Preface

Hi. I'm Angie, and I am the author of this story. You know me as Tasty Little Pop Tart. (With emphasis on the little.) I am 5'3" tall and weigh 110 lbs. I turned 35 years old April 6. I have a daughter, 11 years old. You don't get to know her name.

You know the kind of stories I write. And how I stray into issues of gender identity crisis and gay behavior in boys and girls. I grew up hating my sex and that boys could pee standing up, while I had to sit down or squat. I didn't truly reconcile to being female until Dad made me pregnant (not my dad, silly) and I began to swell up with new life. Then I never looked back.

The following story is strange. A great many won't make it past Page 1 (if you even bothered to start reading after the description), and that is why I have included this intro. I want you read this story. I am willing to spoil it for some, so that others won't abandon the story in disgust.

Emma isn't simply a hallucination brought on by pot smoking. She's the key to the story and to Michael's sprung lock.

I often get high when writing and I was pleasantly high when I started Apparition. I write weekends and evenings, whenever my daughter is safely in bed or away for the weekend at her dad's. Weekends alone I write mostly in self-defense, battling the loneliness of the empty apartment and fear that Sunday night will roll around and no car will appear, bringing my daughter home. That has happened before. Her dad's a real prick.

This story had its inception in the video described in the story. The video is real. What happened to Michael in the story, happened to my current boyfriend some weeks ago. Like Michael, he watched the video three times before discovering the truth. I knew immediately, when he had me watch it. For those curious enough to write, I will give you the address and you can watch it online to see for yourself.

I began writing Friday night around 10 p.m., in my den, with the blinds cracked, in my favorite chair, with my knees drawn up and my heels planted at the end of the seat cushion. My Toshiba netbook was propped comfortably against my thighs, and I started pecking away. I always write like this, in my corduroy chair with a pitcher of Margarita chilled in the fridge and a glass beside my chair. I get weed from a friend at work; four grams in a baggy sat alongside my chair that night, the same baggy you'll see in the story. I was not smoked up like Michael; just a few hits off a joint to begin with. I was in my bra and panties, wearing black thigh highs (which entered the story, of course), imagining being spied upon through the cracked blinds.

Girls in my stories have tiny breasts; boys are meagerly endowed. The exception being the wicked enemy girl, or the boy's best friend, typically hung like a horse. I endured a lot growing up, and I rightly afflict my characters with similar issues. Even breast-feeding, I never exceeded size 34B. Within a year, I was back to the same size 34A that I wore in high school.

Michael is not gay. Neither is Emma. Though Michael's adventures may lead you to believe otherwise, remember what I said about Emma's continuing appearance in the story. That in mind, maybe even severe homophobes won't be so put off by this story.

Angie E. 04-15-15

Apparition

I am not queer. I don't like guys. I don't want no guy's pecker up my ass, or worse yet, in my mouth. I dream about sucking sometimes, but it's no one I know, and I never enjoy doing it. Most of those dreams are fucked up messes anyway, making even less sense than a normal dream. I never let on to anyone I have those dreams.

I am 21 years old. In the story below, I was 14. I was alone in the condo, and that, in and of itself, was pretty unusual. That's like, child endangerment nowadays, I guess. As you will read, I got high on weed, swigged plenty of beer, and did things that will make your jaw drop.

My bedroom was up front, to the left of the living room balcony. Everyone else's bedroom was in the rear of the condo, with Cory and Emma in bedrooms number two and three. I was the only boy, and that meant banishment to bedroom number four. It wasn't so bad. It faced the parking lot, which I liked, and there was no fighting to use the girl's bathroom. I had my own, though with a walk-in tub and a miniature sink and mirror; it was really a guest bathroom.

Cory had applied to Dad's alma mater and had a good chance of getting in. Her grades were terrific and she excelled in athletics; she excelled at everything. Mom and Dad drove her to Pennsylvania that weekend for a tour, leaving Friday night at 7:30 p.m. They were to overnight at Grandma's house in Phillipsburg, and then spend Saturday cruising the campus, visiting the dorms and off-campus housing. I had Friday night to myself, and all day Saturday to recuperate. I planned to get totally wasted and drunk as a catfish Friday night--as my friend Peter likes to say. The flu bug had other ideas though. Cory took it with her to Pennsylvania.

