An incident on a hiking trail through a swamp leads a solitary man to new companionship, a new point of view and a new appreciation for justice at work.

---

Sometimes Justice Just Works

--Kiai 23may03/11oct06

 

 

It's amazing what changes a simple wrong turn in a hike around a swamp can bring into your life. The trail markings sucked, they were so out of repair, and the trail itself was, well, a trail, only made official by those missing markings. When I made the wrong turn, it must've been a little after noon; by the time I realized it, it was getting on towards evening.

It was twilight when I heard them; muffled, but loud enough to carry through the thick trees adjoining the swamp.

"No! Let me go!" That was a youthful female voice, sounding outraged and panicky. I turned towards the sound, pushing my way through the thick brush and trying to peer through the trees at the source.

"Yes! Now you'll get yours!" That voice was rough, male, and angry. I started running.

"No! Oh, please! Help!" It was the same female voice, and now I was running downhill through dimly seen saplings and brush, trying not to trip, when I saw them at the water's edge.

He had her forced to her knees. When he brought up the hawgleg shotgun, I just had to act. I lunged out of the bushes and tackled him, even as I was cursing myself for my stupidity. Middle-aged men with weak hearts shouldn't play superhero, but charging an armed man was a good way for me to never have to worry about my heart giving out. I was barely inside his guard by the time he got the gun pointed my way, and then I was grabbing it and him and trying to use my somewhat overfed bulk to overpower him, driving us both down into the water away from the girl.

Somehow the gun got turned around as we fought, with me still forcing his aim away from her and trying to get his hands away from the trigger guard, when it went off. I was surprised not to feel anything beyond the recoil, but that was because the blast went up into his chest. He stopped fighting, staring out past me with an expression of frozen surprise, and then he must have twitched, because then the other barrel took the top of his head and most of his face off, pelting me with hot gases and bits of wadding and flesh. I let go and what was left of him toppled backward into the knee-deep swamp water with a splash and went under.

For what felt like forever, the only sounds were the lapping of the water from the ripples hitting the bank, and my labored breathing as I tried to get through my adrenaline crash, tensing my legs in alternation to take some of the load off my heart. My head cleared a little and I realized that I was standing in water. For a moment I wasn't sure what to do about it; I felt unclean with what all was on my shirt and skin.

Then the girl came up behind me, peering around me at the spot in the water where he sank. "Is he dead?"

I was still panting from my efforts, but I wheezed, "Yeah..."

"B-But-- You killed my body..."

"What?" I twisted around to stare at her, stunned at the very idea, but she went on, convincing me that she believed it, anyway.

"She... he traded with me. It was fun being little and sexy, but then he wasn't going to trade back, and he said nobody was going to know, and... he was going to kill me to keep it secret."

"Oh. well, I, um, I'm sorry. I wish I'd known, maybe I--"

"No, there's nothing you could do, it was his life or mine. You saved my life... thank you..."

She was sinking to her knees, staring at that black water where the mud was slowly settling as the red slowly tinted its surface, and her voice got lower and lower too, down to a despondent tear-soaked croak, little more than a whisper.

"...But now I can't trade back."

What can you say to something like that? I didn't have a clue, so I didn't say anything.

I walked out, then over, until I was in water about twenty feet away, water that didn't feel tainted. I pulled off my shirt and used it to splash myself good all over, then scrubbed with a handful of sodden leaves from the bottom. Then I rinsed off my shirt, and slung it around over my head a few times to centrifuge out the worst of the water, twisted it tight, slung it around to straighten it back out, and put it back on. In this humidity, it didn't feel much different than before, except for not having bits of someone else peppered across it; or maybe I had someone else who needed attention more.

When I got out of the water and walked over, she was still staring down into the bloody water. She turned abruptly and walked away, shuddering. "I can't stand to look at that-- that-- my old body like that."

Then she hunched against a tree, openly crying. "And I've got nowhere to go. I can't go back to my old life looking like this. I mean, shit... I'm a girl..."

Abruptly, her sobbing slowed, and she roused, looking up at me through tears with an utterly serious gaze.

"Look -- get me out of here. Please. I'll do what you want -- daughter, girlfriend, mistress, hooker, whatever, as long as it doesn't hurt. Just get me out of here!"

"How do I know I won't get in trouble?"

"It's okay, I'm eighteen, I'm legal, I checked. I didn't want to get in trouble." She looked down at herself. "I didn't think it'd matter this much..."

I wasn't sure how much truth there was in that. She might be as young as fourteen or fifteen; it was hard to tell in this dim light with that scrawny-but-cute face. She was already getting heavy in the chest. I knew she'd be a knockout when she finished growing up. If she made it that far, that is... and if she wasn't there already, like she said.

"You said you checked. Where's her ID?"

She pointed out into the darkness. "She said she was cleaning up loose ends; tossed it out there in the swamp. She... he was going to do that to me." Her expression closed up and she shuddered.

I watched her carefully for long moments. There was something about her, something hard in her gaze, that made me believe her about her age and her situation. She had the kind of self-possession only a lot of miles can bring. Perhaps that really was her natal body down there with its head pulped.

