Transitional Delight

Kirby took another gulp of coffee and turned away from the glass doors, deciding that the feet actually looked the same as they ever had, and that perhaps it was simply an aspect of all this son-turning-daughter stuff that had made him notice them more than usual. A glance down showed him how obvious his arousal was and he quickly brushed his erection down as he went back into the kitchen and started to make some eggs.

Alan, roused by the aroma of breakfast being made—the smells being pushed out back by the stove blower—got up, gathered up his towel, wrapped it around and up under his arms like a sarong, and headed back into the house. As he walked he remembered how uncomfortable he always used to feel without a shirt on and how he would, in situations similar to these, sling the towel over his shoulders like all the guys did—each end hiding his nipples—and walk off as casually as possible, trying not to draw attention to how self-conscious he really was.

This felt more comfortable, more normal for him.

When he came in he saw his dad busy in the kitchen. He'd wanted to say good-morning to him, but Kirby hadn't been looking so he wandered in and got another cup of coffee. Standing there silently while the bacon sizzled, he started to mix French vanilla creamer into it. Kirby nearly had a heart attack when he turned and saw Alan standing there. The boy had always been the quiet type, but he hadn't even cleared his throat to announce his presence. And his bare feet hadn't made things any better.

"Mornin', dad," Alan said with a nervous grin, and Kirby caught his breath and picked the bacon out of the sizzling pan with tongs.

"Good morning—" Kirby began and stopped short. The term sweetie had been right at the end of that greeting. Baby was another option that had appeared for a millisecond—neither of them appropriate for a son.

—Which, Kirby kicked himself to remember, was no longer true. He smiled quickly to cover the bungled greeting.

"Breakfast if you want it, will be...well, it's pretty much done. I made a mess 'o soft-scrambled eggs and bacon just in case you were hungry...." He glanced up at Alan again, who now seemed even more womanly in his improvised sarong, fought his eyes to not glance down to see how much leg or ankle was showing below, and turned again to bring the platter of eggs out of the warmer.

Alan had gotten a sudden feeling of warmth when his father had glanced at him just then, but it was a troubling feeling at the same time. He'd come home to unwind and depressurize from a semester of change and, lots of times, ridicule and a distancing by many of his friends. He had figured something like that would happen. He hadn't announced he was gay or come out of the closet that way, he hadn't even joined any of the campus LGBT groups. He had simply grown tired of always trying to keep up a certain appearance and had let things just develop the way they would.

The first thing had been a switch in hair style, which he was able to accomplish simply by brushing his long, sleek hair down the middle and leaving bangs. He hadn't worn any makeup—not that first day at least—but had simply dressed as was normal for a hot day, making no attempt to hide the fact, as he normally did, that his legs were shaved. That they'd been shaved for years was of no consequence; he had simply left his dorm room as any normal person would have on a hot, sunny day.

The stares he got made him cringe at first but then he began to feel comfortable with himself, comfortable and confident. It helped in the days and weeks that followed when things started to go slowly wrong.

One of his best buddies had nearly punched him in the face one night, saying that he was queer and yelling about having queers using the same showers as the rest of them. That had hurt, but now a feeling Alan had never felt, warmed his insides. He felt tingly from head to toe, but weird and awkward and wrong all at the same time.

—He'd actually just felt a man's eyes on him; a man with other than fatherly intent behind those eyes, even though that man had been his father. But the thing that had made him cringe inside was the fact that, as their eyes had met for that fleeting second, he had felt an instant gnawing sensation in his belly; a twisting excitement and thrill, and for that brief moment he was able to envision himself walking up to her father, letting his sarong towel drop to the floor, slipping out of the bikini bottoms, and then kneeling and putting his father's penis in her mouth. The idea and image of it had taken his breath away. His nipples were still hard under the towel, and his cock was threatening to escape its special confinement.

He turned his back on his dad, sipping his coffee nervously, staring out through the side windows at something—anything. His mind was aflutter with thoughts and images and he just couldn't let his dad see him like this. He would ask questions. He would confront him.

He couldn't stand any more confrontation, but especially not about that.

