My Mother, Myself

I was named after my mother, Michelle, when I was born. That may not sound odd to you, but for a male-sexed child to be named thus, it's pretty out of the ordinary. She convinced my dad that it was more an homage to one of his heroes, Michel de Nostredame, or Nostradamus, thus my dad agreed that I would be named Michel, but only if he could call me "Mikey."

Of me, Dad always said I was "femmy." I never wanted to climb trees or play in the dirt, I was not athletically inclined, and I never went on dates. Oh, sure, I hung out with girls, but we were friends and nothing more. Also, I looked a lot like Mom, I mean to the point that one could match a picture of me at a certain age she had been, and he or she would swear that we were brother and sister. Throughout the years, the resemblance has become ever-increasingly uncanny.

I was completely unaware as to what struggles they went through. Empirical observation told me that Dad drank too much—WAY too much—and Mom was a "keeping up with the Joneses" kind of person. They were able to keep a lot of their enmity toward one another from me in my youth, but the further I got into my teens, the more difficult it became.

My senior year of high school, Mom told me that she'd had enough. She was leaving Dad, and she wanted me to come with her to stay with Gramma and Grampa in Iowa. I told her that I wanted to finish school in Roanoke, then maybe I would. She took this as me choosing Dad over her, and I didn't hear from her again until I received a Hallmark card and one hundred dollars as a graduation gift.

I never felt right in my skin. I was attracted to guys, but I did not consider myself to be gay. I knew that I was wrongly sexed, therefore any feelings I had toward a male were legitimately heterosexual. I never really explored my sexuality. I thought about it. In fact, I had kissed just as many males as I had females—three each—but I never let it go beyond that. I mean, I was still trying to figure out who I was, so I didn't need to add anything to that equation that could have been misleading or downright confusing.

After high school, I got a job at Tex Holdem's Black Angus Steakhouse as a waiter. I loved the job, if only for the tips, which, after six weeks or working, ranged from one hundred dollars on my worst day to over four hundred on my best.

On one particular day, a woman handed me her business card and told me to call her the following day. I did, and she invited me to her studio; she was a photographer who owned a Glamour Shots franchise. She sat me in a chair, applied make-up, then took a series of pictures. Once done, she uploaded them to her computer and for the first time in my life I saw who I was supposed to be, who I truly was, and I was beautiful.

"I'm not saying that you're living a lie," she told me, "but I can see that you are in a lot of pain because you're not being true to yourself."

She was right. I wasn't necessarily repressing who I felt I truly was, but I hadn't allowed the woman in me to find herself, either.

She printed off four of the pictures and handed them to me as she said, "These, and the make-over, are my tip to you for yesterday." She told me that I could go in the back and wash up, but I responded that I would like to remain my true self a little while longer. I left with the envelope of pictures in hand, and once I had returned home I made no immediate move to wash the make-up away. I would have to before Dad got home, of course, but I still had about an hour before that happened.

I decided that I would take a proactive stance on the issue of my gender, but I was smart enough to understand that change had to be gradual. Therefore, I could say, "Starting today, I'm going to let my hair grow out," and while that was all well and good, I needed something that might herald the changes that were to come, so the following day I got my ears pierced. I had already begun letting my nails grow, but was content to just keeping them manicured. Eventually I would start using gloss before moving to actual colors

I really wasn't seeing much of Dad anymore. In the mornings, he would leave out early for his job as a construction site laborer while I was still asleep, and when I got in around midnight he would already be asleep in his room. I say asleep when the reality is that it was more like passed out from all the booze.

Just piecing things together from what I saw, the typical scenario was that Dad would come home drunk after working all day. He would go into his room, pop in a porno, and whatever happened after that was anyone's guess. I think he may have masturbated here and there, but for the most part he was so wasted that I'm sure he just passed out.

I was well into the third month of my transition when, on one particular night, the TV in his room was still on when I got home from work. I went to his door to see if he was still awake and what I saw was ... There was a porno playing in the DVD and Dad was passed out; he still lightly clutched at a half-empty bottle of liquor. More than that, however, was his exposed and erect penis. The shaft was a light tan color, and the head had purpled like it was straining against gravity itself to get just a little longer.

