One of the oddest things about change is that you rarely see it coming.

It sort of sidles up to you all silent and unannounced, like the rising of the sun or the turning of the seasons. For me, it happened on a bright, cool morning at the beginning of summer; not long after my ninth birthday. Must've been around the same time my Dad went off to Chicago with his girlfriend. Mom and I never saw that one coming either. Looking back, I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised at what went down over the next few months; a lot of weird stuff was going on that year.

I was sitting on the front steps of our Fairmont home, listening to the radio and absently playing with a Whipper-Snapper. A Whipper-Snapper is one of those toys that fall in and out of fashion; a small blue ping-pong racket with a black rubber ball attached to it. They have about a dozen different names; Hip-Zipper or Bee-Bopper or something equally inane, but you know what I mean. You probably had one yourself when you were a kid.

It would have been about ten in the morning when the Tracker Brothers moving van pulled up in front of the house next door. I watched their arrival with considerable interest; the Old Stewart Place had been vacant for about two years and had half a dozen realty signs decorating the front yard. My mother secretly hoped it never sold, because you could never tell what kind of neighbors you were going to get. Guess we were about to find out.

Anyway, a couple of fat, sweaty guys got out of the truck (the Tracker Bothers presumably) and started unloading furniture onto the front lawn, grunting and wheezing with exertion. Leaving the radio on the veranda, I stood up and walked over to the edge of the yard. Even at my age, I knew you could tell a lot about people from their possessions. There was a fence dividing our properties, a low, red-brick wall maybe a foot high. I stood to one side, casually zocking the Whipper-Snapper up and down. If the Trackers noticed my presence, they didn't give any indication.

Surveying the chaos, I figured that the new neighbors had at least one kid; most probably a girl by the looks of things. Most boys would have been disappointed to see all the dolls and pandas and bunny-ruggles, but I was the only kid living up on Fairmont Heights at the time. Most of my friends lived out in Greendale, way over on the other side of town. Any change would have been an improvement as far as I was concerned. Glancing back towards my house, I sat down on the fence, settling in for the morning. Mom wouldn't like me annoying the removalists, so I decided to keep a low profile.

The neighbors themselves appeared five minutes later, rolling up the driveway in a late model ford (a Thunderbird, if I remember correctly). The doors cracked open and two people got out: a tall, dark haired woman and a little blond girl I judged to be about the same age as me. I was too far away to get a close look, although I thought the mother was probably quite good-looking. As for the daughter, she scooted into the house carrying an armload of stuffed animals faster than it takes to read this sentence. The woman walked over to talk to the moving-guys, both of whom were struggling with an antique European chaise-long, the sort you see in old Frankenstein movies. A lot of her furniture was like that; all vintage lamps and statuettes and vases from mysterious lands. I later found out that that was her job; she used to be an agent for some auction house in upstate New York.

The morning proceeded for about an hour until the Trackers took a coffee break (the older sibling kept a thermos in the van), by which time most of the furniture had been relocated inside. The lawn was still littered with tea-chests and hampers, but most of the work had been done. The little girl had spent most of her time darting in and out of the house collecting toys, books and assorted knick-knacks; now she was ready to explore her immediate surroundings. Or more precisely, she was ready to investigate me.

Gingerly mounting the brick fence, she held her arms out for balance and started walking along the top, pretending she hadn't noticed me. I did much the same thing, hammering idly away at my paddle-ball until she was about ten feet away. We both looked up at the same instant, cued by that obscure sense of timing all children seem to possess. She paused for a moment, then tight-roped forward a few more steps.

"Hi. I'm Chrissie," she informed me, cutting through all the social protocols without a backward glance.

"Hi, I'm Billy. You're new here." I'd been on an unending quest to state the obvious for some years now.

"Yeah," she confirmed offhand," we just moved in this morning."

"Where you from?"

"Longridge Bay."

"Where's that?"

She shrugged her answer; very few nine year-olds can point out their hometown on a map. That was no big deal, though; I sometimes had trouble finding my way home from school, so she was probably doing better than me.

"You live there?" she asked, pointing to our modest little colonial bluestone.

"Yeah," I nodded, "I live here with my Mom."

"I live with my Mom too," she commented, still working on her balance (although the fence was only a foot off the ground), "but not my Dad. He went away a long time ago."

"Where to?" I inquired, surprised that we were both single-parent kids.

"I don't know. Canada, I think."

"Mine's in Chicago." We spoke with the innocent curiosity of very young children, communicating more with looks and glances than anything else. I think that's where it all began, in those quiet moments between each sentence. We talked and we listened, and somehow, in the brief pauses punctuating our words, our lives had become inextricably linked. Of course, neither of us could have realized that at the time. At the end of the day, we were just two kids chattering away in the warm June sunshine.

About the only thing I really noticed was how pretty Chrissie was; much prettier than any of the girls I knew from school. She had the delicate bone structure and milky complexion of a new born infant. I think her most captivating feature was her eyes. They were a pale shade of violet I'd never seen before; violet ringed with turquoise, if you can believe that. Whenever they caught the sun, they seemed to glitter with some strange purple light, though that was probably my imagination.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked, pirouetting around on her right foot. Her little pink sun-frock ballooned out around her thighs as she turned.