Kirby saw his daughter—and it was the first time he'd referred to her that way without thinking about it—turn with her coffee and stare off into the distance. He looked that way too, but just for an instant. When he brought his gaze back, his eyes lingered on the back of her shoulders, the way her hair hung straight down between her prominent shoulder blades, and then the way the sarong revealed quite a bit about the girl's shape. Her hips weren't as wide as a girl's might be, but the waist was narrow and that gave the impression of curvy hips. But he looked harder and compared what he was seeing to memory. Alan had always had smooth curves like that. Kirby mentally shrugged, figuring it must have been something with the hormones, maybe from birth.

He reached up and got plates, started portioning out the eggs. He glanced over at Alaina again and this time lost control of his eyes. They slid down past the towel-covered hips and ass and thighs and darted right to the backs of the calves peeking out below the towel's lower edge then the ankles and heels, none of which looked anything like what a boy would have down there. Kirby was trying to decide if being without female companionship for seven years and five months had allowed him to forget what a woman was supposed to look like, but he knew the truth of it: what he was looking at was a woman.

His daughter stood there with her back to him, obviously sifting through some thoughts or troubles, if the nervous way she sipped and resipped from her cup had anything to say about it.

"Breakfast is on...honey-girl...." he suddenly called, using the term of endearment to see what would happen. He wasn't about to allow himself to choke every time he called out to his daughter at any rate!

Hearing his dad call him that, brought tears almost instantly to Alan's eyes. It seemed that something had just now changed within him, within his deepest, most secret place; a part of him breathing out and simply stepping aside while another part of him inhaled and came to the fore. He felt and realized his own femininity stronger now than he ever had, as if there had never been a masculine side to him, and as he replayed his father's voice saying honey-girl, he realized he in truth had become Alaina. Tears still threatened to roll from his eyes but he knew it was more than emotion now, that he really had become what he always was—a she.

Alan-Alaina, knowing that she couldn't wipe away her tears without being obvious or even leave to deal with them somewhere else—perhaps the living room—simply turned and smiled directly at her dad.

"Thanks, dad," she said with a choked, tremulous voice. "I'm...really, really famished...."

Breakfast was eaten in the cool shadow of the covered area of the back porch. Alaina avoided her father's eyes and kept letting her gaze return to the glittering surface of the pool. She ate slowly even though she was incredibly hungry, wanting breakfast time to last forever even if things were silent and seemed tense. She hoped she hadn't done anything to make the situation the way it was but every time she glanced at Kirby, his eyes would be on her.

And his expression wasn't one she was familiar or even comfortable with.

Kirby found it impossible to keep his eyes off the person who was his son but was now for all intents and purposes, his daughter. He could scarcely believe that such feminine beauty was possible without at least a little makeup. And he had searched Alaina's face as closely as he might and could fine nothing, not even eye liner. It was as though she had stepped freshly bathed, from the shower, natural femininity glowing, but when he thought this, images were instantly summoned of Alaina standing naked in the hot, steamy spray of the shower, water running all down her sleek body, down her long, smooth legs and collecting around her pretty feet. He shoved toast in his mouth and chewed, sipped coffee, and tried to will his erection away.

There were so many thoughts, so many things he could and couldn't say, but finally, just to break the silence and to try to end the strange, tense mood that had befallen both of them, he cleared his throat.

"You..." he whispered thickly, then swallowed again. Alaina turned her head and looked at him. "You...are just so completely beautiful. I know we haven't talked about this, this change that's obviously come over you, but...it's as though you should always have been a woman, is all I'm trying to say. You're so natural at it; like you were born that way and it's only now showing through, you know?"

Alaina's throat tightened. Hot tears threatened to overflow and spill down her cheeks. She could only nod, and nod again, and then she hurriedly lifted her cup to her lips to sip, but her hand trembled terribly and coffee spilt down her front. Hot coffee burned her skin and she quickly set the cup down stood back from her chair, whipping the towel off so she could wipe herself down with it.