I wasn't allowed out. I couldn't invite my friends over or let them know I was there; nothing to alert the neighbors that I was home alone. Fuck up, and I could forget ever being trusted again, they said. I didn't fuck up. Things fucked-up BIG TIME, all on their own.

I watched TV until 10 p.m. No being ambushed for this boy. The instant I cracked that first beer, or lit up my first joint, the phone would ring and Mom would say, Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry ... we forgot this or that, and I forgot to tell you we were headed back. Your father is running upstairs right now. Be a good boy and meet him at the front door?

Screw that. I stayed sober and watched the minutes tick by.

At 10:30, she called. "Michael, we're still not there. The traffic is just horrible. I think it was crazy driving up on a Friday night. Anyway, we're halfway there now, so no use in turning around. How are you feeling?"

The question threw me. "I'm fine, why?"

"You don't have any flu symptoms?"

Flu symptoms? "No," I said. "Do you?"

"No, we're fine, but Cory said half her class was out this week with it. Doesn't your friend Peter have the flu?"

I shook my head. "That's Kevin, and he's over it now. He came back to school yesterday."

"That's good," Mom said distractedly. "David! Please find out what Emma wants!" She returned her attention to me. "We stopped at a McDonald's for a rest stop. Cory thought she might be getting it on the way up, but it was probably just motion sickness. You know how she gets in the back seat on a long drive. Soon as I let her drive, the problem cleared up. Then your sister started complaining," she said, laughing. "It's always something. You call me right away if you begin experiencing any symptoms. Any at all, Michael. I don't want you home alone with the flu."

"I will," I promised, feeling completely fine.

"I'm serious, Michael. You call, no matter what time it is."

"OK," I said annoyed. "I got it."

"Let's hope not." With that she hung up, and I was free and clear.

I had four grams of prime weed in my bedroom closet and I lit up on the rear balcony, thanking God for the stiff breeze from the north. The smoke blew away fast as it came out of my lungs. I smelled nothing at all, and what a Godsend that was. Just like it always does, the weed gave me a raging hard-on. I knew just what to do about that.

I craved porn. In 2007, it was easy to come by, even easier than now, if I remember right. Mom had installed a content filter on our line, but that was easy to get around. (It was almost instinctive with us, the true Internet Generation.) I headed immediately for the xHamster website and started streaming videos and exercising my muscle.

You know, it's weird. Liberated and demanding as my generation is, masturbation is still taboo. Every one of us does it, we all deny it, and to even bring up the subject can get you ostracized. Which makes it especially tough for guys to watch videos together. Every time, I wish someone had the balls to just say, come on dudes, let's yank 'em out and have some fun. It just isn't done.

xHamster displays thumbs for a dozen related videos beneath whatever video you're watching. One particular video caught my eye, and I hovered my cursor atop it to see more frames. The chick looked younger than 18, and that sent my blood pressure sky-high. Of course, that was just bullshit. Videos on all the major porn sites are vetted for age, so this chick was 18 or older. She sat between a guy's legs, holding his big cock between her slender fingers. I clicked the image to watch her put that thing in her mouth and suck.

Her short hair was tousled, dark with blonde highlights. The guy was naked below the waist, but the girl wore a stylish, medium blue top with horizontal white stripes. A fine gold necklace rested against her chest, and she wore small diamond earrings. Her fingers held the dude's big cock at the base, her slender fingers overlapping. Her expression was expectant and slightly embarrassed. She was being filmed giving a blowjob, after all.

The video lasted a minute and thirty-four seconds. The guy received what could only be described as a demur blowjob, not brought to orgasm, his girl licking and kissing the head and the shaft, self-consciously eyeing the lens. I fell wholly and completely in love with her, one hundred percent, before a minute was up. Her abashed smile at the end just melted my heart like chocolate. That she was a boy never crossed my mind, until reading the half-dozen comments afterward. I almost died. I slammed the laptop closed and stalked outside to smoke a joint.

"This is just fucking bullshit," I growled. I could not get her out of my head. Him, I reminded myself angrily--I could not get him out of my head. I had watched an adorable young thing give a lilting, endearingly sweet blowjob, and had not seen that she was a guy. I had watched the video three times before reading the fucking comments! I was appalled, sickened, disgusted.