"No, I don't," I answered, thinking she probably studied ballet or something. She reminded me of a music-box dancer.

"Me neither," she said, patting her skirt down, then added: "my Daddy left when I was really little."

I thought of mentioning that my father only ran off two months before, but decided I didn't want to talk about it. Instead, I returned my attention to the paddle-ball, whocking it towards the grass in short, elastic loops.

"What's that?" Chrissie demanded, spinning anti-clockwise this time.

"It's a Whipper-Snapper. I got it for my birthday." I gave the ball an extra hard zock, stretching the string out to around three feet. Chrissie's eyes widened as if she'd never seen one before. The ball streaked out half a dozen times before I dropped the pace back to more normal parameters.

"Can I have a try?" Chrissie asked.

"Yeah, sure," I shrugged. Chrissie jumped off the wall and her dress ballooned up again, this time around her waist. I stood up and handed her the paddle, talking her through the intricacies of holding the grip. Chrissie nodded along for a few seconds, then started zocking away like a world class champion. My eyes widened in vague astonishment: it had taken me nearly two months to perfect my technique, practicing every day since my father flew the coop.

"You've done this before?" I gawked in near-disbelief.

"No, this is my first time," she corrected, literally beaming with pleasure. She turned her shimmering, purple eyes in my direction, and somehow, I knew she was telling me the truth.

In the weeks that followed, I would discover that Chrissie was something of a prodigy. She could pick up new skills in the blink of an eye and usually without any practice whatsoever. Mastering the paddle-ball in a matter of seconds was probably the least of her abilities, though it sure impressed the hell out of me. At times, I found it downright spooky, but on that lazy summer morning at the beginning of June, it was the proverbial mystery of the ages. I never had the opportunity to ask her about it, however. Just at that second, Chrissie's mother appeared on the front veranda and called out to her.

Both of us turned towards the voice, Chrissie a fraction of a second earlier than me (and without losing her rhythm for so much as a second). The woman standing at the top of the steps was tall and willow-thin with jet black hair slicing down the left side of her face. She was wearing a plain blue house dress that somehow rippled against her figure like liquid silk. She looked to be in her late twenties, though at that distance I couldn't be sure.

"That your Mom?" I asked, squinting for focus.

"Yeah," Chrissie confirmed, taking me by the hand and tugging me towards the house, "come over and say hi." We set off across the lawn, dodging between miscellaneous crates and packing cartons. I was suddenly a little shy of meeting her, knowing she was probably incredibly busy with everything. If I'd been a few years older, I would have made some excuse and come back in a day or two, but I was still too young for such complex social rituals. Needless to say, I had nothing to worry about. Chrissie dragged me to the foot of the steps, and her mother came down to meet us.

And my eyes widened for the second time that day.

Chrissie's mom was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. There's simply no other way to describe her. It wasn't conventional beauty, like you see in fashion magazines or TV shows. No, it was much more subtle than that, sort of like the tones of a Renaissance painting or the scales of a classical aria. I stared at her with a child's unaffected wonder, and she rewarded me with a smile that could have shamed the sun.

"Who's this?" she asked, touching my face with her luminous gaze. I felt my heart stall in mid-beat.

"Momma, this is Billy," Chrissie said, indicating me with a sweep of her hand, "he's my new friend".

"Well, pleased to meet you, Billy. My name's Evelyn Reinhart. My friends call me Eve."

"Hi, Mrs. Reinhart," I managed after an incredibly long pause, "I'm Billy Campbell. I live next door." More of my unending crusade to pinpoint the obvious. It never occurred to me to call Eve by her first name (even if it had, I knew my mother would never stand for it). The social niceties being concluded, Chrissie grabbed my hand and pulled me a few steps closer.

"Mom, can Billy help us move our stuff inside?" she asked, fidgeting with excitement. Eva regarded her daughter with a just a hint of amusement.

"Certainly," she nodded indulgently, "if he wants too, that is."

"You wanna?" Chrissie chimed.

"Sure," I agreed without paying that much attention to the question. I was peering up at Eva in a daze, taking in the perfect contours of her face, the thick, black curtain of her hair. There was no denying the facial resemblance; mother and daughter shared the same perfect features, right down to the clipped button nose and the dimples on either side of the mouth. The same haunting, violet eyes too.

"Come on, then!" Chrissie exclaimed, yanking me up the steps and breaking the spell. "I'll show you where my my room is!"

We spent the remainder of the morning scampering around the house and yard without actually doing anything (the Trackers did most of the heavy lifting, cursing like marines because everything seemed to weigh a thousand pounds). We were too excited be of any use. Exploring the Old Stewart Place was like discovering some exotic, fairy-tale world. Every doorway led to a dozen more; there had to be at least a hundred rooms under its gabled roof. Or so it seems when you're nine years old.

The removalists finished about one in the afternoon. Eve paid them both an extra twenty for their services, then set about putting the kitchen in order. Chrissie and I stood on the front lawn, watching the Tracker's van rumbling off down the road and wondering what to do next. We couldn't play inside; the house was a chaotic sprawl of unopened boxes, even Chrissie's attic bedroom.