I still had not done anything sexually with anyone, so why I chose now, I'll never know. I got on my knees before him and wrapped a nervous hand around his meaty cock. A shaky breath involuntarily escaped my lungs as I reveled in the warmth and fullness my palm now enjoyed. I lowered my head, and once my quavering lips met his cock I felt a load of cum empty itself in my underwear. My moan was low but loud. I was just thankful that the fullness of him in my mouth muffled it to a degree that he did not awaken.

I began to slowly go up and down on him. My entire body was on fire, and I felt like I could have another orgasm at any minute. I took my time, however, and was surprised to find that I could deep throat him with ease. I lavished in this. Feeling his cock head stretch the back of my throat was exciting to say the least, but I wanted to feel it stretching my lips as it plopped in and out of my mouth. A few minutes of this, though, and he gave a drunken grunt as he filled my mouth with his cum, causing me to once again fill my underwear with my own. I swallowed his seed, then continued to suck him a few seconds longer before deciding I didn't want to chance getting caught. I went and got a shower, then went to bed, but I was so jazzed over what I had just done that sleep was a reluctant friend that night.

Before leaving out for work the next day, I did two things. First, I masturbated. Twice. The first time was because I kept replaying the scenario in my mind, which got me horny, and the second because I understood that I had done this to my dad, which was a taboo, which turned me on. The second was to go into his room and find his liquor bottle. I took a pen and placed a tiny "X" on the label so I could differentiate it from any other bottle he may be nursing in the future.

When I returned home that night I stealthily made my way to Dad's room. The lights were off, and a buzz saw of snoring filled the air. I turned my phone on and allowed the LED to act as a flashlight as I actively sought out the liquor bottle. Sure enough, it was empty and laying askew on the nightstand. I knew I shouldn't press my luck, but I needed to feel that cock in my mouth again, simply because when I sucked it last night, for the first time since getting those Glamour Shots I felt like a true woman.

I pulled his cock free from its polyester prison and began to service it as lovingly as I could, reveling in the sensation of every inch passing between my lips as it snaked its way down my throat. I would hold it there for as long as a minute at a time before moving my lips back to the head, then begin the process anew.

I pulled my own penis out and began to masturbate as I sucked him. The sensation to cum came upon me quickly, so I backed off until I could get Dad there as well. Another few minutes and I felt his cock spasm in my mouth. He spasmed again, as did I, and we attained mutual orgasm. My one-woman quest for hedonism seemed well on the road to fulfillment.

As much as I wanted it the following night, I did not visit my father's room. There was no justification I could think of to so blatantly tempt fate. I decided to forego the night after as well, just to be safe. I was up early the morning after that, though. I wanted to do something nice for Dad, so I decided to cook him breakfast before he went to work.

When he entered the kitchen, he said, "Boy, something sure smells good in—Michelle?"

I knew he was calling my mother's name and not my own. It had been a while since he had last seen me. My hair had grown past my shoulders, and I had dyed it Mom's dirty blonde. That, coupled with my small frame accentuated by the long-sleeve pullover that probably looked more like a short gown from behind, would have been enough to make anyone question who I was. I had begun speaking softer, too, and although my voice did not match Moms, it was still more feminine. I turned my head, smiled, and said, "No, Dad. It's me. Breakfast is almost done if you want to have a seat."

"Mikey?" Dad asked unbelievingly.

I smiled at him as I poured him a cup of coffee. I handed it to him, then resumed my place at the stove where I made sure that over easy did not turn into well done. I emptied the eggs onto a plate that already held hash browns and bacon, set it before him, and said, "Enjoy."

He tried his best to not stare at me, but he just couldn't help himself. I think the resemblance to Mom really threw him for a loop. It had been a little over eighteen months now, and he had given up all hope of her ever coming back, so for her to be here in this way—not physically but a facsimile thereof—had to be doing a number on his mind.