"Want a blowjob?" I asked a passing car. "I just watched the girl I planned to marry give one, and she was a guy like me!" I lofted a finger in protest to the entire universe. "This is so fucked up!" I protested.

I rolled another joint, lit and inhaled furiously. I stood with my head back and my back arched, holding it in, holding it in ... exploding outward with a gasp. This was really good weed, I thought. This was exceptional weed, I decided, eyeing the burning tip. I emitted a throaty, cannabis roughened laugh, first of the night, and thought how cute my blowjob queen was in her blue and white striped top. Was that a boy's shirt, I wondered, and I just hadn't noticed? I wasn't going back to check. Fuck that shit, Sherlock.

I sat down, eyed the adjacent condominium, and maybe drifted off to sleep for a moment. I started awake, my cock roaring hard and screaming to get free.

"Whoa, boy," I muttered. "Let me help you out there." I unzipped, introduced Elmer to the general population, and began to laugh. A moment later, I struggled free of my shorts, then my underwear, and sat at the table wishing my future wife were there on her knees, waiting to suck me like she had sucked her dude. I should remedy this, I thought, struggling out of the chair. From there, things turned truly weird.

I was in Mom's bedroom. I had come from the balcony and stood with my pecker pointing like a retriever. It pointed straight at Mom's closet door, which stood ajar, begging the question: "What's in there?" Neither the closet nor Elmer answered. I had a pretty good idea, anyway.

"You're kidding me, right? That's your solution?" I laughed indignantly, envisioning myself on hands and knees on Mom's floor, her dildo-one of her dildos-up my rear end. In this scenario, I wore her auburn wig, one of her lacy black bras, a pair of sexy black thigh highs, and her fuck-me black heels. Her lacy black panties lay discarded on the floor while I enjoyed my backside.

"That's not happening!" I exclaimed, laughing. What was I even doing in here?

Mom has, in addition to the illusory dildo up my ass, two others. They are identical twins. The third is a real monster, 9" long and thick as my wrist. I have seen them all, along with her collection of Victoria's Secret lingerie. The imagined bra and panties, and her thigh highs would come from that collection, of course. I imagined myself in her makeup.

I don't know exactly what happened next. One moment I was playing pointer, the next I was on my hands and knees on Mom's plum-colored carpet, her dildo buried deep in my ass, aware that some guy stood nearby, watching me intently. I gazed up at him bemused for a time, then pursed my ruby-red lips and blew him a kiss. It landed on the head of his enormous cock.

I started awake, stagger-stepping away from Mom's closet door, gasping. I looked down, stunned to see my future wife on the floor, Mom's dildo up her ass, gazing up at me through her tousled, stylishly cut, dark blonde hair.

"You're not real," I croaked. The girl smiled wistfully, her expression abashed.

"I'm yours for the taking, Michael."

"You're not real, though," I objected.

I got her Mona Lisa smile. "I'm as real as you want me to be, Michael."

I eyed her pensively. "You look familiar. Other than, you know... ?"

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do," I muttered, and she was gone.

For a long moment, I stared at the spot she'd been on hands and knees, slender fingers splayed outward on the carpet, a slim gold ring with a tiny gemstone on her ring finger, glinting in the uncertain light. I fought the urge to flee the room.

"I just hallucinated. I'm fucking hallucinating, for God's sakes," I muttered angrily.

This was some outrageous weed, I thought. It better not be doped with something, like PCP, I thought angrily, or Peter is gonna be one sorry dude. I needed hallucinations like I needed a dildo up my ass.

Maybe you do need a dildo up your ass, a voice said.

I looked around, startled, certain that someone had just spoken aloud. I looked at Mom's dresser, at her lingerie drawer, knowing the outfit we'd worn, my future bride and I, could be found in the top, right-hand drawer. Trembling uncontrollably, I crossed the intervening six feet, grabbed the burnished brass knob, and slid the drawer half open. Black lace gazed back at me.

"Oh, crap," I muttered. No way was I doing this.

I lifted out the satin bra and held it up to the light. Mom is relatively small-breasted. Sometimes, she wore silicone breast-forms to increase the size of her bosom. I looked at the bottom, right hand drawer, and thought, oh, shit.