"You wanna play hide and seek out back?" she suggested, kneeding her skirt between her fingers like a four year old, almost dancing with anticipation. I have to admit I was sorely tempted. Like any boy of my generation, I would have stayed out playing until the sun went down or the world came to an end, whichever came first. Trouble was, I knew I had to get going. My mother had been kinda moody since Dad left, and I wasn't sure how she'd react to me spending so much time with a couple of total strangers, even if they were our new neighbors.

"No, I better go home now", I explained, hoping I wouldn't hurt her feelings, "my Mom'll be calling me inside for lunch soon".

"OK", she said, hardly disappointed at all, "you want to play again tomorrow?"

"Well, sure. There's a playground over on Wentworth Drive, I'll take you there if you want."

"Good! That'll be fun," she answered, hitting me with that 250 volt smile she'd inherited from her mother. For a split second, I saw a ghost of the woman she'd eventually become, and my heart did another somersault. Then it was gone and she was just Little Chrissie Reinhart, the girl next door.

"All right then. I'll see you tomorrow morning." I raised a hand to signal goodbye and started walking towards the brick fence, smiling at the thought of taking Chrissie to the park tomorrow. We'd had such a wonderful day together, I was honestly looking forward to seeing her again.

I'd gotten less than ten steps before she called out to me.

"Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"Want me to get your Whipper-Snapper?"

I paused, looking back over my shoulder at her. We'd left it upstairs in her bedroom when we came down to wave goodbye to the Trackers.

"It's yours," I said after a micro-second's consideration.

"Really?" Chrissie asked, her expression almost comically surprised.

"Yeah. It's yours. Keep it." Hell, why not? It was a lame excuse for a birthday present in the first place - even if it was the last thing my Dad ever gave me. Chrissie, on the other hand, was utterly delighted. She ran over in a haze of flying skirts, pigtails whipping about in the slipstream. I braced for impact, thinking she was going to kiss me.

"Thanks, Billy," she trilled, hugging herself in undisguised pleasure, "you're really nice." That flickering purple light was back in her eyes again.

"You're welcome," I smiled, more than a trifle embarrassed by her boundless enthusiasm. Part of me was hoping she really would kiss me - although I would have blushed the color of a ripe strawberry if she had.

"See you tomorrow then?" she demanded, still hugging herself around the middle.

"You bet". Nothing short of a mass extinction would have kept me away.

We said goodbye once more and I stepped over to my side of the fence, glancing back over my shoulder as I walked up to our front door. Chrissie was spinning across the lawn like a pink tornado, hands lifted to the skies. I halted on the porch to watch the show, half-expecting her to lift off the ground and go soaring off over the trees. It was impossible not to like her, she was sweet and funny and…well, magical in ways that I couldn't define.

Giggling at the top of her lungs, she trailed out of her spin and fell over on her back in a flail of knees and elbows. She lay there staring up at the sky, panting for breath and happy as a cloud; I stood watching her for a few more seconds, feeling a warm glow spreading though my midsection. I had no idea what I'd set in motion that day, no idea what was approaching or how my life was about to change...but none of that counted at the time. All I knew was that I'd made a new friend.

And in the end, that's all that ever matters.

---

Tessa Greenhart unbuttoned her cotton blouse, her face flushed with excitement. The dressing room was literally bustling with movement. Neon-lipped models stepped gracefully through clouds of make-up and perfume, assistants rushed costumes from rack to shoulder, while the floor manager waded through the chaos barking orders like a drill-sergeant. Tessa smiled to herself, breathing in the rich scent of Red Door and adrenaline.

Narrowly avoiding a gaggle of dressmakers making for the door, Tessa walked across the room blouse in hand, looking around for the clothing rack. The rest of the cast had already been zipped into their outfits - mainly miniskirts, camisoles and designer jeans - ready for the first take. Filming was about to begin; she had to get into costume as well; although this would involve dressing down rather than dressing up.

They were making a television commercial for Carmine Nights Lipstick, a relatively upmarket cosmetic with a racy girlfest image. CNL had pulled out all the stops with this advertisement, aiming at a young professional female demographic. Glancing through the doorway, Tessa could see the technical crew running last minute checks over the video equipment. The set was a fluorescent retro-seventies mock-up, soft edges and liquid day-glow colors contrived to suggest a large group house in the burbs. Seemingly imbued with a life of its own, it buzzed with a glaring neon radiance.

She hung the blouse over a nearby chair, almost delirious with anticipation. Very soon, she'd be called out to present herself to the camera in her underwear; a girl of barely eighteen with flowing platinum blond hair and liquid blue eyes so deep you could drown in them. Undoing her tiny black mini, she slid the skirt over her slender, tanned thighs, then let it drop to the floor, forming a lycra pool at her feet.

Her high-cut lace panties were so sheer that they seemed to have been airbrushed onto her body; the tender hues of her flawless, ivory flesh were plainly visible through the gossamer fabric. She suppressed an urge to place a hand over her cleavage. This was her first time before the camera, the dressing room was full of strangers, and she felt agonizingly self-conscious.

Still, she had no reason to complain. A new life was opening for her. She was going to be a model. Maybe not a star like Elle or Claudia or Naomi (let's face it; CNL was hardly the Pret a Porter), but the thought of being on TV was thrilling nonetheless.

Besides, even if she never froze the traffic at Times Square, she would live out a fantasy she'd had since she'd been a little girl. She was utterly breathless, thinking on it now. Small local advertising companies notwithstanding, the commercial would be broadcast via ECN; the EastCoast Communications Network.

