For Daddy
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

He called me “Daddy” in the emails and text messages I received from him. I guess I thought that it had been so long since we had been together as father and son that he would still think of me like that. But really, that made no sense. My son was over 18 at the time. He would have only been 11 or 12 when I left his mother.

She totally opposed me having any contact with him. Perhaps I should have been heart-broken by that. Any good father would have been. But I had to admit that I was a bad husband and a bad father. I more or less shrugged my shoulders and went on with my life. The payments that I made hardy dented my bank balance. My secretary looked after the birthday gifts. Several were sent back, but some were not.

My secretary sent him a condolence card when his mother died, and she added my cellphone number. Quite why she handed out my cellphone number to the child was harder to understand, given how closely I keep that information.

To be honest I never even knew that the woman was sick, but my secretary kept an eye on such things. A bit of mothering type herself, my secretary. There was never any truth to me having an affair with her. She is more of a mother figure in my life, but she does have some sense of style of a bygone age.

When his mother died, my lawyer told me that I could seek custody, but his aunt was caring for him and any application by me would be opposed. The opinion was that if I had wanted custody, I would need to prove that I was a better parent than my sister in law. It seemed too great an effort. Not that I ever seriously considered having my bachelor life destroyed by having a dependent child to look after. I confess I hardly even recalled what he looked like. A blond child, small and scrawny – that was the limit of my recollection. I never received photographs of him growing up, but I never asked for them either.

But he was no longer a child. He only had to wait the year or two until he was 18 and then custody arrangements were no longer an issue. By that time the boy would be independent, or no longer able to come begging from me. And, if the boy wanted to see me, he could.

I received just messages from him – no phone call. He asked for an email address and I gave him a private one. He wrote me some messages. Soppy, but doubtless heart-felt words followed. It was clear from everything that he wrote that the love of his father was important to him, especially after he lost his mother. I confess that the words made me feel uncomfortable. I really had no family beyond him, so these emotions were foreign to me.

I am not heartless; I have proved that. I know joy and desire. It is even more clear to me now. It is just that the family thing … it was just not me.

Perhaps these gushy words should have made me feel guilty. I had been out of his life for so long there was a deep emotional hole. Why am I to blame for that? I did not make that hole – his mother did, although it may still have been there if we had still been together. Even in that case I suspect that I would have been a bad father.

I am a traditional man, I suppose. My secretary teases me about it. She accuses me of being stuck in the sixties, even though they were almost over when I was born. It is just that I like my women to be women. At the time I was going out with Laura, who made an extra effort to be “The Girl of my Dreams”. I didn’t mind buying her the corsets and the clothes she looked good in or paying for some of the high maintenance hairdos. I wanted any woman I escorted to look like a woman. Laura was bubbly but frankly a bit stupid. She posted lots of pictures of us together. I suppose that is where the boy got his ideas from.

Anyway, I arranged to meet my son on a visit to Miami. I wondered how he would look 9 years after I last saw him. He suggested that I meet him at my hotel and I gave him the details. When I checked in I was told that my visitor had already gone up to my allocated room, and I should go on up.

When I opened the door and walked in there was a young woman there. She looked a little like Laura; the same hair and style, but younger and much prettier. She was sitting on the chair in the corner and she was wearing very little; a black bra, white panties, and black stocking and patent leather high heels.

“You have the wrong room, I think Miss,” I said.

“Oh no, Daddy,” came the reply. “This is your room.”

I was confused and she knew it.

She said: “Oh Daddy, I have been waiting so long for you to come back to me. Auntie has told me what I needed to do to get you back, and I have followed all her instructions.”

I felt sick. What kind of perversion was this? Surely this could not be my son?

“Aren’t my legs pretty, Daddy. Auntie’s been showing me how to make myself pretty all over since you’ve been gone.” She seductively raised a leg and ran her hands up and down it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like me being all pretty dressed up in my new undies, Daddy?”

I had to approach. I could see that the body of this girl was entirely female, with ample breasts showing atop the bra, smooth feminine limbs, and underpants with no bulge.

“Is that you, Robert?” I hoped that it could not be.

“Bobbi is better,” she said. “But as you like it.”

“What have you done to yourself?” I asked. “Or what has Miriam done to you?”