"This is stupid," I said. Stupid, or not, the bra and its matching, lacy black panties sang to me. Whispered a husky, fuck-me invitation I couldn't ignore. Begging myself to stop, I lifted out the panties with my fingertips, transferred them to my left hand with her bra, and opened the drawer containing Mom's thigh highs. I chose the black pair on top. My penis ached and ticked up and down with my heartbeat. It leaked seminal fluid. "This is so stupid," I repeated.

I had never dressed up before. I stripped off my shirt and raised Mom's bra to eye level, holding it by the straps. I put it on the way I'd seen girls do in movies: around my waist, securing the clasps before sliding the bra up and into place. I adjusted it by feel, and then opened Mom's bottom right hand drawer and removed a pair of boxes, each containing two silicone breast pads. They slipped in easy enough, giving me breasts. I eyed myself in the mirror.

"Pervert," I said, and had to laugh about that.

The panties came next, followed by the right thigh high, and then the left. They were tricking putting on; I had expected that and was careful not to cause a run or tear a seam. The seams ran up the back of my thighs and I checked to see how straight they were, laughing again.

"You've got some practicing to do," I muttered. I sat down and put the stockings on three more times before I was satisfied.

"Good enough," she said. I jumped right out of my skin. She stood in the corner wearing my identical outfit, sans panties. Her erection was 6" long, ticked upward and to the right, and very white in the pale light from the window.

"You scared the shit out of me!" I complained.

"I scare you every day, Michael."

"What does that mean?" I said.

But she was gone, again.

"Fucking bitch," I muttered unhappily.

I entered the closet and found the auburn wig on the plastic head where expected. This, I had some experience with. I'd worn her wigs as a joke, but only in her presence, and only with her permission. She thought I was adorable. It had been two years, and I missed the clowning around.

I went to her vanity mirror and inspected the wig. I made a cute girl, I thought. How would I look with makeup on, I wondered, and decided to find out. I did it the way Mom would, wearing this outfit and her auburn wig, applying it before the vanity mirror. I looked exactly like the girl who wasn't a girl at all. Right down to my persistent and irritating hard-on.

Now for something really stupid, I thought. I padded on stocking feet down the short hall to the balcony (I chose not to use the door in her bedroom), and slid the door aside. Then I turned around and returned to her bedroom, went into her closet and looked through her dresses. I selected the one I thought would go best with her midnight black lace panties and bra, black thigh highs and fuck-me heels. It was tiny and fuck-me black. It fit me like a sleek condom, like it fit her. Mom had the figure of a cheerleader, which she was in high school. Mom had problems with Cory and Emma wearing her clothes.

Now she has that problem with me, I thought darkly.

I wasn't done. The heels I wanted waived gaily from the floor and I carried them to Mom's bed, sat on the edge, and carefully slipped them on. Tight, but not cramp-inducing, I thought. I tried standing up, and laughed.

"Walk on your toes," my future wife suggested. I glanced over, not starting so badly this time.

"Who are you really?" I said. She wasn't just the girl from the video.

"Who do you think I am?"

"An irritating little twat who answers every question with a question?" I growled.

She looked pointedly down at her slender, but very erect penis.

"You're still a twat," I said firmly.

"Is every girl a twat to you?"

"Pretty much," I admitted. "Some more than others."

"Your sisters?"

"Especially my sisters," I emphasized.

She left the corner, her penis wobbling as she walked; she had no problem in Mom's black heels. The sway of her hips, and the slight size of her chest were mesmerizing. She barely had breasts--the blue and white top hid that in the video--but they filled the black bra disturbingly like those of my sibling. Mom's fuck-me black dress dangled from her fingertips.

"Help me put this on?"

A shudder ran down my spine. "Don't ask me to do that."

She looked down at her penis again. "I can't help this. You can make it go away, Michael."

"I can't make it go away it real life," I said bluntly. "You're a boy."

She laughed softly. "That didn't stop you watching me, Michael. Three effing times." She placed a hand sexily on her hip, which she kicked out maddeningly. "Maybe I'm a hermaphrodite. That would leave me being a girl, just one with a penis as well as a vagina. We could still make love."

"And maybe you could suck my dick," I said gruffly.

"A chick with a dick is still a chick with a dick?" Her coy expression was marred by a hint of pain.