"C'mon... let's go home."

"Thank you..."

It took us an hour to find a road, and another two hours of walking to get us back to where I had parked my car. She stumbled or struggled through rough or brambled places I could simply stride through, but she kept up, silent and determined.

Once we found a road, I was all for flagging down anybody with a cell phone to place a call to the police, but she talked me out of doing any such thing.

"We need to report this."

"Don't. How're you going to explain it all? You can't, not without tying you and me both up with a lot of legal stuff. You shouldn'ta even been there," she summed up with a despondent shake of the head, adding, "Just let me stay missing; maybe I can get to what little I own before somebody notices, and if not, well... It's not like I own much anyway. That shotgun..." She shuddered. "That whole thing scares me... How close I came to dying."

"Are you sure you don't want to phone anybody?"

"You're not thinking. Who would I call? Why would they believe me?" She shook her head, the picture of despondence. "There's nobody. I'm stuck... stranded."

So, instead, we kept to the side of the road, walking calmly the two times when cars went past, until we got to the pulloff at the trail head. The car's dome light was a friendly sight to see after staring into the woody darkness for so long. Maybe that was because it was mine; she didn't seem to be any lighter in mood as she got in and belted up.

We stopped off at a filling station to gas up and clean up, and then we got onto the interstate and headed for my home town, two states away. As we were getting to my exit, I thought about how we looked, and about the kinds of questions that could be asked when an older man had a teenage girl in his car.

"What's your name?"

"Oh... I..."

"What's the name of the body you're wearing; do you know?"

"Oh. Yeah; it's Denise. Denise Jane Weatherall."

"And I gave you a lift back there, and it turns out you're traveling light, so I said you could stay for a few nights while you figure out what to do about it. That's if we're asked."

A little shyly, she responded, "Oh. Okay. Sounds good. And you are...?"

"I'm John, John Burgis Harrison. Hi."

I pulled one hand off the wheel and extended it to her. She put her small hand in mine and shook it, with a grateful grin as she returned, "Hi."

Once in town, we stopped for burgers, then spent some time picking up more than a few pieces of clothing for her at the local bargain-bin store, before we headed for the outskirts and eventually the dirt road that wandered through the trees to get to my house.

Throughout the whole ride, other than that exchange, she said little, mainly staring out the window or down at herself, and occasionally handling her breasts or staring at her crotch when she thought I wasn't looking. That was when I made up my mind to actually believe her story, seeing that.

Soon enough, I parked the car behind the house and we got out, loading up in silence with the bags of stuff I had bought for her. When I unlocked the front door of the house, I held it and the screen door open for her. "Come on in. Welcome home."

"Thank you," she said, though I had to strain to hear it, and stepped aside to let me lead the way.

We dropped off her bags in the spare bedroom -- her room now -- and I showed her where the bathroom was. "Why don't you shower and clean up while I fix us something to eat."

"Okay."

She got to the kitchen about the time I had a freezer meal, chicken and veggies and potatoes, ready to put on the table. She was cleaned up, if a little pale and bedraggled, and her hair could probably use more than just a brushing. She had gotten into the nightgown I bought her, and now she walked over to face me, with her hands tight on the back of the chair, while I finished setting down the potatoes with hot-gloved hands.

"Do you... need me to have sex with you tonight?"

"I don't force people like that. It wouldn't be just. Your company's enough. Have a seat and dig in."

"Thanks," she said with a relieved half-smile, and, visibly relaxed, sat down at the chair she had been gripping. We ate in silence. Once I had finished and she was finishing, I brought up the obvious question.

"So, what do you do now?"

She let her fork droop to stand on her plate, visibly cringing, and shook her head. Soft and low, she said, "I don't know... I don't know what I have to work with until I find out what her, well, my, record is... and I don't want to do that, stir up any questions, until we know if I'm tied to my, his death. If they find anything. I-I guess I have to wait and watch the news, right?"

I nodded agreement. "Makes sense. You can stay here, of course."

"Why? Why are you doing all this?"

"I told you. For your company. If something more happens, fine, but your company's what I'm getting right now, and that's enough."

"Oh. Okay. Well... thank you. Again."

"As long as nobody connects what's in the swamp with two people who happened to be walking on that road, we shouldn't have problems. And if anything's going to happen, it should happen soon."

I forebore to mention that, if anyone's name came up with the body, it would be whichever name was on that ID, assuming there was some; but then, she obviously had that in mind herself.

We went to our separate bedrooms to sleep. I told her to lock her door, and I did the same. I laid awake for awhile, mulling over my new guest.

I was a little surprised by her tacit offer, even though it was in keeping with the deal she asked for. I was still a little wary, though: what kind of man keeps a sawed-off shotgun handy? I assumed it was his; it wasn't something a teenage girl would naturally carry, or easily obtain. Would his being a girl now, and being far from the place where he felt that he needed to carry such a weapon, make him less likely to seek its replacement? I knew I would sleep better, knowing that that kind of person wasn't in my bedroom, in my bed, while I was sleeping. I finally drifted off after deciding to watch to see how she behaved in these new circumstances, to see if such caution was needed.

