants and needs. She felt a real sense of belonging here, a sense that she was home, and loved.

She'd considered asking the question several times, but had backed off, telling herself it was silly, or too soon. Looking across the table at the lovely woman across from her, and knowing the feelings they had shared for each other, her comfort level finally reached a point where she felt it was appropriate to ask. She took a sip of her wine, and rested her hands on the table.

"Dad," she said plainly, "can I call you Mom?"

She watched as the face across from her showed surprise, and then broke into a wide, welcoming smile. "Leslie, sweetie," she replied, standing and coming around the table, "I would love that!" She scooted down next to Leslie, demurely keeping her legs together in her skirt, and took her hands in her own. "You know your mother loves you, Leslie, and I could never replace her; would never want to."

"I know," she agreed. "But I think I would feel better calling you Mom. You know, 'cause you are a woman, right?" She explained, as she had said so many times in her letters, what life was like with her mother, and expressed how wonderful it felt to be living with a woman, her father, who was supportive and loving, and not afraid to show it.

"Your Mother is a good person, and I'm sorry every day that I hurt her, and that she couldn't find a way out of her anger, I really am," she told her daughter, taking her hands in her own, and stroking them.

"I'm sorry I did that to you, too, making you live like that for so long," she said. She leaned in and kissed her daughter's head. "I would love if you called me Mom."

They hugged, and they finished dinner, and Leslie was very, very happy.

A month later it was full summer, and Leslie was working full time at a job she had landed, and their lives had taken on all the aspects of regular routine during the week. They saw each other in the morning as they each got ready for work, and again at night, as they ate dinner. They shared the house chores, went shopping on the weekends, and did the things that Moms and Daughters do together.

This weekend Harriet called a break during breakfast. "I think," she told her daughter, "that it's too nice a day to spend it in the mall." They had finished eating and were sipping the remains of the coffee. "What do you say to a day in the sun? Just us girls?" Leslie readily agreed, and after cleaning up they showered and separated to prepare themselves for a long, easy day of sun worship and lazy lounging.

Leslie went to her bedroom, formerly the guest bedroom, and selected a bikini before hitting the shower. She shaved her legs and trimmed her small patch of hair above her mound, shaving the rest as she always did. Before getting dressed she rubbed sunscreen all over, then slipped her black bikini on, and checked herself in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked good, she wrapped herself in a cover, grabbed a book and her mp3 player from the bedside table, and headed for poolside.

She had come out first, so she pulled two lounge chairs together and pointed them towards the sun before settling herself on one in her sunglasses. She slipped the cover off and settled back, inserting the earbuds, and opened the book. It was a mindless romance novel, not too hard to read with the music playing softly in her ears. She was about two pages in when a shadow stepped across her. She looked up, and was astounded.

Her Mom wore a more conservative two-piece suit, but it did little to hide the sexy woman's body. Harriett's breasts were firm and high, perfectly shaped and proportionate to her frame, with a generous cleavage exposed. Leslie's eyes scanned down her mom's torso, seeing the lithe midsection devoid of hair, leading to a bathing suit bottom that was a little larger than her own, rising higher and covering more. Her legs were slender and firm; solid from exercise, and shone sleek and sexy with a coating of sunscreen. When her eyes travelled back up she noticed the bulge in her crotch, and was suddenly taken by the recollection that there was a penis there, tucked firmly between her mother's legs. She shook away the image and raised her face to her mom's, lifting a hand above her eyes and squinting.

"Wow, Mom," she blurted, "you are pretty hot for an older lady!" She was amused to see her blush at the compliment and moved to sit on the adjacent chair, disguising her reaction.

"Why, thank you, Les," Harriett replied, settling into the lounge and extending her legs. "But watch it with the 'older' thing, okay?"

"You got it," she replied, her book turned upside down in her lap as she watched her mom shuffle herself, settling into a comfortable prone position. "I just-" she began, stuttering. "Well, I just wanted to say you're a good looking woman ... I mean, you look good, but I didn't realize HOW good." Her mom turned her head and looked at her, shielding her own eyes from the sun, and squinting at her daughter. "You look great; you're body is ... wow. Fabulous."

"Thank you, sweetie," Harriett replied.

They settled back in silence for a time, absorbing the sun, and Leslie felt the warming rays soothing her to sleep, and she felt herself drifting off.

*

She felt herself being shaken lightly and opened her eyes to see Harriet there, her hand on her shoulder. "What?" she asked.

"You've been out for a while; you should probably turn over," she advised. "Even with the sunscreen, you could burn," she told her daughter.

"Thanks, mom," she said, and worked herself onto her stomach, adjusting the back of the chair to lay it flat. She turned her head to the side, facing Harriett as she lay down, and reached behind her to undo her top, exposing her back. She wanted to avoid the strap mark. Dropping the small strings to her sides, she rested her head on her forearm. "Was I out long?"

"About an hour," Harriett replied absent-mindedly, her attention buried on the book she was reading. After a pause, she added softly. "You were dreaming. And talking." Leslie saw an amused smile creep into her mother's face. Flashes of her dream came to her then, non-specific, but she knew it had been sexual, and she felt her pussy, wet and ready, remembering her stimulation better than her brain, and she flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, my God," she muttered, "what did I say?"

"Nothing understandable," Harriett said nonchalantly, still looking into her book. "It was just sounds, mostly." Leslie bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, grateful that she hadn't uttered anything specific; the remaining impressions of her dream played inside her eyes like afterimages of the sun, and they were steamy and dirty. Once again she felt the tingle and moisture of arousal, and she was mortified to feel this in front of her parent. But the thought of sex brought a question to her that she had not previously considered. She opened one eye and trained it on her mom.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she asked without preamble.

Her mother's head lifted almost imperceptibly, but Leslie saw her eyes lose their focus and drift above the book, looking at the pool.

"Excuse me?" she asked, and pretended to read. Leslie could see from her face that she was avoiding answering.

"You heard me," Leslie teased, her voice a little lower. "Do you? Have a boyfriend?" Eager now, and taking a child's delight in making her parent uncomfortable, she rose up on an elbow to goad her mother. "You're an attractive woman," she said, "a hottie, actually," she added, "but I don't see you date."

Harriett turned the book down in her lap and heaved a sigh. Leslie watched as her mother prepared her answer. She watched the tiny beads of sweat glistening like diamonds on the tops of her breasts, reflecting the sunlight as her chest rose and fell with the intake of air. But her face remained forward, not looking to her.

"I am not gay," she finally stated, and there was a sense of patient irritation in her voice. Leslie felt admonished by the correction, and her hand went to her mouth in surprised horror.

"Oh, my God," she gushed, "I just thought ... oh, Christ, I'm sorry..." she stammered out. "You know, I see you as a woman, you know, and I've met some of your friends, the ones you hang out with." She chuckled softly. "You know they don't pull it off as well as you do."

She saw a smirk on Harriett's face. "I'm blessed with a slight frame, and, uh-m, more delicate features," she said.

"But those aren't dates, then, when you go out?"

Still looking forward, Harriett explained, "No, we have common interests, and we hang out together," she said wistfully.

"Oh, like girl's night?"

"I guess so, yes."

"But you're not gay, so," she paused. "You're straight? But a woman?" She was struggling to fit the pieces into her regular frame of reference, and failing. "Do you have a girlfriend? Do you go out and meet women?"