Removing Mom's heels, I took to my feet and brushed roughly past her.

"Don't you have somewhere to go?"

Stumbling, she yelped in surprise and was gone.

On the patio, I lit joint number three and sucked smoke deep into my lungs. I held it until a cough forced it out again. I continued to cough as a car drove past and entered the adjacent condo's lot. It parked nose in, a lumbering Cadillac.

This hallucination business disturbed me. It had never happened before and now three times within an hour? And the fucking detail! She was real, I would swear to it. I had shouldered her aside and the impact was no less real than had she been Emma or Cory. I held up the joint, and eyed the smoldering tip. Pete had some fucking explaining to do, I thought.

A second car approached, a big SUV which resolved into a black-I think it was black-Hummer. The engine was soundless, but the huge tires announced every rotation with a sound reminiscent of tearing cardboard. A thudding bass line told me the driver was black--or a white man, digging Rap.

As the Hummer passed below, I pursed my red lips and asked huskily, "Would you like to fuck me, big boy? I'd be good. Mom certainly is, and my sister Cory is, I bet. All you have to do is ask, Big Boy."

Big Boy made no comment and disappeared around the side of the condo and out of my life. I took another hit, held it better this time, and blew it out as a thin streamer of smoke. It was gone immediately on the breeze.

I liked it out here. The rear of the building was not illuminated like the front; I could rest here comfortably in Mom's clothes and not worry about being seen. I finished the joint, putting it out on my tongue, swallowed it, and rolled joint number four. I wasn't hallucinating enough? I had to have more?

"Fuck yeah," I rasped and lit up.

The stars were out in droves tonight. I slouched forward in the chair and imagined being up there among the myriad points. Not bright, not with the light pollution thrown out by the condos, but clear enough to see. An airliner traversed the sky left to right, and another car went by in the lot below, unseen. I closed my eyes, inhaled, and exhaled smoke. I must have drifted off again, because...

I was inside, in the hallway to the kitchen. The back of my dress had mysteriously unzipped and was moving freely on my shoulders and against my breasts, hips, and thighs. I loved how it made me feel. As I entered the kitchen, the dress soughed off my shoulders and down my length, puddling on the floor around my ankles. I stared at it dumbly. Who had unzipped my dress, I wondered?

Bemused, I stepped clear and reached for the refrigerator door. My throat was parched from the smoke and I needed a cold beer. Gooseflesh covered my upper body and my breathing was ragged; a shiver that I recognized as wholly sexual in nature twisted down my spine. I released the door, and stood still. I was not alone. Not my tousle-haired future bride, either. This person had unzipped my dress and now had his fingers undoing my bra strap. The shudder down my spine should have snapped it this time.

"Who--who is that?" I croaked.

The fingers released my bra and it hung loose on my shoulders. Instead of falling to the floor, the breast pads ... only, there were no pads! The bra gently cradled my small, but thoroughly real breasts.

Uh, oh, I thought. I'm in real trouble here.

Fingers eased the straps off my shoulders and the bra fell unchallenged to the floor. I was trembling continuously now, teeth a-chatter, my nipples swelling to achy little points. Please don't let those fingers-

They reached around and cupped my breasts and I mouse-squeaked and clutched myself tight. Fists bunched in my underarms, eyes clenched and teeth clamped, I shuddered as the fingers of his right slid gently down my bare stomach to the waistband of my panties and down inside. They encountered no penis, testicles, or pubic hair. I was clean-shaven, as I imagined my mother to be, possessed of her sexual organs. I mewed as she would, confronted by someone in the kitchen. The man pulled me against this hard chest. His voice was bass-drum deep.

"On your knees, or do you want to blow me first?" it asked.

I shook my head violently. Between my legs, his finger located my clitoris and I quivered head to foot. This man was big, and so tall; so powerfully built. His huge arms encircled my chest and pinned my arms to my side. I was powerless against him, a wraith. His finger slid between my lips and into my vagina, and I moaned pitiably.

"Don't rape me," I pleaded.

"I wouldn't do that, sweetie," his bass voice rumbled. His fingertip raised me onto my tiptoes and I pleaded, "Nooooo! I'm not really a girl!"

"I beg to differ," my rapist said. "In your bedroom, or here?"

"No!" I pleaded, and he was gone.

