A little departure for me. I hope you like it!

“Get out of bed, boy! That yard ain’t gonna mow itself! Move it!”

I sat straight up in bed, wanting to yell out. My dad, ex Gunnery Sergeant Patrick “Mac” McCoy was really good at jarring me from sleep. He lived to do it to his Marine recruits, and nothing was different at home.

“Okay, Dad. I’m up. I’m up.” It was 6:30 AM. Who mowed the lawn at 6:30 in the freakin’AM?

I heard him laughing as he went down the hall. The prick. I rolled out of bed and froze. I had forgotten I was wearing my baby doll pajamas. I couldn’t sleep if I wasn’t wearing them. They were blue with matching panties, and I loved how they made me feel.

I guess I should explain myself. My name is Kerry McCoy. I am 18 and transsexual. I am not a cross dresser. I get no sexual thrill out of dressing ‘en femme’. I am counting the days until I can kiss this place goodbye and get on with my life. My dad and I don’t see eye to eye, to say the least. I am an average sized girl (well, I refuse to call myself a boy) five feet nine inches and one hundred thirty pounds. I think I’m fat, but that’s a whole other issue.

Well, you might have guessed that daddy and I don’t get along, and you’d be right. Mom died of cancer last year. She knew my secret to a certain extent, but not the entirety. I had been on hormones since I was 14. Puberty was late, and thanks to a certain doctor, it would never come. I’ll get to that later.

Psychiatrists call what I have “Gender Dysphoria”, like its some kind of sickness, like “allergic rhinitis”. I don’t see it that way. I’m not sick. I just have the wrong body wrapped around my soul. My tent is blue, my soul pink. I don’t need to analyze it. It just is. I have called myself a girl since I was little. The folks thought it was cute at first, but when I was still doing it at eight, well, daddy got a little nervous.

My first spanking for cross dressing came when I was nine. I had gotten in to some of mom’s old stuff, and was dressed in a cute little summer frock and an old gardening hat with some clumsily applied makeup. Had the tent matched the soul, it would have been a Kodak moment. As it was, it got me whacked ten times on the butt from daddy dearest. Mom did nothing, bless her soul.

Ok, enough daydreaming. Time to get up. “That yard ain’t gonna mow itself!”

Daddy was long gone by the time I got out of the bathroom. Off to some secret war thing or whatever. I wish he could see me now. Four years of hormones have been very kind to me. 34B-24-35. My hated boy part is atrophied, and spends the day neatly tucked away, waiting for the day when I can afford to send it to wherever penises go when they get modified. I have long blonde hair, down to my shoulder blades. I keep it styled androgynously, so daddy doesn’t suspect. I can still work it into a nice up do on those rare occasions when I can go party with the girls. They know who I am. My real name is Katrina. I like it because it makes people think of the hurricane, and I don’t want to be forgotten.

I don’t know, maybe daddy does see the changes and is in denial. When I go out as a boy, I always get confused with a lesbian or a tomboy. The girls used to call me “Aly” because I look like Aly Michalka, the ex Disney princess. The similarity stops there. I’ve had more sex with more perverts than that girl will ever see. More on that later.

I bind the twins down and throw on some shorts and a Judas Priest concert tee. God, my legs look cute. Still a little too fat yet, but I’ll work on that. I have a nice tan working. I always lie out in a bikini, and have for over a year now. Daddy wouldn’t like that. I keep my bikini top on when tanning so I’ll have nice tan lines. Tee hee! I’m such a bitch.

I suppose you wonder how I was able to get such a killer bod when hormones are sooo illegal and dangerous. Easy. Check this out.

So, skip forward a few years, and mom thinks it will be a good idea for me to see a therapist. I was thirteen, and I see this “Doctor” who gives me the creeps. He’s too, I don’t know slimy. He asks a lot of questions about the way I feel about things and the like. I don’t hold anything back. I tell him everything. So, this guy, he’s paid by the government, and he doesn’t get paid much. And he earns every dime. He tells me that he will tell my parents about my ‘perversion’ if I don’t perform a little quid pro quo. So I have to blow this guy, in his office. All the way, including swallowing. I thought it was disgusting, but I didn’t feel like a boy must feel. He raped me, and although I may not have had a vagina, I was devastated as any girl would be.

But I’m not anyone’s fool. I take my new cell phone and sneak it in to the office for my weekly visit. After recording his violation, I managed to turn the tables. My silence for a hormone program. On the down low. On his dime. He made it happen and quick too. I guess he didn’t want to blow Bubba in jail. Phase one of the plan in the books, quite by accident.

It was a typical San Diego day. Beautiful, and boring. I finished the yard, and decided to go to the beach. Yay! I went into the bathroom, showered and shaved (my legs, silly), and got ready to hit the beach. I texted Marisa, my BFF, and I got into my car (a fairly new Civic) and we drove to the beach.

Marisa is cute, and I’m a knockout. We got more stares and whistles than I could count. Boys were playing Frisbee and football right in front of us to get our attention. I thought it was cute. So did Marisa. She had a little Venus number on, and I had a Body Glove bikini. I’d love to have a tiny little bottom on, but, sigh, there’s that little problem.