He finished his breakfast, thanked me in perhaps too subdued a way, then went off to work. Although it was not my intention, I couldn't help but to think that this might trigger a binger tonight. Once I got home from work, I'd see.

I got home around twelve-fifteen and silently crept into his room, and sure enough he was passed out on the bed, half-bottle of liquor in hand and penis saluting whichever porn star he had been grooving on prior to his decent into darkness.

I immediately wrapped my lips around his cock and felt at peace as its familiar warmth and fullness filled my mouth. I sucked it good for him, whether he would ever know or not. Perhaps I did too good a job, for I wasn't even three good minutes in when he spurted into my mouth. I was happy that I could get him off so quickly, but the reality was that I felt cheated, so I swallowed and continued sucking him. His stiffness never faltered, and after twenty minutes of glorious labor I brought him to orgasm once again. I held his cum in my mouth, relishing its taste and texture. I contemplated going for a third, but I didn't want to press my luck. I jerked off in the shower, then went to bed.

In the weeks that followed, I would sparingly pick my nights to visit Dad, and never once did he disappoint me in that he remained unconscious and unaware that I was doing anything to him.

I told my boss that I was in the process of transitioning from a man to a woman. Oh, he was so sweet about it. He called a staff meeting and allowed me to make the announcement, then he followed up by stating that (A), if anyone had a problem with it then they could go find another job, and (B), if he received a single complaint about sexual harassment from me then he would immediately fire the person responsible. "For all intents and purposes, Michel is now a lady, and I expect each and every one of you to treat her as such." To their credit, they did.

I had begun wearing lip gloss and just the tiniest bit of blush, but it was enough to get me past that "man trying to look like a woman" stage to "woman looks pretty hot" stage. I was feeling confident, sexy, bold ... yet my boldness got the better of me.

It was about three months since that first time I went down on Dad. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped placing that little "X" on his liquor bottles and had even paid little regard to how much he had consumed on a particular evening. One specific night after work, I made a beeline for his room and began to do what I self-admittedly had become an expert at. As I worked my mouth on his beautiful cock, he moaned and repositioned his hips like he had done a dozen times before, so I wasn't wary of these actions. However, it wasn't until he sat up and said, "What the fuck kind of shit is this?" that my whole world fell apart.

I jumped up and darted out of his room, then out the front door where I jumped in my car and drove to anywhere that wasn't there. I was crying profusely. In all honesty, I knew this day would come, but that didn't help me prepare for it.

After driving aimlessly for a few hours, I went to an all-night diner and had a few pots of coffee. I looked at my watch and saw it was five-twenty. Today was Sunday, so he wouldn't be working, which meant he would sleep late, which meant I could sneak home, tip-toe to my room, lock the door, push my dresser in front of it, and not have to talk to him until I was out the door again on my way to work.

I entered through the kitchen and immediately saw him sitting at the table. I turned to leave, but he said, "Don't. Come back. Don't we need to talk about this?"

Sheepishly, I entered and closed the door behind me. I noticed a coffee mug in front of him, so I knew that he was at least sober, if not sobering. The dining table was six feet in length; two chairs on either side, and one at each end. He was sitting at the head of the table, so I sat at the foot, as far away as I could be and still seem willing.

"Tell me everything," he said. "I mean it. No lying," so I did. He listened intently, never showing any emotion whatsoever, and once I was done he said, "Well, the problem we have before us now is that you didn't finish what you started last night." He pulled his robe back to reveal his naked penis to me. It was saluting me, beckoning me. I went to him, knelt before him, and with patience and love began to complete the task I began earlier this morning.

As I suck Dad's cock, myriad images and conversations passed through my mind. Now I don't have to sneak and do this anymore, Dad. Now you can have it whenever you want. Or, me envisioning him coming home from work, talking about how bad a day it had been, and him asking me to please help relieve his stress. I caught movement from him and looked up to see him draining the coffee mug dry. Some of it spilled, and I knew right away that he hadn't been drinking coffee, but booze.

