Hot water trickled down between her breasts, and her nipples, which had softened, began to throb again, this time with heat. She scratched an imaginar... itch on her right breast, gently knocking her nipple with her fingertip. Pleasure shot through her. She wanted to touch herself. She opened her eyes, and peered through the mist. She could just about make out a pair of legs across from her. A woman’s legs, long and tanned. She strained her eyes, and could just make out a red bikini, long brown. He grins. I sit on the bed. He just stares. I stretch pushing my breasts forward pleased that my nipples had hardened.“I never thought I’d be here with a girl like you.”I choke, swallow hard. I shoot him a glance.“What?” “I’ve seen you at parties. What you wear. What you do.”“I’m sixteen. I like to have fun!”“Why are you dressed like that now?”I didn’t have an answer.“Is that for my Dad?”No, asshole, it’s for you. In order to communicate this to creepy Bobby, I stretched pushing my. Then I realized she thought of herself asClaire Ross. Superwoman was a masquerade, an identity she had adopted forthe public. "Yes, you--she--does take charge." I giggled. "I wonder what allthe feminists would say if they knew Superwoman was really June Cleaver athome?" They'd probably try to get me to burn my bra. But there is NO WAY that isgoing to happen." She pointed at her ample chest. "I NEED my bra!" (Is itwrong for a girl to be jealous of her own mother's endowments? I mean,like, it's. By the time I was 25 I hadlegally changed my name to Katherine Marie Enright, been to Thailand forsexual reassignment surgery, had hormone treatment, completed hairremoval and gained breast enhancement to make me a woman.I had never been happier. My youth had been full of humiliations as Ihad failed at all attempts to become manly; my body itself should havebeen a giveaway to my true gender, being relatively tall, slender andwith arms and legs as pretty and untoned as runway model. Now I was.