Kirby's mouth fell open. He couldn't make it close. The girl had no breasts per se, but the simple fact that she was now topless had brought all this thoughts to a grinding halt. He forgot what he'd just said, what he was going to say; in fact he forgot how to speak for that one, ringing moment.

And the strange thing was, he told himself, was that he'd seen Alan without a shirt on many times. This was no different, but at the same time it was now completely different. His eyes went to the light brown nipples, the hairless chest, the slender torso and then down to the skimpy bikini bottoms covering Alaina's loins. Again he wondered where the bulge was. Had his son had the operation? Was he truly female now—in all ways? Where had he gotten the money to do it?

Alaina, suddenly aware of her state of undress was instantly embarrassed and quickly put the towel around her again and knotted it. The coffee hadn't really burned her and the cool dampness of the towel was comforting but she had just exposed her chest to someone else, and not by simply laying topless by the pool.

But the fact was, despite the embarrassment, she had also felt a thrill! Deep down below, her small cock stirred and tried to force its way erect, her testicles and groin muscles feeling like they were going to go into a painful cramp, but it was exciting. She had the matching top to her bikini bottom and now wondered why she hadn't worn it. Too female? She didn't have tits so what possible good would it have done?

Then why had she worn the bottoms of the suit? What had she been trying to do?

She answered her father before she answered herself.

"You okay?" Kirby asked, alarmed, but still stunned. Alaina nodded, fanning herself with her hands.

"Just a little coffee, daddy," she said, and then she settled herself, took her cup and reached for her father's. "I'm going for a refill. You want some?"

Kirby held his mug out for his daughter and watched as she turned on her heel and strode quickly back into the house. Her walk was sweet and pretty, not unnaturally exaggerated as he'd seen in some Gay Pride day processions on the news; his daughter wasn't trying to be feminine; she was feminine. When he was alone he quickly reached down and shoved his dick down between his thighs and crossed his legs under the table. He glanced off into the tree lined distance, still thinking about what he'd just seen while trying desperately not to become any more excited about it than he already was.

Alaina poured coffee slowly and thoughtfully into one mug, then the other. She went to the fridge and got the creamer, then creamed and sweetened her coffee while she left her father's black.

She had come home. Home was safe. She had come home to the safety she'd always felt here, to finally be herself. No friends were around. Nobody she knew except for her own father. She had put on her gaff garment and then the bikini bottom, but hadn't gone the full route and left the top off. Who was she trying to kid? She didn't have breasts. She wasn't a woman. Not fully. Not physically. But a bikini bottom could be thought of as a men's garment as well, though hers was most assuredly made for women.

Leaving both coffee cups on the counter, she reached down and under and made sure her testicles were still tucked up inside her. They ached a little. The erection she now had didn't help matters. She took a breath and thought of something else; she thought of far away mountain tops, covered with snow; she thought of the desert and its heat; she thought about taxes. Finally her cock softened and became easily bendable, and she pushed it up and under her, cinching the gaff's strap tighter, almost painfully so.

There, she thought. All nice and smooth again.

But for who? That was the question that now nagged her. Who was she trying to be feminine for? Herself, certainly, but...anyone else? Did she need her father's approval to go on with her young life?

No.

But what did she need?

Alaina took the two cups and turned to head out to the breakfast table again, but paused. She looked out through the glass at her father and loved him so much it hurt inside. She gulped, thoughts flashing through her head. Love. It was that same kind of love as before, but now...now there was something added to it. She knew what it was but didn't wish to ponder it just then. It was frightening. It was wrong, but it was something she knew she missed even though she had never had it.

Taking one step and then another, she knew she yearned to be touched, even in a non-sexual way. Just touch. To have a hand on her shoulder, to feel an arm around her. She steeled herself and tried not to look like she'd been too deep in thought, and by the time she came once again to the table and handed her father his cup, she was okay.

—Mostly okay.

That day went by. The breakfast had been good. Alaina had felt sleepy afterwards and had fallen asleep on the couch while watching television. It seemed that all the tension and frustration and self doubt and pressure she had felt during the past semester had finally somehow been unwound and relaxed. She slept deeply, soundly, even with the television's volume on.

