My Mother, Myself

Dad took Tuesday and Wednesday off of work to take care of me. He cooked, cleaned, took me where I needed to go ... He was showing me that he was truly repentant for his actions, and I deeply appreciated that.

Even though by Thursday I was feeling better, I called Mr. Osterman and asked if I could return on Monday. He allowed it without question. I asked him why he was being so compassionate to my needs and he said it was nothing he wished to discuss over the phone. There was a long silence, then he asked if he could come by and see me. Somewhat hesitantly, I agreed. I just hoped it wouldn't get weird, like him telling me he was in love with me or anything like that. I gave him my address, and thirty minutes later he was knocking at my door.

"Thank you for seeing me, Michel."

"With all the kindness you have extended to me, how could I refuse?" I asked as I led him into the living room.

Once seated on the couch, he became antsy: popping his knuckles, flicking imaginary debris from his nails, and so on. I was finally about to question his intentions when he said, "You are so beautiful. I don't mean that in a sexual way. You just remind me of my son—daughter." I looked at him, puzzled by what direction he was taking this. "Ten years ago, my son began transitioning from male to female. I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand. As far as I was concerned, he was a fucking faggot. That's what I called him, in my ignorance. A fucking faggot." He wiped at his eyes.

"She killed herself, Michel, because the family that was supposed to support her in this time of great change had turned their backs on her. I always thought sex and gender were the same thing. It was only after her death did I do the research to find how wrong I was. Whether he was my son or she was my daughter, all that remains is that I lost a child due to ignorance and hate. I swore from that moment on that I would never allow such an injustice to occur if I could help it. After that, my marriage disintegrated into nothingness; my wife filed for divorce a month later.

"You have been such a blessing to me, for you force me to keep that promise. I will never allow harm to come to you, and I will always be here for you if you need anything."

I was crying now. I hugged him and thanked him not only for sharing his story with me, but for being such a good friend and boss. I walked him to the door and thanked him again for the time off. When I returned to the living room, I noticed an envelope on the sofa. I opened it to find a note that read,

Michel,

Whatever you need, no matter the cost, I will be here for you.

Carlton Osterman

PS: Use this thousand dollars however you see fit. If you try to return it, though, I'll dock you a

month's pay—ha-ha.

It's not like I needed the money. I had already accrued close to ten thousand from my tips, which had increased exponentially since I began my transition. Still, it could always go to something useful.

I went to the doctor later that day. After a lengthy discussion in which I told him that I had been living as a woman for over a year, and now I wanted more to look the part, he prescribed me some Premarin, which I would now have to take the remainder of my life.

I also asked him—realistically speaking—how well my breasts would develop? He told me that I could have natural 34-A breasts, and if I decided I wanted more then he could set me an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon who could eventually give me what I wanted. "The natural ones look better, though, so if it's a matter of you thinking bigger breasts means more feminine, that's not the case. Stay with the smaller ones." I appreciated his honesty, and decided 34-A would be just fine.

Friday night Dad came home with pizza. He lay the box on the coffee table so we could eat while watching TV. "Oh, and don't think I forgot the beer," he said with a smile. My heart dropped as I looked at the brown paper bag in his right hand. "Root Beer, that is," he said as he pulled two twenty-ounce A & Ws from it. I slapped him playfully on the thigh as he sat next to me. It was the first time he hadn't recoiled from my touch since ... the incident. He even allowed me to nestle myself next to him as we watched Il Postino, a French film of love.

Midway through, I unbuckled his belt.

"Mikey? What ...?"

I unbuttoned his pants and zipped down his fly.

"Please. I ... Still so ashamed ..."

I pushed the coffee table out with my foot, knelt before him, and pulled his pants and underwear down.

"You don't have to. I don't deserve this."

I took him into my mouth, and he began to weep.

"I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm so sorry I hurt you. I promise I'll never hurt you again."

I made love to him with my mouth.

"Oh, Mikey. I don't deserve this."

That's when it dawned on me. He was still calling me Mikey, not Michel. Like Mr. Osterman, was Dad in denial of who I was, or just plain ignorant of it? Could he not see that what we were doing was heterosexual, not homosexual? It was a topic worthy of conversation, but this was the wrong time. Right now, all I cared about was showing him that he was forgiven and worthy of the gifts I chose to bestow upon him. When he came, he wept harder, but still he thanked me for deeming him worthy to receive such a precious thing as that. That was two months ago.

Two months later, I was happy with the softening around the edges that the hormones were doing with my body, but the breasts just weren't coming in fast enough, so I had Dr. Flugleman make me an appointment with his cosmetic surgeon colleague, Dr. Faysche. Dr. Faysche gave me the thirty-fours I wanted, only I opted for a B-cup instead of the A.