Over the next week or so, I did careful net searches for any news naming the swamp or the nearest township, and finally got what looked like the right one. The body they pulled out was identified by dental records, and they were calling it a suicide, which told me that any ID in the swamp probably stayed in the swamp.

I searched further back, and got an idea of his police record, a history of drunk and disorderly, DUI and assault. I summed him up as being a dead-ended 'good ol' boy', something he couldn't carry off as a petite girl. I relaxed a little, viewing it as a fresh start for her, if she could surmount her lack of resources, and, since she was polite and cooperative towards me, I decided that I could give her that fresh start as long as she stayed that way.

When I called her by the name I found, 'Davy', she looked up, startled. When I told her the results of my web search, she looked stunned and pale. She retired to her room, emerging only for dinner with eyes that were tear-streaked and reddened, and vanished back to her room as soon as she had eaten. She wasn't coming to me for comforting and I wasn't about to push my way into her room to offer her some. Yes, it was my spare bedroom, but it was hers now.

She gradually came back to life over the next week or so, and then it seemed she had gotten hold of herself. Now she was on the Internet when I wasn't, looking up things and jotting down notes in a notebook. The 'good ol' boy' wasn't totally backwoods, then, I thought; this should make things easier for her.

Now she usually left her door open, even at night, and I could see it change day to day, as it slowly collected clothes and clutter suitable for a female body. It still had none of what I would consider decorations for a female mind; I reflected on what she had to be going through, and decided I wouldn't push it. It was her life, however rearranged; it was up to her how she chose to implement it.

Part of that implementation was sexual, as I found out some few evenings later, when she showed up at bedside clad only in panties and an oversized t-shirt. I gave her an inquiring look.

"Please... I'm lonely."

I pulled open the covers and made room, and she slumped down and curled up beside me with her back to me. I listened to her breathing for a while. It didn't slow into sleep, instead, in a little while, her voice came from under the quilt, asking, "John? Are you still awake?"

"A bit. Why?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm a little bit horny too... So, wherever your fingers do the walking is fine by me."

"Okay."

As I complied with her request, she gradually twisted around to lie on her back, splaying her legs across mine and breathing harshly into the quiet. I was enjoying it; it had been awhile since I was last in a position to share pleasure with a woman. By the time I was moistening my finger with her juices and touching her clit through her panties, she was clutching my arm, and she only let go long enough to push her panties down and off.

She kept the t-shirt on, though, and I took that as a signal that she'd meant what she'd said, that her welcome was limited to fingers. I managed to rock her a few times, and then she seemed to go quiet. I lay there for a while, thinking about going to the bathroom to take care of my urges, but those seemed less important than her company; I drifted off to sleep pleasantly hard and hungry, enjoying the rare feeling of having a warm female in bed with me.

At breakfast next morning she challenged me on it. "I kept waiting for you to get on top of me."

"I figured, with you new to being female, the last thing you needed was someone pushing you into that. I gave you what you asked for."

"I was game to try it. If I'm going to live like this, I ought to get to know what it's like. Tonight, maybe?"

I gave her a lecherous grin. "Okay." Then I pointed out, "But you did keep the shirt on..."

"I kept it on because I was cold. You can take it off me; I want you to. You can keep me warm."

That night, she climbed into bed when I did, and lay facing away from me in the darkness. When I didn't immediately do anything, she simply said, "Please."

I took that as permission to put my hands up under her t-shirt, fondling her breasts, rousing her nipples and then rocking them in a gentle grip, while her breathing grew louder and faster. She sat up suddenly and pulled off the shirt, and, a moment later, shucked off her panties as well before lying back down in the same position. Her voice was half-muffled by the pillow as she declared, "There. Now you've got no excuse."

From her position, I realized that she wasn't ready to kiss a man on the lips, but that left a lot of skin I could kiss, and fondle, and stroke, and she moved a little to help me get to everything I wanted to touch.

As I lay closer to her, she twitched as my member, stiffened already, pressed against her back. Then I felt her fumbling under the covers, and then I felt raw flesh against my member, and then she had it tucked under her, nestled in her folds and maybe pointing out from under her in front. Her fingers and palm fondled it in a familiar way, and I said so: "You seem to know your way around that part of me."

"Well, it feels different, that's for sure... I do this--" She gently stroked the head. "--and I don't feel it like I would. But then, every time you move, I feel it here--" She pressed its length up against her folds. "--and that feels almost as good. Try doing a little bit of pumping? Ohh, yeah, like that, that's good..."

She got one or two that way, and then asked, "John, do you have a condom?"

"Nothing that's fresh."

"Then we need to go shopping. Right now, let's keep doing this -- please. You can get off this way and-- oh! So can I!"

She got maybe a half dozen by the time I came into her cupped hand. When I got my breathing back, she was half-sitting, eyeing me. "I still want to cuddle..." Her rueful gaze went to her closed hand. "...but let me wash this off first." We shared a grin, and went to wash up, and then we did cuddle, and talk.

"You don't mind if I squeeze against you, do you? My boobs like it. I think they want more."

"Should I put my mouth on 'em?"

