The Change

by Donna Dee

 

I had an idyllic childhood and I am sure the other members of my family would agree they did too. We lived in a large house set in its own grounds a few miles from the nearest town and as a consequence I had very few friends outside the family, but they weren't really necessary because of the exceedingly tame wild animals that roamed our estate. As the youngest child of four, and the only boy, I was spoiled by my eldest sister, ten years my senior and tormented by the twins who were only six years older than me. Mum and Dad were as loving and caring as any parents could be, we wanted for nothing, (within reason) and whilst we were allowed considerable scope we were not undisciplined. A warning in respect of a transgression was followed by a short punishment if it were to be repeated. I don't recall any of us being severely punished, though I do remember the twins being threatened with dire consequences once.

The occasion was my fifth birthday and I had been promised a special party – a costume party Mum called it – and she has got me a little soldier suit reminiscent of those used during the war of Independence. There was a toy rifle, boots and headdress – full uniform, and I was really looking forward to it. Dad had been working away at the time though he hoped to make it home in time and Mum had a job that supplemented our income, a job that meant she was out calling on clients most days, including weekends. My birthday came during the summer holidays, Mum promised to be home by half past three, four at the latest, and she had asked my eleven year old sisters to get me ready and dressed for the party as the guests would be coming to tea at four thirty. She had employed caterers to attend to everything else.

My sisters tormented and teased me all day about my soldier boy uniform, saying that I was too skinny to be a fighting man, but I ignored them. At two o'clock I said it was time I started getting ready, but they kept saying there was plenty of time until, of course, we had a mad rush to get me dressed. They made me have another bath – the water was scented, they used perfumed talc and just how they managed to convince me that soldiers wore frilly panties I will never know – even at that tender age. OK, I was gullible, but I was only five and I'd had a very sheltered upbringing, and I knew no different when they persuaded me that a padded bra was body armour and that a camisole was really a bullet proof vest – I knew Mum and the girls wore one, but I didn't know what it was for.

The time for the party drew closer, the girls couldn't find my soldier suit and Mum wasn't home yet and since the first guests were due any minute, my loving siblings suggested I wore a bridesmaids dress she had worn when she was five and I had no option but to agree. I have never hated anything so much in my life. When Mum came home she burst out laughing, though the photographs that were taken at the time tends to suggest I looked very good indeed, and when Dad arrived a few minutes later he was furious. Mum made out it was my sisters fault and Dad threatened them with serious violence if they ever did it again, and Mum agreed with him, 100% she said, but I swear I saw her wink at the twins.

My father was killed in a road accident when I was eleven but his insurance policies paid out and we were able to keep out house and standard of living, even so, Mum still went out to her job – and I still didn't know what she did. Dad had been strictly a short back and sides' man when it came to hairdressing and I was kept the same, but after his death, very soon afterwards in fact, my sisters suggested I should go with the fashion and let it grow longer. Most of the boys at school wore their hair down to their shoulders, it was the fashion at the time, and I was happy to ask for mother's approval. Mother did stipulate, however, that I must keep it tidy and wash it regularly, and of course I agreed. I was very surprised at how quickly it grew, within a few months it was down to my collar and within a couple of years it grew over my shoulders, and I was delighted.

My sisters volunteered to keep it nice and since they now worked at a hairdressing salon, Mum was happy to let them. They loved to wash it two or three times a week, add conditioner to thicken it out and occasionally I let them put in a roller or two to turn the ends under – just a bit. It was a light brown colour that, against my heavily tanned complexion, looked somewhat anaemic. After some 18 months I wore it dressed over my ears, softly waved and turned under at the bottom, I fancied myself as one of the three musketeers.

Mum had brought us a new house in the neighbouring state to which we were moving right after my birthday. As my fourteenth birthday approached I experienced a better relationship with my sisters than ever before – they never tired of brushing my hair, combing it this way and that, putting it into a pony tail suitable for boys – and at weekends higher up the back of my head, more like girls. Throughout this time my mother was totally loving and supportive. If I objected to wearing rollers at night, she hugged me and managed to convince me that the ends justified the means and I must admit that I had started to love the way my hair looked when I went to school.