I bolted, squealing madly and running like a girl. At the door, I shot a wild glance back over my shoulder, and saw that I was alone. I slowed, coming to rest ten feet down the hallway. My breathing was ragged, and my heart hammered madly.

"He won't hurt you," her voice said gently. I screamed anyway, whipped around, and hit the wall jarringly. She looked fleetingly at my breasts and between my legs and then back to my face. "I'm sorry to scare you, Michael. I don't mean to. But he's no more real to you then I am."

"Bullshit!" I panted. "He violated me!"

She shook her head and smiled. "No more than I could," she said, tapping her temple. "Runaway brain cells, remember?"

"Fuck you!" I spat. Then, "Who are you, anyway?" still panting wildly. Her voice was so tantalizingly familiar, her identity ghosting beneath the surface like smoke inside a balloon, driving me crazy, like a lash, trapped under your eyelid.

"What are you missing?" she asked.

Before I could respond, she winked away again, though not before I realized what she meant by that: Along with the blue and white top from the video, she wore washed out blue jeans and a pair of battered white sneakers. She was definitely a boy then.

"Fuck," I grumbled, and returned to the kitchen.

The balcony door stood open. I stepped outside, dressed in Mom's panties and thigh highs, wearing her fuck-me wig and black heels. "I am so fucked up," I told the cold air. I certainly was.

With trembling fingers, I rolled joint number five and lit up. I coughed immediately, but forced the fit into submission and took deep hits and held them in. I was out of my mind, I thought. I just got dope-raped in the kitchen and I was out here smoking more? In women's lingerie, half naked, wearing heels and a fuck-me red wig? Someone had just tried to accomplish that forcibly, I reminded myself.

Adding mindlessness to stupidity, I slipped off Mom's panties and tossed them over the balcony railing. "Fuck you," I muttered angrily.

I had brought along a beer and nursed it now, gazing at the stars, mostly naked. There were so damned many of them, I thought. Maybe the cannabis had pricked up my eyesight, allowing me to pick them out of the firmament, where normally they'd be a wash of undecipherable light. Regardless, I was covered in gooseflesh and shivering violently again. The way I had in the kitchen with his hand down my panties. I looked down to make sure I still had a cock. It was there; limp as a dishtowel, yes, but back in attendance. No boobs, tiny or otherwise to fill a bra.

"I need another beer," I said.

I shut the door behind me and swiveled closed the vertical blinds. I removed Mom's heels, glided down the hall to the kitchen, carried two beers along with me down to my bedroom--and stopped dead in my tracks. On my nightstand was Mom's 9" monster cock, along with a tube of KY Personal Lube. I stared at them openmouthed and blinking.

"Go ahead," she invited, and I did.

It was 12:01 a.m.

It was 2:06 a.m. I blinked hazily, thinking, that's not right. Strong hands on my hips pulled me not so gently back on the huge cock filling my ass. I screeched in surprise.

"Just be a good girl, and no one gets hurt," Thundervoice rumbled.

I looked at him frantically over my shoulder. It was him, all right, and he was fucking my ass. I made a choked, pitiful whining sound.

"Bigger than you're used to, I know. What's your name again, kiddo?"

"Michael," my future bride replied helpfully. "Please don't hurt him, okay? He's my husband to be and I'd like him workable on our honeymoon."

Bass-voice gave a booming, good-hearted laugh. "Michael's no name for a girl," he disagreed.

"Michael's a boy," she corrected.

"Bullshit," Thundervoice said. He moved me forward and back on his telephone pole cock, adjusting my knees, my rear end, my back, my feet, and any other part of me that he wanted. I wore nothing but Mom's black thigh highs and her auburn wig.

"You were in the kitchen," I croaked.

"I unzipped your dress, took off your bra, and put my hand down your panties," he agreed. "You're no boy. No boy fucks like this."

My limp penis flopped forward and back while his huge testicles slapped mine with every thrust, so I was definitely a boy.

"Ivory Fucking Soap," he grunted.

"What?"

"Ninety-nine, and forty-four one-hundredths percent pure," he said, meaning I was queer as Elton John.

He shifted, gripping my hips, rising to a half-squat, straddling me, forcing my chest flat to the mattress. My arms lay limp beside me on the bed, askew; I wouldn't even fight back.