The thought was intoxicating.

When she stepped in front of the video cameras, she'd be parading her lingerie throughout the entire north eastern region. Which meant that literally millions of people were going to see her in absolutely nothing but her bra and panties.

Striding through the human tide in her flimsy pink undies, Tessa glanced in the mirror, checking her Alpine blond hair and adjusting an errant lock spiraling over her left cheek. She nodded, smiling faintly to herself: the illusion was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that it had never been an illusion.

How long had she been a girl?
All her life.
How long had she lived as a girl?
Ten years; since her eighth birthday, in fact.

She'd always had a rather feminine appearance, a softness and a fluid grace which simply couldn't be hidden or disguised, regardless of what society or genetics had to say on the matter.

Of course, image was nothing, as the soda commercials had told an entire generation of teenagers back in the nineties. Image alone hadn't made her a woman, nor had the unexpected reshaping of her anatomy close on a decade ago. In the final analysis, such factors were largely irrelevant.

Tessa Greenhart had entered the world biologically male, an insignificant Y-chromosome carelessly tacked onto the end of her DNA, but events since that moment had confirmed that biology did not equal destiny; at least not for her. Tessa's body had been a template, a blank page on which sex and gender could be written. The essential truth had been inscribed on her flesh in chemical signifiers...

albeit a priori):

The script played on the universal belief that pretty young girls inevitably fall out of their clothes as soon as they're left alone together. Tessa had loved the idea as soon as her agent had described it to her: five beautiful girls sharing a house in the suburbs, preparing for an evening out on the town. Running from shower to bedroom, borrowing hairdryers and stockings, swapping dresses hand to hand and making up in the mirror; the myriad little things women do before the Big Night Out.

Towards the end, the girls are shown in their bedrooms, glossing their lips with with Carmine Nights, while the stereo blares out the GirlPower jingle written especially for the advert. It was the only mention of the product; the rest of the commercial was made up of pretty girls decked out in stilettos and lycra slip-dresses as they hurried about brushing their hair and ransacking each others wardrobes.

Tessa had been snared instantly: the treatment was fun, the soundtrack boppy. It was exactly the kind of shoot she'd wanted to do since she started modeling and (best of all) the script required that she appear in her bra and pants. This had been the major drawcard, as far as Tessa had been concerned. She had to run through the house flaunting her knickers while the gyro-cam followed her from the bathroom to the stairway, and thence to her bedroom, where she'd be shown doing girly-things: blow drying her hair, dancing in the mirror and making up her lovely face - exactly what she did at home when she was planning a long evening's nightclubbing.

It was completely gratuitous, of course: there was absolutely no reason why she had to film the advertisement in her bare essentials; it was a lipstick commercial, not a lingerie parade. She could just as easily be shown glazing her lips fully clothed. Not every woman makes up in her underwear, regardless of what the majority of men would like to believe. But the undisguised sauciness of the idea appealed to Tessa. It was as if the part had been written just for her.

---

---

Something odd is happening in the picket-fence township of Ridgewick. Situated on the banks of the Courtland River, this midlands paradise is a place of mystery and wonder, a storybook haven where nothing is ever quite what it seems. Home to the highest population of transsexual children in the world, Ridgewick is a place where gender is malleable and indeterminate. In the span of a few brief years, tall strapping youths have morphed into blushing young virgins, middle-aged bachelors into stunning, blonde brides, and war-weary veterans into green eyed viragoes.

The locals say there's something strange in the water, something which can rewrite DNA, alter chromosomes and even turn back the clock...but nobody's completely sure what it is.

Hi everyone, Tracy here again :)

Following on from this blog-post, Maryanne Peters and I have started work on a collaborative novella under the working title of The Ridgewick Phenomenon. The main story-line involves a genetic mutation spreading through a rural community, causing biological males to gradually morph into anatomical females over a period of years.

A prologue to the novella may be read here. If you find the concept interesting, feel free to post ideas and feedback below. Alternately, if you wish to discuss the project in private, you may contact me via the site's messaging system. All contributions are most welcome, along with drafts, outlines and complete chapters.

Over to you. Looking forward reading your responses :)

"No, Daddy, please no! Not another a spanking!!"

Rob Jackson was sick of Vanessa's backtalk. All he wanted was a little respect and consideration, a place to relax at the end of a day's honest labor. Instead, he'd received nothing but snide remarks, passive misconduct and blatant contempt. Worse still, the girl had outright refused to perform her allotted chores, despite repeated warnings.

Well, Rob had finally reached the end of his rope. 'Nessa's behavior would have tested the patience of a saint, and they were way past the point of no return. It was time for some affirmative action, so to speak. If reasoned discourse wasn't having the desired effect, there was always the alternative, wasn't there?

Let's see if a good, long spanking over his knee wouldn't adjust her little attitude problem.

'Nessa had known she was in serious trouble the moment he'd called her to the living room. Looming over her like a granite sculpture, he'd laid down the law in no uncertain terms, eyes narrowed with parental wrath. His tone had left little doubt as to the outcome of this particular lecture: while half-expecting the inevitable conclusion, she'd been hoping he wouldn't go quite that far. There were very few things she feared as much as a trip over her Step-Father's knee.