Mother promised to take us into town for dinner on my birthday and bought me a new suit to wear – only this time I made sure I had it in my own wardrobe. Early that afternoon they took me up to the bathroom to fix my hair for the evening out, and I happily went with them. In the bathroom was an old armchair with castors on the legs. They made me sit down and before I knew what was happening, they had fitted toy handcuffs to my wrists; toys they might have been but I couldn't get them off and so I was fixed firmly to the chair. They tied my feet and told me to shut up shouting or they'd stick a gag in my mouth – I believed them. I told them there was no need to tie me up – I had never objected to what they did, but they replied that there was every chance I would today and they were taking no chances.

My hair was washed, partly dried and then it seemed like several bottles of a stinking solution was poured on. It stung like hell and I moaned a bit, but it made no difference. Eventually Susan said, "Hey, that looks real cool. Now let's perm it."

"I don't want it permed," I complained, its fine the way you do it."

"Not any longer, little brother. Things are about to change – and how. But don't worry, sweetie, you'll love it when it's finished."

They had the mirror covered over so I couldn't see what they'd done and then they put some tape over my eyes, 'to keep the lotion out' they said, but I could tell they were putting in some curlers – and putting them in tightly. They brought in a large dryer, put it over my head and made damn sure I didn't move until it had finished its work. Out came the little curlers and in went a whole load of larger ones, under the dryer once more and I then had to sit there while they began working on my nails, hands and feet. It felt to me as if they were being painted, remember my eyes were still taped up, and when that tape was remove I was almost relieved to see that they had "only" used a very pale pink polish, almost clear in fact, but I still couldn't see what they had done to my hair.

"I hope you aren't thinking of putting me in girls clothes again," I said. "Remember what Daddy said when you did it last time."

"Well Daddy isn't here any more, is he? But don't worry, we don't intend to put girls clothes on you, though we are going to put a little bit of make-up on your face – Mummy's orders," said my sister as I made to object.

I didn't believe them, Mum wouldn't do that to me and she'd soon help me to get it off. But I was powerless to stop them from plucking my eyebrows – quite severely judging by the pain they caused, and applying what seemed like a whole lot of cosmetics to my face and neck. Then they caused me to flip – and I could well understand why they had tied me up, because Susan produced a gun like tool and, before I could complain, punched three holes in each ear lobe and inserted a stud. Then they exposed my naval and put another in that for good measure. I wondered just how Mum was going to put that to rights.

As they removed the big rollers and brushed my hair out I could see they had bleached it blonde, and put in a few reddish high lights. Mum wouldn't be able to alter that in a hurry either, and when they eventually uncovered the mirror I was able to see that they had created a hairstyle most girls my age would die for. In spite of myself I loved it, but it didn't go with being a boy. They brought me my new suit, put me into a shirt, fixed my collar and tie, helped me into my shoes and suit and, when I looked at myself in mother's full-length mirror I could have easily believed I was a woman in drag. I loved it, but I knew it had to go.

I had intended to rush up to my mother and cry to be taken out of this hideous mask, but I didn't, I just stood there and soaked up her praises. When she wondered just how much prettier I'd look in a dress I happily went with her to find out. Half an hour later I was wearing a complete girls outfit, from padded bra to nylons and heels – and I felt good, I really did. We didn't go out to dine, the local pizza parlour delivered us a meal instead, and I sat and talked to Mum about cross-dressing and all that it implied. She said that she'd like me to be her new daughter forever and she was extra loving, caressing and softly kissing me throughout as we sat side by side on the sofa. She told me that there were lots and lots of 'she-boys' around and that they were happier than single sexed people; she even explained to me how they made love. When she suggested I slept with her that night I was glad because, she said, she had an extra special present to give me, if I was a good girl.

She had me put on a nightdress, a silky sheath that felt so smooth and sexy. Then she said she had to tell me a secret – one I must never repeat, not even to my sisters. She said that she was, in fact, our stepmother, having married Dad just after I was born. She pulled me to her bared breasts and I cuddled her even tighter. Then she added that she was a trans-sexual and removed her panties to let me see that she did indeed have a cock – it wasn't massive, but it was very stiff and tied around it was a blue ribbon.

"Happy birthday, darling," she said as she climbed into bed beside me and placed it in my hands. We kissed deeply as we cuddled, each of us caressing the others organ. She taught me how to suck her off and did the same to me. Later she demonstrated anal intercourse – and all in all it turned out to be the best birthday I had ever had.

Three years have passed, I now go with mother on some of her house calls where we can easily make two hundred bucks at a time attending to the sexual needs of other, less fortunate men.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Donna Dee. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.