"No, not now, we'd get right back into it and stay up all night if you did that, and we don't have condoms. I'll just squee-ee-eeze like this..." I heard her grin into my shoulder as she did so.

"You're getting used to this."

"Well, not being scared of your dick was a big step. Maybe soon I can kiss you. I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet."

"I can understand that. It's something to look forward to."

"What, kissing? Yeah, I guess... I'll have to think about it."

 

The next day was Friday, and time for my regular Friday evening shopping run. We stopped off for burgers, then went around town for the things we needed, finishing up with the supermarket. I somewhat diffidently dropped a box of condoms into the basket as we passed them.

At the checkout, I noticed that she had gotten one too. The woman doing the scanning had the grace not to say anything, though I could tell from her suddenly neutral expression that something about 'cross-generation couples' had to be running through her mind. She was wearing a wedding ring, so maybe she had a daughter at home to worry about.

Denise must have seen her expression change too, because she latched onto my arm and stayed there while the rest of our purchases were being scanned in and bagged, looking around with a defiant expression like she was ready for a fight and confident that she would win.

Back home, she busied herself while I was putting groceries away in the kitchen, which, given that it was a tiny kitchen, really was a one-person job. I finished that and put on coffee, and then I heard her calling out to me. "John! can you cm'ere?"

When I tracked her down to the bathroom and opened the door, she asked from the bathtub, "Can you wash my back?"

I grinned. "Put my hands on a pretty woman? Sure."

As I was leaning over, working the washcloth and dragging the hem of my shirt in the water while doing it, she looked crossly over her shoulder at me.

"Get in the tub, will you? How'm I supposed to seduce you if you keep on being honorable?"

"Oh. Well, you didn't say--"

"I am now. Jeez! You make me do all the work!"

Grinning, I shucked my clothes and got in with her, soaping and rinsing her back with bare hands this time.

"Thanks. Now hold still."

She turned herself around and got up on her knees. Closing her eyes, she leaned in for a tentative kiss. She must have found it tolerable, because she put her arms around my neck and deepened the kiss. We started caressing each other; she gradually squirmed forward and got herself on my crossed legs. We enjoyed each other for awhile like that, two soapy wet bodies spreading our attentions on each other.

When she started playing with my member, teasing it harder, I got concerned about hasty actions and their consequences. "We should have a--"

"I've got one right here. Hold still, let me put it on you."

I watched her roll it over my hardon and tug at the tip pocket, checking it for air leaks. She briefly grasped the organ, coaxing it to more urgent hardness. Then I couldn't see it anymore because she was clutching me tight around the waist, but then I felt her touch it, surround its tip, and then slide down onto it bit by bit, rocking it into her and enclosing it in her tight warmth.

"How is it?"

"Feels good... Lemme think about this a bit, okay?"

We bathed that way, washing each other's backs and fronts and legs, whatever was more in reach. Then we just sat there while the water cooled, kissing and fondling and caressing anything we could reach on either of us. Occasionally her fingers would find her crotch, and then she would twitch, and my fingers would take over while hers were too tight to keep moving.

I could reach the detachable showerhead, and use that to rinse us, and that was pleasurable too, especially when I set it to pulse and rinsed her groin with it. As I turned it off, she looked at me hungrily.

"I thought about it. Can you carry me to bed like this?"

"Put your legs around me."

She did so, and I got us out of the tub and into my bedroom, and onto a towel she brought along, her on her back with her legs still clamped around my waist.

She stared up at me, then crooked her finger, beckoning to me, and I met her lips in another kiss that got passionate. We resumed caressing and fondling. When her hips started rocking, I started gently pumping.

She half-whispered, "Ooh, low and slow, I used to do that... Now I know why it worked..." and claimed my mouth again.

With that slow teasing rhythm, we carefully found our way to deep orgasms that had us both spent by the time we were done. I saw her fall asleep, and allowed my own afterglow to claim me.

The next day or so was overcast and colder. With the heater turned off for the summer, the house was a bit chilly inside, even all buttoned up, but we would snuggle up together when we weren't otherwise occupied. Sharing made a blanket fun, and, of course, we warmed each other up at night.

Finally we had another sunny afternoon. I had been out gathering deadwood, thinking we could enjoy a fire in the woodstove if the cold weather returned. With my arms fully loaded, I passed her in what passed for a back yard, a mere sunny spot amid the dappled expanses under the trees.

She was sitting back on a tired old lounge chair, sunbathing topless and reading a magazine she'd picked up. She put the magazine down when I approached, watching me carry the wood and ready to get up and help as I called out, "Avoiding tan lines?"

"No, actually, I'm just trying to get used to them."

"Still?"

"Still."

She stood up, with a moue of annoyance, and moved to open the back door for me, explaining as she went.

"It's weird, having these; it's like they always want to include themselves in everything. I bend over and they flop. I straighten up and they bounce. If I move too fast they hurt. They hurt anyway when I had my period... And that's weird, me saying that."

"When is your period, anyway?"

"That's right, I should be getting it by this weekend, shouldn't I? I'll need more stuff for it."

"We'll go get it, whatever you need."

"Thanks."