"No, Daddy, pease don't, I'm really sorry," 'Nessa wailed in open fear, "I'll be really good from now on, I promise!" Rob ignored her pleas with a kind of slow-burning disdain, inclining his head towards the staircase.

"Up to your room right now," he replied in a gravel voice, "I'll be along in a few minutes; you know what to do."

"Daddy, pleeease –"

"NOW!!"

Vanessa scrambled up the stairs in tears, having failed to overturn her sentence. There would be no clemency, no lenience, no last second pardon. She was going to be spanked like an errant child. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Stepping through the open doorway, Vanessa glanced around her bedroom in rising panic. She had to get ready, prepare for her swiftly-approaching punishment. The first order of business was to drag the heavy, post-and-rail chair to the middle of her bedroom. It had to be placed facing the bay windows, from where her spanking would be visible to half the neighborhood.

Having hauled The Chair to its appointed position, Vanessa moved onto her next task. It was time to disrobe, shed her jeans and t-shirt in preparation for her punishment. By the time her step-daddy arrived, she had to be waiting submissively in her socks and underwear. This was an integral part of her ritual humiliation: even though she was now eighteen, Rob still bared her bottom whenever he gave her a spanking.

Whimpering under her breath, 'Nessa scampered around the room, setting the furniture in order and climbing frantically out of her clothes. Her head spun in near-hysteria, her tummy swarmed with butterflies. Time was running out, and her Daddy was probably already on his way up. She cast a frightened look about her room, making sure that everything was in its place. He'd be here any minute, and she couldn't afford to be so much as two seconds late. Unfortunately, the clock seemed be running slow today.

'Nessa's heart practically leapt into her throat as she heard her Father's footsteps ascending the stairs.

Rob entered the room a few moments later, his jaw set in lines of grim determination. Vanessa immediately renewed her appeals for leniency, suggesting numerous alternatives to traditional punishment – grounding, extra chores, loss of privileges, even corner-time. Needless to say, it was all for naught; Robert Jackson was not a man to be trifled with. Judgment had already been pronounced, justice would be served without delay.

Scowling, Rob seated himself in the chair and ordered her to finish her preparations. At the same time he started to roll up his shirt sleeve, right forearm rippling with thick, corded tendons. At the sight of these manly exertions, 'Nessa's self-control faltered completely, as she knew precisely what came next.

"Please, Daddy, nooo," she implored, nonetheless following his curt instructions to the letter. The moment had arrived, it was time to bare her bottom. Weeping in utter misery, she begged him to let her keep her underwear on, to spank her over her panties.

"Please don't make me take them down, ohhhh, nooo, please, please, Daddy!!" Her desperate appeals were met only with Rob's bald-faced threat to make it much worse if she didn't get those panties down right now!

Voicing a tiny sob, Vanessa faced away from him, taking hold of the elastic waistband of her low-cut cotton underpants. Tugging them slowly down in back, her lush, ripe bottom-cheeks came gradually into view. She was trying to get away with a partial baring, lowering her pants just a few inches in the back. Needless to say, Rob had already stood for more than enough. Face darkening with anger, he told her to GET - THOSE - PANTS - DOWN!

Groaning in abject humiliation, 'Nessa peeled the sheer cotton fabric down to her knees, slowly revealing her sleek, naked bottomtops. She wept in undisguised shame, tears glistening on her cheeks like liquid diamonds. She hated being treated like a little girl; it was degrading beyond all description –

Especially since she'd been born a boy.

"All right, that's IT, young man!!"

Marion Hoskins was at the end of her tether. She'd had the worst day in recorded history and the last thing she needed was another screaming match with her son. The boy had been testing the limits for over a month now, and she'd finally decided it was time for some direct action. All she wanted was a little old-fashioned respect, after all. Recognition for the long days she put in at work; for her senior status within the household. Sixty hours a week in the office from hell and all she could look forward to was a mouthful of Jessie's sneering contempt. Well, all that was about to change. At the end of the day, she deserved better than this. She was the one who brought home the bacon, for Chrissake!

"Get up to your room this instant," Marion growled, scowling down at the boy from withering, arctic heights, "You have ten minutes to get ready!"

Jessie's eye widened with dawning horror. Ten minutes' head start could only mean one thing.

"No Momma, no, please!" Jess cried, knowing what she had in store for him, "anything but a SPANKING!!"

His posturing, adolescent pride evaporated immediately; Jess had good reason to fear his mother's anger. Instigating that argument on the way home had been a tactical error. He knew from painful experience that she wouldn't tolerate any of his snide backtalk. If only he'd managed to keep his mouth shut. There were certain boundaries that should never be crossed. The consequences were too dire to contemplate.

Unfortunately, the time for negotiations had long passed. Marion had already made her decision; nothing would alter her verdict. And that was one thing Jess could count on.

"Get up to your room NOW!!" she snapped, leaning in close to the boy and pointing towards the staircase. A single vertical line appeared on her forehead, directly between her eyebrows. Jessie's heart sank; he recognized that particular signal. His mother wasn't simply angry - she was downright furious. A chill of suspense played his spine like a xylophone. Whimpering in protest, he turned and fled for the staircase, his long, blonde ponytail flaring out in his wake.