I came off his cock just long enough to get a single syllable out before he forced my mouth back onto it, then forced it down my throat. He held me in place as he pumped vigorously, and then he erupted inside me. Oh, I couldn't believe how much it was. I coughed, gagged, and what little came out of my mouth was nothing compared to the mess that found its way out through my nose.

I never knew how immensely strong Dad was. I never realized what working construction did to a person's muscles. Even if I had the vigor to fight back—I didn't, as I was still trying to cough up a strand of cum that had found its way down my wind pipe—I would have been no match for him as he picked me up and threw me across the table. He rent my pants and panties from me, slapped my ass as hard as he could, then threw my right knee atop the table as he held me down by the nape of my neck with his other hand. He then dipped his free hand into the butter dish, scooped up a liberal amount, and smeared it on my asshole.

"Dad, please," I managed between coughs. "I never had someone inside of me before."

He scooped up another handful of butter, and I heard him lubing his cock with it.

"No," I began to cry, fearful of what I knew was to come next. "Daddy. Please."

"You like my cock so much, I'm going to let you have every bit of it."

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" I felt my anal tissue tear as he forced himself inside me. He didn't care, though. Not one damned bit. He fucked me as hard as he could, grunting like some feral beast as he pushed deeper and deeper with every stroke. It may have lasted four minutes, five at the most, but it seemed like hours.

When he finally came, he collapsed on top of me. I could smell the soured foulness of his whiskey-infused breath as he heaved and gulped for fresh oxygen. He finally pulled out of me and said, "Now, go get yourself cleaned up. Oh, and by the way, we're going to do this every day until it doesn't hurt you anymore, got that?" I nodded as I feebly made my way to the bathroom.

I was forced to call in sick that day. I told Mr. Osterman that I had begun hormone treatment and had had an allergic reaction. I asked for three days. He told me to come back when I was ready. This made me think, though, that perhaps it was time to begin hormone therapy anyway. I would go see a doctor on Monday, current disposition permitting, of course.

The following day, Monday, Dad came home around six-thirty with a fifth of booze in his hand. He saw me lying on the couch and asked why I was home. "You hurt me bad yesterday, Dad. You tore me open. I'm probably going to miss a week of work, more if you're still intent on making me do that all week."

He just stared at me to the point that I was uncomfortable, to where I was beginning to feel guilty for telling him that he abused me in a way I never believed possible. He finally went to his room and shut the door. I imagined him slipping out of his clothes, lying on his bed, and breaking the seal on that bottle, trying in vain to drink as much as quickly as he could so he wouldn't have to claim responsibility for what was sure to happen later that night. What I was not, expecting, however, is what I actually found.

When Mom moved away, she left behind some prescription meds. Most, like Valium and Cataflam, which is for menstrual cramps, I tossed in the garbage. The Percocet, however ... I had taken just two in the almost two years she had been gone, but it was always nice to know they were there if I needed them. I kept these in my panty drawer, and as I made my way to my room to get one, I heard a strange noise coming from Dad's room. I placed my ear to the door, and he was crying. Without the benefit of knocking, I let myself in.

On the bed was Dad, still fully dressed, with his face in his hands. Next to him was the bottle of liquor, unopened. He looked up at me, then buried his face in his hands once again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered thickly through his tears. "I'm so, so sorry."

I felt complete, instantaneous sorrow for him.

"I wasn't acting out against you, Mikey. I was acting out against your mother. I was trying to inflict all the pain and suffering on her that she caused me over the years. That doesn't excuse my actions, though. All I can do is throw myself at your mercy and hope that one day you will forgive me."

In that instance, I already had. I knew he was being sincere because he wasn't drunk, therefore I knew that his words came from an unclouded heart and mind. "Dad," I said. I took his head in my arms and hugged him close to me. He wrapped his arms around me and began to sob uncontrollably. I pet his hair back while allowing the tears to run their course. Once they had, he handed me the bottle of booze and told me to empty it, that he would never touch another drop as long as he lived, and to his credit, upon his death, he kept that promise.