I dropped the wood by the stove, into the canvas carrier she was holding open. "Well, thanks for the help. Should we go tonight, just to be safe?"

"We probably should, yeah."

At the supermarket, I spent awhile browsing over foods that were perhaps worthwhile to fix to be shared but weren't worth my while alone, ending up selecting a few that would fit in my freezer, then went looking for her. She was in the feminine products aisle, agonizing over the selection of pads and tampons, long enough for me to get antsy at being in the same aisle for so long. I commented, "This isn't your first period, you said."

She absently shook her head, still staring at the array of boxes on the shelves. "No, my second. Doesn't mean I'm any more used to it than last time."

"Well, play it safe; if you think you might need it, get it."

"Okay, thanks."

With that explicit permission, she pulled down a half dozen packages ranging from tampons to pads to pain-relievers. Then she tossed another couple of boxes of condoms into the cart, with a smirk as she noticed me watching her. "What? I don't want to stop; do you?"

"No."

"Well, then." A little less self-confident, she added, "Besides, if this time's anything like last time, I'll need it to help me cope."

"Rough?"

"You have no idea."

She was right; I didn't. I could sense her pain, but only indirectly by her tension. All I could do was stand ready to give her a back rub or a warm cuddle, and be willing to use up another condom whenever she was in the mood.

 

Less than a week later it was over, and she was substantially more chipper, and also more in the mood to tease. As the weather heated up again, she wore less and less. I came upon her once hanging her undies up on the line to dry, taking advantage of our backwoods location by wearing exactly nothing.

"Do I need to buy you more underwear? Is that what this is about?"

"No... I'm wearing what I want."

"Well, I like your fashion sense," I told her, while giving her a lustful once- or twice-over. She laughed and continued pinning up her collection.

That night, in bed, as we were settling down and getting ready to get intimate, she turned to me. "Ever wonder what it'd feel like?"

"Of course."

"I can show you."

"Oh?"

"Guess I got some of her powers with the body. I've been feeling your dick from both sides when you put it in me. I think I can share it."

She settled herself amid the pillows, then pulled me down onto her. Smiling up at me, she said confidently, "Let's try it."

That moment of penetration will stay with me as long as I live. The feeling was incredible: of being invaded while I was the one doing the invading, and feeling it all equally from both sides, while knowing without question that I was being welcomed within.

She broke off our kiss to ask, "Want to go deeper? I think maybe I can do it... share all of what I'm feeling and what you're feeling."

This time I was sure that, when I caressed her nipples, I could feel them ache for more, and gave them more, intrigued by the hunger for attention hidden in each breast and letting those appetites set the pace and the forcefulness.

We took our time about coupling, focusing more on discovering shared sensation than on rushing towards the first climaxes. I could see by how she handled it that she could feel what she was doing to my organ, teasing it close to the edge with hip shimmies and tight clamping and then calming down to let me keep control so I didn't spoil things by coming too soon.

I noticed that, where past lovers had handled my scrotum too, no doubt responding to its maleness despite its not being a particularly erogenous zone for me, she zeroed in on what had the most potent sensation, fondling it with a sure touch.

Soon I was feeling both our skins, sensing her erogenous areas and mine almost equally, enveloped in a shared realm of feeling where it was sometimes difficult to distinguish whose body contributed what sensation, it was so intertwined. Hands sometimes traded places, swapping my rough fingertips for her softer and subtle ones, as we played our duet, slowly building and then inevitably falling into the avalanche of her orgasms and then mine.

The sharing faded as our breathing slowed, and gradually my mind cleared, alone in my skull and knowing it, and we were just holding each other, caressing for the sake of expressing and occasionally kissing.

"That... That was incredible."

She showed a little secretive smile in response; now her eyes were dancing.

"There's more, isn't there."

Her response was to show more of that smile. "Maybe."

I let my curiosity show, and she explained, "I don't know if I can do it. She did when she was in this body. Whether I can figure out how she did it, and whether I've got the power..." She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm willing to give it a try if you are."

"To trade?"

"Uh-huh."

"For how long?"

"Let's say... a day. If it works, we can do it again if you want."

"All right. I'd like that."

"Let's see if I can do it, then. Stay inside me."

With her eyes focused on mine, we lay side by side, her a little under me, both of us breathing evenly, and, soon enough, at the same time. Soon after that it was like I fell into her eyes and got lost somewhere. Eventually, I woke up again.

I knew by his weight on me that we'd switched, even before I noticed that I felt him inside me. I already knew that sensation from her sharing, but now it was undiluted by my own maleness, because at the moment I didn't have any.

I felt his mouth on my breast, stirring it to fresh hunger with liquid teasing, just as I had done an hour ago; now I felt it from the female side. I felt his other hand exploring, first my other breast, and then the tender hunger between my legs close by where he was filling me. He caught me up again and again into breathlessness that way, and that was even before he started to drive.

Then he held me tight, pumping us both higher, driving me into periodic spasms where I was lost in space. I almost didn't notice his spasmodic clutching as he climaxed, I was so swept away, lost even to the flesh I was wearing.