“She has told me what you love, Daddy. I have even had my hair done in the style you like, just like Laura. Isn’t it pretty? It’s the very same color as hers now, Daddy, and I know that she always has her hair done in retro updos like this style. Don’t you adore it like this? I want to be as attractive as she is so that you will love me as much as you do her.”

It was unbelievable. Now I was more angry than sickened. I said: “This is too much. You come in here looking like that. Was your intention to give me a heart attack?”

“Auntie wanted me to surprise you by making me look exactly like Laura so that you would be sure to love me. You should love me even more now, Daddy. Auntie says I should just learn to look like this instead of a plain old scruffy boy that you decided to leave behind all those years ago when you ran off with your secretary. Won’t you please say that you love me now, Daddy, please?”

I looked at the face and I realized that this was not my torturer. This boy in stockings honestly believed this. He had somehow been persuaded that this was how he should win my love.

I said: “You poor child.” She stood up and we hugged. “I am so sorry that this has happened to you.”

She smelled of exotic perfume and I could feel her breasts against me, so that It was hard to think of this as my son. But the shivering and sobbing was undoubtedly genuine. She just kept saying “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

We stood for some time in that embrace, in that hotel room, in the city I used to call home, holding my child after such a long time apart.

Then she said: “Are we going out? I have clothes to go out.”

“Would you like to?” I asked.

“I will iron your shirt,” She said. She had the ironing board already up and waiting, and with a colorful dress just done.

I opened my case to get a shirt and when I brought it to her she had changed bras to a more revealing white item, and she was freshening her lipstick and check the earrings she had put on, using the iron as a mirror.

She looked like she had living as a woman for a long time.

“I love ironing men’s shirts,” she said. “We have no men but Auntie has had me practice anyway.”

“Do you really want to go out?” I asked.

“I want to hang off your arm tonight, Daddy,” she said. “I want to be all that you love tonight. I want to be pretty so that you are happy to be with me and never want to leave me.”

“Maybe we should just stay in tonight,” I said. “We can go out tomorrow night.” I had arranged two nights and then I was to be off, but the child was fixated. I needed to get him help. But first I needed to understand what had happened.

“So, your Aunt suggested that for me to love you, you needed to become a copy of my girlfriend?” I said.

“I am not sure what happened,” she said. “I told them that I could not do it, Maybe Auntie and her friends have done something to make me move and act just like a pretty girl. Do you think I’m like a pretty girl Daddy? Do you?”

“I think that you are very pretty, Bobbi.” She was. She is. “But I think that she did this too you to punish me.”

“No Daddy, this can only be good for you. It’s me that Auntie Miriam hates. She knew that I knew about your affairs. She says that I lied and covered for you and that I must make amends. She told me that all men and boys cannot be trusted. I could only be a girl living at her place. What kindness I got from Auntie I got when I was girly. She said if I wanted love only a parent could give it. But she said that you were not interested in family, only in pretty girls. Pretty girls like I am now.”

“That’s not true,” I exclaimed. “Surely you know that now. I love you. I always have loved you.”

“Really?” she said. There was a truly childlike expectation on her face. “Say it again Daddy.”

“I love you,” I said. She came up to me and kissed me. It was not a child’s kiss of her father, or any kind of family kiss. It was a lover’s kiss. Our lips slowly parted. But before she could pull away I pulled her back, and kissed her again. A man kissing a woman, a beautiful young woman.

Before I knew it I was on the bed. She had my belt undone and my pants and underpants down and she was licking my cock. Within seconds it was full of blood to the point of bursting.

She said: “I have another surprise for you Daddy. I can never be Robert anymore.” And with that she straddled my raging cock and took me inside her. She had a vagina. “Made just for you,” she said.

We fucked like no two people have ever fucked.

In the morning she put her hair up again, in the same style, with some tools she had brought and plenty of hairpins. I watched her do it, and I was fascinated. This person was so unbelievably feminine. Even more than Laura was.

We went downstairs, walking past the pool, to breakfast.

“Did I please you last night, Daddy?” she asked.

“Last night was fantastic,” I said. “And you know, despite the fact that we are close family, you and I, I don’t feel weird about it. Maybe I should.”

“You’re a man, Daddy,” she said. “Now I’m a woman. We love each other.”

“Yes we do Bobbi, yes we do.”

The End

(c) Maryanne Peters 2020