So, back to my little hormone thing. With Doctor Creepy taken care of, I started on HRT. I was sterile within a couple of months, and the boobie fairy visited after six months. Things were coming along nicely. I became quite the actress. I was able to hide the changes, and I stopped dressing and acting out. I was becoming the “boy” they had wanted. I was NORMAL! Woo Hoo! I was bitter, all right, but my plan was coming together. I researched SRS, and I found it was terribly expensive. I could do it here in the states, or travel to Thailand. Either way, I was fucked, and not in a good way. How was I going to come up with a way? Then it came to me. Maybe I could earn some money. If Doctor Creepy was willing to risk his career for a chance at getting some underage nookie, then maybe I could earn some money the old fashioned way. I hated my parents for how they made me live. Who cared if it was dangerous? I’d rather die than live a lie, so what the hell.

I did some more research and started hitting some chat rooms where I started scoring some action with the pervs. Sometimes they came over when the units were out, sometimes I met them. They were pretty harmless, for the most part. I got a hundred fifty for a blowjob, and when I trained myself a little, Five hundred for the whole nine yards. I looked so innocent, and the Disney girl thing didn’t hurt. I was pulling down over fifteen hundred a week. Ok, I was a whore. But I never saw myself as a victim. I was using those poor bastards to get what I wanted.

Sure, I worried about disease, and I turned a few down on general principles, condom or no condom.

Oh! Let me tell you about this one! I made ten thousand one weekend when I was fifteen, almost 16. A famous actor (I’ll never tell) found out about me. He had a thing for t girls, and especially young ones. Young ones like me are rare, and when he had the chance at the genuine article, he jumped.

That scene was crazy. I made sure I was covered with Marisa, so if anything happened, I was covered. This guy was seriously demented. I was bound every way a girl can be bound, fucked every way a girl like me can be fucked, and made to be his sex slave the entire weekend. His wife joined in and abused me. I was gagged the entire weekend, and began to despair that I had finally screwed the pooch. Them, at Ten o’clock Sunday night, the untied me, let me take a shower, and gave me ten thousand dollars cash right there on the spot. They said they liked the way I cried. That wasn’t acting.

I ended up doing that couple four more times. They got a little rougher each time. Bondage isn’t really my thing as a lifestyle. I mean it can be fun, but the way they did it was really scary. I spent more than a few hours with a plug up my rear end giving my “mistress” a screwing with my face attached to a rubber penis. I didn’t think my body could bend in so many ways. They dressed me in rubber and all kinds of fetish stuff. I went along with it, but the tears I cried were real every time. I was humiliated, but I ended up taking over one hundred thousand dollars from them. Tax free. I quit when they started inflicting a lot of pain. I couldn’t take that. They would have killed me if I had stayed.

Marisa and I went to get something to eat at Mcd’s. I know it’s not good for me, but it’s just so good. Hey we work it off. We’re young!

We cruised around until four PM. Then I dropped her off. I had to get back home and get changed. I was so sick of doing that. I had a cute cover-up on over my denim cutoffs. My bikini top was all that I had on top. It was getting harder and harder to keep up this charade. I was so done being a boy, even make believe.

I was a whore, a prostitute. I knew it, and I was somewhat ashamed about it. But I had plans, and if my daddy had shown me anything, it was to work for what you want. Maybe it wasn’t the right or best way, but it was my way. I had two hundred and fifty thousand in the bank, and two rental properties paying me six thou a month. What was I waiting for? What every girl is waiting for. Daddy’s approval. I would never get it. I had my passport. I had purchased tickets for two weeks from today. I couldn’t leave without saying good bye, and give him a chance to, I don’t know, wish me luck.

Hell. Tonight was the night. I wasn’t going to change. Driving up to the house. I saw daddy was home. I stopped the car, took a deep breath, and walked in the house.

“Hey, what in the hell are you doing? Who are you?”

“I turned to face him. It’s me, daddy.”

The color drained from his face. “Kerry?”

“Katrina, daddy. My name is Katrina. It has been for some time.”

“B-but you don’t look anything like my boy. You have, uh….”

“Boobs? Yes I do, and I have had them for three and a half years now. I was just really good at hiding. The face, well, that was a gift from mother. Makeup does a lot too.”

He collapsed in a chair. “What did I do wrong?”

I looked at him, feeling a bit sorry for him. “Nothing, daddy. No, I take that back. The only thing you did wrong was make me go underground to do what I needed to do.”

Tears ran down his cheeks. To see the old man, the hard Marine cry, caused me to tear up too. “I’m leaving tomorrow for Thailand, daddy. I’m getting the reassignment surgery.”

“But…how?”

“I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, daddy. I became a prostitute to earn enough money to do this. I was very good at it, and managed to keep my grades up at the same time. I did what I had to do to earn this. I did it on my own. I start at State this fall. If you still want to see me, my phone number won’t change. I’m done with the lifestyle, but I’m getting the surgery. I’ll be back in six weeks. Think about whether you want to have a daughter. If you don’t, I’ll understand. If you do, I’ll be happy to be your daughter. I spite of everything, I still love you.”

I went to my room, and grabbed the three bags I had pre packed. I was going over to Marisa’s to spend the night. My rescheduled flight left at 10:00 AM.

Daddy never said a word as I left.

I’m halfway across the Pacific now. Ready to start my new life. I am not as bitter as I was yesterday. Maybe this Katrina won’t be as bad.