After a while, our panting slowed. I looked up at him and smiled, sharing the afterglow with him as he lay facing me, equally helpless to move.

He roused, looked at his hand and then at me, and smiled. "So... how does it feel?"

"Feels good."

He pushed himself up off the bed, pulling himself roughly out of me as he did so. "Good, because that's what you'll feel from now on."

Shocked out of disbelief and then outraged, I shouted, "You said a day!"

"I said whatever it took to get you to go along with it."

"Why?"

"Because I never really liked being a girl, that's why."

"I didn't say I did, not for good!"

He shot me a victorious smile. "Better you than me. The only times it really felt good for me was when I could pretend that it was all new to me, y'know, like I'd just been a guy. Then it was fun."

"So... When I found you... You were the girl in the first place!"

He nodded, smirking over his shoulder as he left the room. I lay back and let the tears flow, not knowing anything else I could do about it. After a while, I went and cleaned myself up, then went into the other bedroom and got dressed.

At first I was afraid that he would get rough with me. I decided that, if he was going to force himself on me, I would do my best to enjoy it, that being my best hope of keeping myself sane and together. I did agree to trade so I could see how it all felt, after all; that part was volitional, and it would be hypocritical for me to try to pretend that sex, with him in the man's role, wasn't part of it.

He didn't touch me, though. I slunk into the spare bedroom that night to sleep by myself, scared and more than a little lonely, no longer in any mood to explore. Then, after a day of his coldly ignoring me, I thought that he would just want to get back to his old haunts, leaving me by myself in this young body in my old place.

I was wrong, as wrong as I had been about who he really was. The next morning, bright and early, there were cars in the dirt driveway, and visitors with official-looking badges or business cards. He showed them in and told them his story.

"She told me she was eighteen, and I believed her. I only found out yesterday how old she really was. I'm willing to accept whatever penalty I owe, but I swear I didn't know. Now she needs to go back to whoever is in charge of her before she gets anybody else in trouble."

While one of them was telling him he was a good citizen and shouldn't expect trouble, a middle-aged lady was facing me sternly.

"You're going back to your foster home, young lady. I persuaded the Beachams to take you back; now you've got one last chance to spend this year in a good home."

In half an hour, all the clothes and supplies I had bought for her were packed to go back to somewhere with me, and I was leaning over to watch out the car window, watching him smiling, smirking, really, as we drove away.

 

It wasn't that long a drive, after all; we never left the state. Soon enough, we pulled up in front of a large rambling white-painted house centered on what might originally have been a farm. I had time on the way to face facts: with no way to prove who I was, all I could do was go along with this role I was forced into. I had to be Denise Weatherall, because, physically, I was.

I got a good talking-to from my new foster parents, the Beechams, who were good people trying to be good authority figures under trying circumstances. I got warned that, if I ran away again, I'd go into 'state' instead, which sounded nasty just from the way they said it.

I was in no hurry to run away to anywhere, not unless things got abusive or dangerous. From the vibes, that wasn't likely. There were three other girls and one guy staying there, and I met them all, and all of them gave me calm looks of barely-concealed pity or contempt for running away.

The guy, Raymond, went so far as to mutter, when we were away from the others, "How can you be so stupid, Denise? You throw away the best thing you got going and make trouble for the rest of us doing it!"

All I could do was promise, "I won't do it again."

"Good! You've only got a year until you're eighteen. Stick it out! The Beechams are people like I wished my folks were!"

I nodded. "I understand. I'll be good."

He smirked at that. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Just don't run off, okay?"

"Okay."

And that was that. I was casually polite to everyone, and everyone was casually polite to me. The Beechams seemed to be making a special effort to be warm and supportive, as well as available should I need them. I managed to find my way around without asking awkward questions. I put my new things away in my room, inspected and selected from among those and the older things that the other Denise had to wear, and did my best to fit in and do what was expected of me. At night I locked my door and no one tried the lock. It was all surreal in its peacefulness for my being effectively someone else now, someone who wasn't even male.

Next day, I was sitting out on the back porch, shaded by the rose trellis, and savoring the smell of tobacco smoke on the air as one of the girls, Kimmy, lit up. Denise had been an occasional smoker while we were together, cadging rollups from me until I bought her a pack of her brand, so I knew these lungs recognized the aroma. I sat there, trying to figure out how to ask and whether I should.

Kimmy noticed me looking at the pack and offered me one. I accepted, she pulled out her lighter and lit it, and we smoked in companionable silence, caught up in our own thoughts for a bit.

I squirmed in the seat, trying to deal with an itchy feeling way inside without being too obvious about it. It was enough to return Kimmy's attention to me.

"So...," she breathed out, idly watching the smoke she was expelling drift into the sunlight. "I guess she got to be a guy like she wanted."

"Huh? Explain."

"You don't act a thing like she did. And the way you walk... You used to be a guy, I can tell. Did you want to switch?"

"No... I didn't."

"So she stole that too."

"Why, what else did she steal?"

"I don't know near everything, but... a lot. I guess you'll find out about it. How is it, being a girl now?"

"Oh, I'm... still getting used to it; hard to say."