I kept the surgery from Dad because I wanted to wait for just the right moment to reveal my true self to him. I had been able to explain them by saying that I was wearing a bra loaded with socks. That seemed enough to convince him.

It was during this time that my anus had healed, yet I had bought a butt plug to help stretch it out. It was one of those with the balloon attached at the end so I could comfortably stretch it little by little at my leisure. By the time my breasts had healed from the surgery, my anus was ready.

I requested the following Friday off so Dad and I could spend it together. When he came home from work, I had him go get his shower, but not before informing him that he would be taking me out for dinner, so he had better put on his snazziest outfit. He came down looking like he was ready to preach a sermon at Mount Ararat. I, of course, was wearing a gold, body length dress that was so form-fitting that it left very little room for maneuverability. My earrings snaked down my shoulders, and my hair was put up in a stylish bun. My make-up was flawless.

We ate light, tofu and sushi. Afterwards, we went for a ride on a horse and buggy. Our final stop was to a night-time walk through the botanical gardens, and from there we returned home. He made to go into the living room, but I stopped him and led him to the dining room. Once there, I slowly undressed him, then had him sit in his chair as I took my time undressing myself.

It did not go unnoticed by me that he seemed a bit uncomfortable, and I was glad of that. "You know," I said as I stood before him in my bra and panties, "This room holds a bad memory, but it doesn't have to. Not anymore. Not after tonight. After tonight, this will not be where you hurt me, Daddy, but where I healed you."

"Mikey, I—"

"Shhhhhhhh," I said as I removed my bra, revealing my breasts to my father for the first time. "It's okay," I said as I removed my panties. I had laid off my hormones all week so that I would be able at attain an erection tonight, so that I would be able to cum, and its stiffness was a portent of me meeting that desired end. All I had left on me were my four-inch black heels, and I had no plans of taking them off. I approached him and sat in his lap. His hard cock slid between my ass cheeks and up the small of my back. As I reached behind him I said, "Tonight we are going to make love to each other, Daddy. Do you understand?" He nodded. I brought the butter dish out and held it between us. I was dead set on exorcising every demon from this place.

With a nervous hand, he grabbed a small handful of butter and pasted it on my rear.

"Yes," I whispered.

He grabbed another and massaged it into his cock.

As I placed the butter dish back onto the table, I asked, "Are you ready, Daddy? Are you ready to make love to me?" He nodded. I lowered myself onto him, and although it was a bit painful, I took him inside of me.

"Oh, Mikey," he said as he began to weep.

"No, Daddy. I'm not Mikey," I said softly. I moved my lips to within a hair's breadth of his and said, "Mikey was your son. I am your daughter, whose lovely breasts crave your attention. What is my name, Daddy? Please, after all these years, what is my name?"

"M ... Michel" he said, and began to cry even as he pulled me to him and kissed me full on the mouth, and I kissed him back, even as I made slow, beautiful love to him.

There were times when his enthusiasm would get the better of him and he would try to speed things along, but I would pause, speak softly, calm him, let him know that there was no rush, that we had all night to be everything we could to one another and do whatever we desired most. What I remember most, though, was the kissing. There was lots and lots of kissing, and I reveled in it. That, and not just the fact that he made me cum, but what happened when I did.

I was riding him slowly. I could feel him going in and out of me. Suddenly, I said, "Daddy, you—you're going to make me cum." He lifted me, took my penis into his mouth, and sucked me until I emptied myself to completion. By the time he had placed me back on his cock, he had swallowed my load and we were kissing once more.

"I love you," I told him, and he came.

We stayed in the kitchen for untold minutes afterward, kissing each other, enjoying this oneness we found in each other. Finally, he hefted me up, took me into his bedroom, lay me on his bed, and continued to make love to me. I came a second time, and soon after, so did he.

Life was good for us after that. Well, at least for the next six months. Daddy fell from a forty-foot scaffold onto a pile of rubble. He died instantly.

I called Mom to inform her. That was the first time she and I had actually spoken since she moved away. She told me she would be there for me at the funeral. She was taken aback at my appearance upon first seeing me. She was taken even further aback when I told her that Daddy had given up alcohol and had made healthier life choices before his death. She made a snide remark, something to the effect of, "For what good that did him."

"All he ever needed was a lover who believed in him, Mom. I guess I was able to give him what you were never able to."

This revelation sent her into hysterics, like I cared. She had for so long not been a part of my life that I was ready for her to return to that role.

I suppose I should mention that I did return to work, and Mr. Osterman and I began to date. We eventually married, once my sex reassignment surgery was complete. He treats me like a queen, and I love him second only to the love I held for my father, my lover.