Roxy had always been a tomboy. She dressed in pants and men's shirts, she kept her red hair short and boyish, and she hung out with male friends who considered her "one of the guys".
Which was fine until her wealthy mother was jailed for embezzlement, her trust fund was pillaged to pay for her mother's fraud, and despite being a legal adult of eighteen years of age, she was forced to live with her estranged father, who she hadn't seen in six years.
He looked at her in disgust when she turned up at his house. "Jesus," he said. "I thought I had a daughter, not a son. You're old enough that it's not my responsibility to put a roof over your head if I don't want to, so if you're going to stay here, you'd better go out and buy something that makes you look like a lady."
Roxy's face burned with embarrassment. She had never wanted to look like a girl. She was ashamed of her gender, and desperate to not be treated as a silly little decoration. She had avoided femininity at every turn. She assumed her father was mocking her, but not entirely serious, so she ignored him, and moved into the bedroom she had been assigned.
But her father *was* serious. And on the third day at his house, she returned from seeing a movie with friends to discover that her father had taken all the clothes he deemed "insufficiently ladylike" and burned them - which was basically all of her wardrobe. In their place were lacy bras and panties, short skirts, tit-hugging tops, and high heels.
"What the hell is this?" she wailed at him. "You have no right to do this!"
He slapped her across the face, hard, and she fell to the floor. "Damn straight I have the right," he said. "My house, my rules. You're my daughter, and you'll dress like a daughter, or you'll sleep on the street."
She looked at him in shock, clutching her cheek. She knew she should call the police. "You can't hit me!" she wailed.
He stepped in and slapped her again. "Just for that, you can give me the clothes you're wearing," he said, "so I can burn them, too. Strip."
She looked at him for a long time, thinking of options, trying to find a way out. It was unthinkable to stay, to undress in front of her own father, to have to wear skirts. But... Most girls dressed like that every day. Would it be so bad? And after all, she had nowhere else to go.
Blushing, she stood, and slowly removed her pants and shirt.
"Underwear too," he told her, and, humiliated, she removed her bra and panties as well. Her father looked at her naked body, which was not entirely unfeminine, with satisfaction.
"Looks like you've got a cunt under all that nonsense after all," he told her. "Now go to your bedroom and get dressed."
The next week was horrible. She felt like everyone was staring at her when she wore skirts and high heels. None of her friends had ever seen her in them before, and now they were looking at her in a new way - like maybe she had been a bimbo all along, or that actually it was okay to sexualise and objectify her. She blushed her way through the entire week.
She discovered something else, too. Being embarrassed made her aroused. She'd never been this humiliated for this sustained a period before, and much to her further humiliation, it began to make her wet.
At the end of the week, her father gave her a present. It was a box containing earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and a makeup kit. "Women wear makeup," he said. "Learn to do it right. There's videos on the internet that will teach you." He paused, and then raised his hand, threatening a slap, and said, "Make sure you get it right."
Scared, she did learn, using the internet to teach her to use the various cosmetics. After a couple of days, her father started making requests each morning - "natural look", "smoky", "glitter". He nodded his approval as she demonstrated each look. Finally, he made a request that she didn't know how to do, and couldn't find on the internet - "whore's blush".
"What is this?" she asked nervously.
"You know when you put that red shit on your cheeks," he said, "it's sexy to men because you're making it look like you're ready to be fucked."
She blushed. She hadn't realised that.
"So whore's blush is doing it the natural way," he continued. "Just play with your snatch until you bring up the heat in your cheeks."
"You mean masturbate?" she said, unbelieving.
"Do what comes natural to girls," he said. "You all think with your pussies. Just let the world know."
She tried to beg off, but he held firm, and to her shame she found herself emerging from her bedroom some time later with a natural glow in her cheeks (as well as rock-hard nipples and an achingly needy pussy), presenting herself to her father, and knowing that he understood exactly where that glow had come from.
"Good girl," he told her. "That's it. That's the look. From now on I don't want to see you without a whore's blush on your face, understand?"
She did understand, and from that point on she spent a lot more time masturbating, and did a lot more interacting with the world while her brain was fuzzy with arousal and her pussy was sopping wet. She went weeks in that state, and over that time her red hair grew longer, until her androgynous bob had turned into a flowing mane of feminine red hair, and every morning and every evening she masturbated, and usually several times during the day as well.
In fact, it was probably the arousal that caused her accident. Her father, pleased with her progress in femininity, let her borrow his car for the night, but on the way back from clubbing, having stopped briefly before starting the car to refresh her "whore's blush", her mind drifted into thoughts about stopping to touch her pussy some more, and she veered off the road and hit a tree.
Luckily by that point the car had been moving quite slowly, and she was uninjured, but the car was a write-off, which her father's insurance didn't cover at all.
He yelled and fumed at her on the night he found out, but the next day he was oddly calm.
"Do you like looking like a girl?" he asked her over breakfast.