That itch started up again. I tried not to be obvious about my reaction, but she noticed. She glanced over, gave me a look composed of equal parts worldliness and sympathy, and commented, "She was wild, y'know; better get yourself checked for disease."

"Oh."

"You should get on the pill like I did. Then there's one thing you don't have to worry about, anyway."

"Do you think they--" I pointed my thumb behind me at the house and, by inference, our house parents. "--will let me? I need permission, don't I?"

"You should ask them. They'll sign; they did for me. They know they can only control us just so much, and they really don't want us coming home pregnant while they're responsible for us."

When I asked her about that, Mrs. Beecham looked at me closely, then gave a serious nod. "It's good that you're taking responsibility for yourself. You know that it won't protect you against disease, don't you?"

I nodded. "I know, and I'm not sure if I'll even really have a need for this; I just want to be safe."

She smiled a knowing smile at that, then sat down and printed off a little permission slip on the computer. It had a short list on it, with the checkbox for 'oral contraceptives' marked. I was taken aback that it would be so commonplace a request. She signed it and handed it up to me with a dismissive nod.

With that in hand, I got an appointment with the gynecologist everyone at the house was using. I explained the itch, submitted to a full pelvic exam and a blood test, and signed up for the birth-control pills while I was at it. Maybe the exam would have been embarrassing or humiliating, if I let it get to me, but I just put it down as the price of how good it felt to have a guy's dick in there that one time.

A few weeks later, I had answers. I already knew that the itch was a vaginal yeast infection, something that, while annoying and a little painful, was easy enough to treat. Now I could breathe a little easier, knowing that this body had no VD, no herpes, no HIV, and no baby. It was clean. It was up to me to keep it that way, and that suited me fine.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I asked for and got replacement ID, assuming that such a thing had ever really been thrown into the swamp. I scrutinized it as I carried it back to my room to put in my purse. 'Denise Jayne Weatherall' -- she hadn't put any special emphasis on the middle name, but here it was in print with a 'y' in it. Considering how unlikely it was that I would ever get to trade back, now it was mine for good.

I knew I should look into the family history behind this name and the body connected to it, but I felt no urgency. From talking to Kimmy, I knew that there hadn't been any visitors for Denise at the foster home, so whatever dysfunctional family had crashed and burned to land the original Denise here was no immediate concern of mine. Besides, I was too busy with independent study.

Frankly, that was a breeze, even though there was new stuff in the curriculum since I'd last attended school of any sort. The new stuff, and not tripping up on old stuff learned wrong, were just enough of a challenge for me to enjoy setting out to ace those curriculum blocks. After the first month, I was glowing inside from the praise I was getting. Someone said, "Well, you've certainly turned your life around," and I smiled, knowing they had no idea how much truth was in that.

No one seemed receptive to me testing for a driver's license outright using their car, so I settled for the first step, which was a learner's permit. Then the occasional practice drive with one of the Beachams to go get groceries was me proving I could handle a car, and getting used to being in this body behind the wheel, as much as anything. The heights were all wrong, and I had to get used to putting more muscle into the wheel and brake, but, after a few decades behind the wheel, I adjusted quickly.

I adjusted quickly in other areas, too. Even working on independent study, I got a part-time job at a local store. I also got enough exposure to the high school social scene to get noticed, get asked out, and eventually get me a boyfriend who appreciated a tomboy.

He had a motorcycle, a Yamaha 250. He let me try it out on the dirt roads and trails. It was easy enough to get used to riding in this body with its lighter mass; the only place it really mattered was in reaching the controls, and the smaller bike's geometry made that easy. I was confident that, if I could borrow his bike enough times, I could get a motorcycle endorsement added to that driver's license once I got it, just taking things one step at a time.

I kept that guy close, despite his rough edges, partly for that reason. Besides, where he took me sometimes when we'd pulled off into the backwoods bushes somewhere and climbed off the bike was reason enough to ride out with him. I made him use a condom every time, even after the pill was supposed to be in force, because I couldn't be sure he wasn't spreading himself thin; I didn't feel like catching whatever he came home with.

Over the next months, I managed my time, fulfilled my commitments, studied hard and played hard, and got into not so much a rut as a rhythm. I still kept my wits about me, now permanently wary of when the next change would come and where it would come from. With that attitude, I stayed aware of what I had, and savored it. Fortunately the next change wasn't bad for me.

Ordinarily I had no interest in the newspapers, even without a constant Internet connection. This time, when I saw one lying on the sofa in the common room of the home, I had an intuitive urge to pick it up. I took it over to the small table in the corner of the common room and spread it out, idly leafing through it, and I knew that the urge had been intuition only when I happened to read about him. It was an obituary: that weak heart had finally given out. Doing what, the obituary didn't say, but they never did.

Later that day, there was a phone call for me from my old attorney's office. I'd been waiting for it. I'd set it up, after all, though I certainly hadn't expected to be the beneficiary. I had valued her companionship, casual though it was, and, knowing that my heart could fail at any moment, I didn't stint in setting up for her for after I was gone.

