Part One:
Part Two:
Part Three:
"It says not to ingest."
"It was only a tiny amount. It'll be fine" dad replies offhandedly, licking the sticky residue of FemOil off his lips. He makes a face. "Tastes like a pharmacy."
“You know there's nothing stopping you applying this yourself,” I grumble, as I return to his back to massage the oil in deeper, moving my hands in slow circles to ensure not a drop splashes on me. His body feels softer than I remember it - less hard musculature - and I have to measure my strength, afraid of massaging too deep and causing pain. But he seems to enjoy it, his head rolling back.
“Mm, I’d hate it if missed the hard-to-reach areas. I don’t want to be left with a hairy back now, do I?”
I silently question if he has any hard-to-reach areas left. He’d taken up yoga, and I know all too well the pretzel-shapes he can knot his supple, spandex-clad body into as he exercises in full-view in the living room. He seems to enjoy borrowing his daughter's gym clothing without asking. The images of his 'downward facing dog' haunt my dreams. The feminizing oil has loosened his joints, granting him flexibility that would make a gymnast blush. He could apply the oil to his back with his tongue if he really wanted.
“I swear this stuff makes you look ten years younger.”
“It damn well better. I’ll be damned if I’m going through puberty a second time to come out looking like a 50-year old broad instead of a fine young filly," he replies. "It softens the skin and creates a layer of subderal fat that smoothes out any wrinkles. I've the hormone profile of a young woman so I might as well enjoy the skin of one."
“I know. It’s just… you barely look like you. Some of my friends were asking me who the ‘girl’ was staying at our house. They wanted to know how old you are.”
“Really? Which friends?” he asks with more interest than I like. He’s still married to mom, and they still love each other very much, even if the cocktail of hormones in the FemOil has got him hornier than a dog in heat.
I avoid the question. “I told them you're one of Samantha's friends.”
He seems to like that, swelling with pride at the thought of passing as a woman. Judging by how fond he is of wearing my younger sister's wardrobe, any comparison is presumably appreciated.