The Daughter They Always Wanted (2/3)

Jamie tiptoed down the stairs in his white frilly ankle socks, each step quiet and careful against the hardwood floor. He tugged at the hem of his romper, the baby-blue fabric clinging awkwardly to his legs, the short shorts riding up with every step. The scent of cinnamon and coffee pulled him into the kitchen, where Mark sat at the table scrolling through his tablet, and Melissa was plating pancakes. She beamed as soon as she saw him.

“Good morning, Jamie! You look so cozy in that,” she said with a smile.

Jamie forced a sheepish smile and sat down slowly, smoothing the romper behind him. He hated the way the cushions felt against his bare thighs.

He was halfway through his pancakes when Melissa set her fork down, tilting her head with a soft sigh. “You know… Mark and I always wanted a daughter. But I was never able to get pregnant.”

Jamie blinked. “Oh. Uh… I’m… sorry?”

Mark looked up from his tablet, raising an eyebrow as he glanced Jamie up and down. “You know… you almost look like you could be our daughter.”

Jamie flinched. “No—no, this isn’t… I’m not doing that,” he said quickly, already sensing where the conversation was heading.

Melissa tilted her head, voice soft but insistent. “Oh, come on. Just pretend for a little while. It’d mean the world to us.”

Her voice was soothing. Too soothing. Jamie’s chest tightened, but something about her tone made his shoulders sag just slightly. It wasn't a command. Not quite. Just… a suggestion that wrapped itself around his thoughts like a warm blanket. “Just for a little…” he murmured, barely hearing himself speak.

That was how Jamie found himself at the mall, walking a step behind Melissa, hardly able to believe he was actually going through with it.

“You’re going to love this little boutique, sweetie. They have the cutest dresses.”

For the rest of the day, Jamie was tugged from one store to the next, Melissa’s arm looped possessively through his as if he were her real daughter. Each shop brought new piles of skirts, fitted tops, playful dresses, and heels for him to try—sometimes trendy, sometimes girly, always unmistakably feminine. She’d hand him outfit after outfit and gently guide him toward the fitting rooms, calling out brightly, “Let me see, sweetheart! Come on, give mommy a little twirl!”

Heels clicked across tile. Ruffles swayed around his thighs. Soft fabrics hugged his body in ways he wasn’t used to, and Melissa was always there to adjust a strap or tilt his chin with a fond smile. By the fourth or fifth store, Jamie didn’t even flinch when she called him her daughter in front of the cashier.

As they made their way back to the car, Jamie’s heels clicked lightly across the marble floor, each step sending a soft sway through the flouncy skirt of his white polka-dot dress. It hugged his upper body just enough to make him conscious of his posture, his movements, the gloss on his lips. A pair of sparkling heels hugged his feet, their thin straps catching the light with every graceful step. His hair was softly curled, and his arms were weighed down with bags stuffed full of dresses, skirts, and heels.

The days that followed blurred together in a flurry of outfits and clicking heels. Melissa wasted no time filling Jamie’s new wardrobe, and even less time correcting the way he moved, sat, smiled. Her tone was always gentle, always encouraging—never harsh, but impossible to disobey.

At first, Jamie told himself it was still pretend. He let Melissa guide his brush strokes while she did his makeup in the morning, let her pick out his outfits, let her fix his posture with a playful tap on the wrist. He went along with it, thinking he was only playing along.

But at some point, the reminders stopped. The little voice in his head—the one that insisted he was only acting—grew quieter by the day. He caught himself saying “okay, mommy” without thinking. Leaning into Mark’s side when they sat on the couch. Giggling without realizing it. Walking with his hips just a little too loose.

One evening, they were getting ready to go out to dinner. Jamie stood in front of his vanity, smoothing the skirt of a tight black dress over his hips, checking the way it hugged his waist. He adjusted the straps of his heels, added a final dab of gloss, and grabbed his clutch.

“Almost ready, sweetheart?” Melissa called from downstairs.

“Just a sec, mommy!” he called back, with a singsong lilt that didn’t even sound strange anymore.

He turned to head downstairs but paused, biting his lip as the familiar pressure built in his belly. With a quiet sigh, he stepped into the hallway bathroom, lifted the back of his dress, slid his panties down to his ankles, and sat—knees together, heels pointed neatly on the tile.

Then he looked down, and his penis sat there—tucked between soft thighs, framed by painted nails and glittering heels. It reminded him—for the first time in days, maybe weeks—that this was just pretend. He wasn’t actually their daughter.

A small pang of anxiety crept up his chest as he realized how used to it he’d gotten. How easily he’d started slipping into the role without even noticing. As he pulled his panties back up and adjusted his dress, he made a quiet promise to himself: he’d have to put a stop to this. He’d bring it up with Mommy and Daddy.

Soon.