Now I myself was the recipient of all that well-meant largesse. Under the terms of the will I'd put in place, I had a modest trust fund coming once I reached eighteen, along with the house and everything in it. The car, the bike, the cabin out back, the computers, all of those were going to be mine again. I'd even get my collection of beloved books back. Somebody I trusted was looking after all of that now.

I had all of that waiting for me once I was legal again, and meanwhile, I had the foster home. That meant I had someone looking out for me for what was left of another year, good people, and friends, too, while I got used to living the female life.

 

Getting ready for bed that evening, I mused over all of that. It brought the changes in my body back to my attention, and of course I did a fair amount of ogling and appreciating of this nubile female body all over again because of it, but my mood ended up back where it had started: quiet acceptance.

Denise hadn't been too good at reading thoughts. Either that, or I'd been too good at hiding mine. My attitude was not exactly gender dysphoria, more like gender ambivalence or indifference. Where, before, I was male, now I wasn't, and there were different capabilities in the new form. Rather than sitting down on the toilet sometimes, depending on my needs, now I sat down all the time, which was simpler than having to analyze whether more than my bladder needed emptying. Rather than fumbling in the dark with one piece of flesh with all of my sexual nerve-endings packed into it, now I would let my hands wander around. And, of course, I talked with a high voice again like I did growing up, and now I was permanently small, and if I ever wanted to be a parent I'd have to either adopt or go through pregnancy and childbirth. Every month, I'd have a few days of messiness, along with cramps which were a physical report on how much I'd stressed myself out since the last one.

None of it really felt like that big a deal, when I actually thought about it; there was nothing there that I couldn't handle and accept. It had been far more disruptive to my sense of self to be suddenly underage again and no longer free of ownership, and wearing a new name, and that latter was most intrusive when I had to deal with this body's history as reflected in other peoples' eyes.

And I could handle that too. I had enough patience to wait out the year ahead, and then I'd be free to develop and define my own lifestyle all over again, this time one where I was female. If I ever got tired of it... Well, I had already gotten in some practice with the abilities that came with this form. Though I wasn't about to switch with my boyfriend outright and thus let someone else in on the secret, I had already begun sharing with him just how good a female orgasm can be; it was enough to keep him good in the sack, because the more I got the more he felt.

Thinking about that last, I crawled into bed, flopped my legs open under the sheets, and reached down there to begin applying Nature's remedy for insomnia. Eventually, pleasurably, predictably, it worked.

 

I'd been asleep for maybe an hour when somebody knocked at my bedroom door. That somebody whispered "Open up... It's Dennis."

I stumbled over to the door and opened it. His face was hard to make out in the harsh shadows cast by the one hall light, but from what I could see he was a slightly-built teenage guy, roughly my new age, and his features were familiar. He might have been a fraternal twin to the face I now wore. His soft voice, almost a whisper, was high enough as he said, "Denise... can I trade back?"

My instinctive response was, 'why should I gamble on a trade when I'm putting in the work as I am and getting results?' Something for nothing was never my style. If you didn't work for it, how could you trust that it was yours?

I turned on my bedroom light and looked him over. He didn't look like anything I wanted to be near, much less wear, as he was offering. He looked like a junkie. I shook my head. "Nope, sorry."

"But I'm your sister!"

I was not liking the feel of this. I gave him a stony gaze. "You're not my sister, because I'm not Denise."

"Who..."

"Denise managed to steal another male body. Mine. Then she died in it. And I like living, and I don't like gambling... so I'll live this way, thanks."

The news of the death of his sibling didn't seem to phase him at all; my opinion of him dropped further. "But it wasn't... I mean, that's my body you've got! I was born in that body! Don't you want to be a guy again?"

Even as I was peripherally noticing the uniformed police officer stealthily coming up the stairs, and was deliberately not allowing my gaze to rest on him, something occurred to me. I locked gazes with Dennis. "You're the one who started all this, aren't you... Trading bodies like this, so you could have his, right?"

He nodded. "I traded us, yeah; it was me that figured out how to do it."

"And now you've gotten yourself in trouble somehow and you want to run away from it. Trade back this body and let your brother take the blame... right?"

Dennis didn't so much nod as cringe. Behind him, the cop's expression went from shock to hard control, and he and I shared a look that communicated disgust. Dennis noticed my reaction and turned to see who was behind him. He froze. In the long silence of the confrontation, I delivered my verdict: "Live with it. That's what I'm going to do."

I closed the door firmly. Then, reacting to hunch and instinct, I leaned against the door, putting my back into it and holding the doorknob fiercely so it couldn't open. The doorknob was tried, then a body slammed against the door, twice. Still forcing the door closed with my shoulders and bare feet, I listened to the sound of a short scuffle, then an adult male voiced called out, "Yeah, I got him."

I felt the pressure on the door ease, so I eased off myself and opened the door a crack. The cop was at the top of the stairs, with his attention focused on his job. Three steps down was Dennis with his arms behind him, the gleam of metal at his wrists confirming that he was handcuffed. He was looking back at my door with an utterly lost expression as I closed my door on that unforeseen chapter of my new life, quietly pleased with myself that I'd stood on principle. Sometimes it's the ones that got away with it that get got; sometimes justice just works.