Marion watched him hit the stairs at a full run. A tall, handsomely constructed woman in her early thirties, she stood with one hand on her hip, forcing her pulse to drop back to its normal pace. Jess was long overdue for discipline, but she wanted to be completely calm when she entered his bedroom. The task ahead would require her full concentration, and she intended to savor every squirming, twitching moment to its fullest extent.

Where was that brush? The one with the teak wood finish, as smooth and dark as a baby grand. She usually kept it on the mantle piece over the fireplace, where it would always be within easy reach. Marion normally applied her open hand to Jessie's naughty bottom, but today, she felt the circumstances required a little something extra. A grim smile touched her full, red lips.

I'm going to enjoy this, Marion thought, walking through to the dining room.

It was time for a dose of Old Faithful.

Jess bolted up the stairs in tears, his expensive Nike sneakers pounding the steps two at a time. He was literally overwhelmed with shame and fright; it had been more than four months since his last spanking, and he knew this would be far worse than a couple of glancing smacks on the tail. His Mother was mad this time, REALLY mad. He should never have started that stupid argument on the way home.

She's going to SPANK me!! Jess thought frantically, wiping the moisture from his cheeks. He sprinted along the upstairs passage way and headed for his bedroom door. He couldn't afford to drag his heels. He had to prepare for his punishment. If he wasn't finished by the time she arrived, things would probably go a lot worse for him.

At thirteen years of age, there were very few things Jess hated more than a spanking. He would gladly have eaten spinach every night for a month if he could avoid going over his Mother's knee. Of course, no such options were available on this occasion. Nothing could temper her judgment once she'd made up her mind. Hot tears filled his eyes once more. He could already feel her wide, scarlet handprint burning into his naked buttocks.

Running through the doorway, Jess paused a few feet from his bed and stood looking around the room, his face a mask of trepidation. How much was it going to hurt this time? Was she going to use the brush, that hard, black heirloom she kept on the mantelpiece over the fire? He'd only felt its touch a handful of times, but he dreaded it more than any other weapon in his mother's arsenal. The last time she'd applied it to his tender young bottie-cheeks, he'd had to eat standing up for nearly three days.

Sobbing in misery, Jess went over to his study desk and started dragging the old, straight-backed chair into the middle of the floor. He'd come to think of it as THE SPANKING CHAIR, the site of a thousand bare-bottomed torments. It was a constant reminder of his juvenile status within the family hierarchy, the fact that Marion was his mother and he would always be subject to her authority.

Shifting the chair to its venerated position, Jess went over to his built-in closet. He hesitated before the folding door, his belly tensing up in apprehension. Now came the part he loathed the most; the thing he despised more than any other part of this ritual of disgrace.

It was time to get changed.

Stealing a glance at the clock (he estimated he had less than six minutes to go), Jess began to undress, pulling off his t-shirt and unbuckling the belt of his jeans. He bit his lower lip, whimpering in consternation. Why did he have to do this? It seemed so unfair, so terribly unjust. Even a child should be allowed some measure of dignity, no matter what he'd done to incur the maternal wrath.

Tossing his jeans and underpants into the laundry hamper, Jess reached back to remove the band from his ponytail. And at that moment, Jessie Hoskins no longer looked like a thirteen year-old boy. He didn't look like any kind of boy for that matter. With his long, curvaceous limbs and his slightly protruding belly, he seemed small, dainty ... vulnerable.

Sniffling like a child lost in the rain, he folded the closet doors back into themselves and surveyed the interior. His soft, child-like features melted with dismay. He'd known what was awaiting him, but a vast wave of despair overpowered him nonetheless.

The closet was full of dresses.

And there it was: the ultimate humiliation. Marion always insisted he dress up as a little girl whenever a spanking was on the agenda. She had instituted this rule not long after his fifth birthday, and had enforced it ever since, brushing aside his protests with barely a second thought. It was the most degrading thing he could imagine, a betrayal of his budding, teenaged masculinity: being forced to slip into a pair of girl's panties and a sun-frock prior to having his bottom tanned...

---

I've had a life-long fear of injections since I was a child; I used to cry and cry whenever I was due to get one. I particularly dreaded getting needles in the bottom, because it was so painful and embarrassing. The worst part was that back in elementary school, we had to get shots at least twice a year, and we were always vaccinated in the bottom.

That was one of the main drawbacks to being a tranzie. Our hormonal systems were considered so bizarre that we required constant medical supervision throughout grade school. The majority of us were perfectly healthy in most respects, but medical researchers were still trying to identify the process by which biological males could spontaneously transform into anatomical females. Subsequently, we were poked and prodded and studied like guinea pigs in a research facility (and treated with considerably less respect, in my humble opinion).

Then there was the batspit crazy urban myth that TISM was somehow infectious. That bald-faced pack of lies had started in Ridgewick back in the late nineties, coinciding with a well-known "moral panic" of the period. Parents were up in arms all over the Courtland Valley, believing that a 'gender plague' was poised to decimate the male population, spreading through classrooms and playgrounds like the common cold. There was literally no evidence that TISM was contagious – the condition is genetic, caused by chemical pollutants in the local environment – but when did the truth ever get in the way of a good conspiracy theory?