Kirby had run the dishwasher after he and Alaina had cleaned up the breakfast dishes. It cycled now, filling the kitchen and part of the living room with its low, rhythmic throb. Kirby had a few things to do on the computer in the den, things for work, but when they were done he came back out, wanting to spend some time with the fascinating creature he'd only recently discovered had been masquerading as his son. Seeing Alaina asleep, Kirby gently pried the remote control from the slender hand and sat in his own easy chair to channel surf. He had the volume down so as to not disturb the sleeping beauty on the couch, but his mind wandered after previewing only a few programs.

From where he sat he could see the top of her head, a shoulder, an arm draped down to the floor, and a leg bent at the knee and pulled slightly up. Alaina was on her side facing the TV and Kirby couldn't resist looking at her. He could only think of how pretty her legs were, how cute her feet and ankles were and how soft and delicate her toes looked.

His eyes ran up to her shoulder: so creamy and pale and smooth. She still had her sarong wrapped around her and knotted and he thought back on the moment she'd torn it off to get the hot spilled coffee away from her delicate skin. She was as flat as a boy because she was a boy, but...somehow that seemed a joke now; some dream or memory within a dream.

Kirby put the remote control aside and slipped down off his chair onto his knees. The carpet was thick and giving and he crawled a little ways toward the couch, silently, stealthily. He stopped on the other side of the coffee table and sat there, cross-legged, looking across at the sleeping figure on the couch. For long moments he struggled mentally to put the name Alan on that person, trying to remember the smiling face of the young man who'd gone off to college. There were similarities but he could go no further in his own personal belief than that this was his son's twin sister, separated at birth.

Which was ridiculous. He knew how many children he and his wife had had, and this was it. That one. The sleeping one.

—The one with the pretty eyes and mouth and face and hair and neck and shoulders and hands and feet and arms and legs and...body.

Kirby fought to still his mind, stop those thoughts. He took a breath, trying to push all those ideas away but found he was staring hard at the crotch area, covered by the loose folds of the towel-sarong. He had the impulse to tear the skirt off and see what was there—to spread Alaina's gorgeous thighs and see what was there—if anything.

And what if there was a pussy there? What would he do then? Would he fuck that pussy? This was still his own flesh and blood!

And what if there was a cock and balls there? Would he suck his son's dick till he gushed? Was he that hard-up that even something gay would do?

But it didn't seem gay, somehow. Kirby envisioned himself slurping on some big, beefy man-dick—some stranger's cock—and his nose wrinkled in disgust. He brought his thoughts out of that scene to the present and gazed at the sleeping creature on the couch. So smooth and delicate looking. So womanly, so youthful. A beautiful young woman, 23 years old, laying there asleep.

Kirby was now harder than he'd been in years, but it was mostly due to how long he'd been erect. He'd been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes and now he absently fished his dong out the leg hole of his baggy house-shorts and held it against his hairy thigh. It felt good like that. It was so completely swollen that it was tender and delicate to the touch; like velvet. He squeezed it with his fingers and felt a dewdrop leak off the tip. He turned to see the drop ooze down onto the flesh of his thigh and drip downward, then looked back up at the girl on the couch.

It was a girl. There was no doubt. There hadn't been for days now. Alan was a girl and his name was now Alaina, and she was beautiful, fascinating, appealing—tempting.

Kirby left his dick peeking from his shorts and got up on hands and knees and crawled around the coffee table, closer to the couch. Now he knelt again, right at the front of the couch, afraid to go any further. He could hear her breathing, a soft sound that comforted him. He watched her sleeping face for long moments but then his began to wander and he stared at her feet, her protruding knee, her elbow, her wrist.

Finally reaching out to stroke her smooth cheek, his hand hesitated, stopping an inch away from the warm skin, the heat of the girl's body noticeable. He wanted to touch her—needed to—but not as he would his own daughter or son; it was that other way. Kirby decided to stop, to let it go, to not bother Alaina in her sleep, but before he could bring his hand back, it strayed toward the shoulder but did not touch it.