The rumor was highly publicized in the press, and our local school board over-reacted, ruling that every tranzie in the district had to undergo two medical inspections per year, complete with inoculations and booster shots. None of us really understood what it was all about, but we all thought it was terribly unfair that the other children didn't have to have them too.

I was about eight the first time we were herded into the clinic for the "new program." Most of us were already crying when the nurse told us to strip down to our panties and line up for our preliminary examination. We even had to take off our socks and singlets, because the doctor would be inspecting every part of our bodies. Needless to say, the physical was horrendously invasive, but it was little more than a warm up for the main event.

After the Doctor had finished examining us, we were ushered in groups of three towards the vaccination room, where two nurses were waiting with loaded hypodermics. Standing outside, you could hear the three girls ahead of you wailing in pain as the needles were slipped into their plump, round bottoms. Long before we reached the door, all of us were sobbing tears of fright, knowing our turn was soon approaching. I was crying just as hard, realizing precisely how much it was going to hurt.

Some of us told the nurse we'd already had our shots, but she said that our parents hadn't provided the required paperwork. If the school didn't have the correct documentation, we had to take them all over again (a lot of us were injected by mistake every year, following the official policy mandated by the Ministry of Education at that time).

I practically fainted on the spot when the nurse called us in for our booster jabs. All three of us entered the room weeping in shame, crying all the louder when we saw the long, gleaming needles lined up on the medical tray. As we each had to receive three injections, they wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. The senior nurse made us turn around facing the examination table, then ordered us to take our panties down to our knees.

One of my friends immediately begged to take hers in the arm, but the nurse simply shook her head in firm reply: "No, it has to be in the bottom." Obviously, the subject was not open for negotiation; being children, we had no say in the matter. We were instructed bend over the examination table with our bare bottoms raised for our shots.

Whimpering in utter humiliation, we lowered our panties down our legs, revealing our plump young bottom-cheeks to the staff. I burst into fresh tears as I assumed the position, thrusting my naked bottom out for the first shot. I can still feel the goose bumps flaring over my arms and neck and tummy. Cool air whispered around my inner thighs, triggering uncontrolled tremors through the entire length of my body. Hearing the senior nurse step towards me, I closed my eyes in childish terror.

Nooooooooooooo-

A second later, the needle plunged into my left cheek, just above the curve of the buttock. Screaming in agony, I clenched both sides at once, squirming my hips forward against the table. The needle seemed impossibly long and sharp, piercing white-hot inches into the smooth, tender flesh.

"Hold still," the nurse said, picking the next syringe, "this won't take long." Her voice was vaguely sympathetic, doing very little to reassure me. I instinctively knew the next shot would hurt twice as bad.

"Just relax your bottom," she said, then sank a wide-bore hypodermic into the other cheek. A huge bolt of pain exploded across my right buttock, streaking halfway down my leg in the process. I shrieked again, much louder than before, tears dripping from my chin in a continuous stream.

"All right, last one," the nurse remarked, raising the third needle, "this'll only hurt a minute."

A final intramuscular jab, far worse than the last, penetrating deep into the soft flesh. Jostling my bottom back and forth, I dug my nails into the table cover, yowling at the top of my lungs.

AAAAAOOOOOOOOWWWWW!!!

It must have been a large syringe, because the nurse took an incredibly long time to depress the plunger. When she finally withdrew the needle, my bottom was throbbing in blue fire agony.

"There… that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked while I adjust my panties back into place. Sniffling in childish misery, I nodded my agreement without further comment. At that point I would have said anything to escape that medical torture chamber. My two friends were also wiping their eyes, faces lowered in girlish shame while the junior nurse raised their undies.

"Good, then. You can go put your clothes back on, now — just go out through that door, and you can pick up a lollipop from the tray on your way back to class."

We left through the back exit while the next three were waved in, tear-streaked and trembling with anxiety. The lollipops did very little to salve our wounded bottoms. In some cases, the bruises lasted for days; I had to sleep on my belly for over a week.

An intolerably hot Thursday night:

Victoria Street teemed with nightwalkers. Liquid fire pulsed above the sidewalks, washing the streetlife with stammering flares of color. It was late January, and the Fringe Festival was less than a week away. Macquarie Junction was being innudated beneath the annual torrent of interstate visitors and overseas tourists, the local population had fractured and diversified over the last month. The Festival's primary themes were ostensibly multicultural; lately it had assumed a multisexual character. Transgression had begun to spill beyond the Junction's redlight borders, celebrating otherness in every conceivable form. The city had become an electronic saturnalia sweltering in the Great Summer Heat.

Yana Milovic crested a wave of stone wash denim and rode out the King Street rapids. She was making for the shrieking neon heart of the Westside, eyes picking out shifting gaps in the crowd ahead. A window opened between a throng of Kylies and she glided through the rift like a ghost. A complementary set of hermaphrodites squabbled their way past the San Francisco; they looked like a pair of department store mannequins decked out in red vinyl and bubblepack. One of them paused and smiled as Yana glanced curiously in their direction.

Yana had been squatting in the Junction for close on eighteen months now. She recalled the previous summer's cultural eruptions; the endless parades of pierced flesh and jellied hair, the legions of social mutations clustered outside the clubs and cafes. The Westside was awash with drugs and trick, hustlers were dropping Rage and pissing silver. Trade around Federation Gardens would probably quadruple over the Festival. The johns would pay for just about anything this time of year. Yana could jack the price up higher than her lycra stretchskirt, and by the end of the month, she'll have made enough to get them a real place. They could lease one of those big old houses in Crossways or maybe Dawson. Quiet little avenues, colonial verandahs, polite eldster neighbors, none too pricey.

Angie had explained the whole plan to her last night. Angie seemed to know these sorts of things, she was smart that way. Plenty of streetcred when it mattered. She'd never walked the Wall (and therefore never had to dodge the pimps), but she always brought home the big-trick ideas. Squatting in the Meat Packers had been one, hustling the Gardens had been another.

The other girls didn't trust Angie, said she was too straight and easy with the Mouth. Yana saw it sometimes, but her loyalty never really wavered. She'd never have thought of milking the Festival last year, she hadn't known Angie at the time. She hadn't even had a squat back then, she'd been sleeping in the public convenience over by Museum subway.

She dodged a gaggle of Jackets with orange hair and paused by the intersection of Victoria and Wales. Jackets were pretty harmless, in this part of the Westside they were nearly as common as Goths, and neither seemed interested in breeding outside their respective species. Further along she'd need a little vigilance (one of Angie's words - she tossed things like that in everyday speech), up around Royal and Crown, where the neon really started to shriek. That part of the Westside was crawling with Heads; Heads and Ivans. Heads went in slash-packs, Ivans were sole predators, the sort who enjoyed hurting women. Fortunately, both groups generally confined themselves to homophobic bug-hunts during the Festival.

There was a plethora of sleazoid pimps cruising the Junction who'd just love to add Yana to their youth-club hareems. This was a possibility which sent Angie and the others psychotic periodically. The Westside fed on women; hustlers, sugarflesh and streetrick seemed to be the main diet. Sometimes they went down at sunset and simply never came up. Homeless and underaged vanished into the Zone with almost supernatural regularity.

They'd already lost Jacinta.

That had been just three months ago, and she hadn't even been hustling at the time. Took the sub out to Albert Square to score some Haze from Frankie the Shit and managed to forget the way back. No big deal at first; Jacinta was a runaway (they all were), you had to expect sudden disappearances from a midnight runner, even one who'd found a decent squat. But then the rumors started round the circuit. Streetword had it that she'd been 'conscripted' into juvenile service by the Radcliff Brothers, a pair of sugarpimps who specialized in renting jailbait to middle aged Rotarians. Evidently, Frankie handed her over to the Radcliffs in exchange for an armful of Fireskate. She'd been fifteen, same age as Yana herself.

The lights greened and Yana whipped forward, wedging her way between a pair of KenDolls. She'd nearly made farside when she slammed into a tall Goth wearing a weathered black leather overcoat. He glanced down and stepped lightly past, avoiding contact as if she were a child (which she was, although she would have gargled Draino before admitting it), then vanished into the streetide without comment. She often wondered how Goths could afford to hang so much leather from their lupine bodies. She'd never met one who actually did anything.

Yeah, Angie had fears for Yana's safety (not enough to accompany her down to the Gardens or try to figure out a less hazardous way of feeding the kitty, but she was concerned nonetheless), but someone had to bring the trickmoney home if they ever wanted to quit the squats. You walk the Wall, you take the risks. Still, Yana wasn't exactly streetgreen, she had enough Eye to scan a flesh merchant longrange. They usually talked fluent pimpspeak and drove long penile chromes with personalized number plates. They weren't always stereotypes of course, sometimes they morphed out into Flannels or Suits, but after a while you learned to read Face. Angie said Face was a language unto itself, but it was nothing like Mouth. Mouth was almost always a lie, especially when it came attached to a john. Face was more like some book written in cypher. It seemed completely incoherent at first, but once you mastered the code, you could read Face in just about any language.

Selena down at the Wall once told her much the same thing. What a john says isn't worth a pinch of shit at the best of times, it's what you see in the face that matters. That was Selena's great axiom of life, and she didn't just apply it to hustling. It was good to know a bit of Face in any relationship; men always tried to hide behind words and clothes, no matter what the scenario was. The suit may say Armani, but the face will read Asshole in huge, lurid, billboard lettering.

Intuition had saved Selina's life years ago, when she'd been selling it up in the Zone. The johns who approached her there were always bulging with concealed anger. Ivans were her most regular clientele; she had to read pretty deep to see it. Some hid their fury so well that she never saw it until they had the knife at her throat. Up 'til then, they seemed to be nothing more than short balding losers looking for a bit of hump. That's what made them so dangerous. Serial killers could pass for used car salesmen or garage mechanics, sometimes with even greater success than tranzies passed as women.

"You see a lot of both working the Westside," Selina had once told her, lips curving in vague irony.

Yana negotiated a gleaming maze of Kawasakis parked outside the Bluestone Tavern, where a group of Leatherdykes were milling about with their cans of UDL, tooling around and accosting the passing streetlife. Desperados from the Sunshine State according to the license plates, they burst into a ragged symphony of shrilling catcalls as Yana slivered by, giving her the kind of sexlip more often heard around construction sites. Yana grinned and exaggerated her heelwork momentarily, something she'd never have done a year ago.

She'd bummed around with a few lesbians since coming to the Junction, mainly runaways like herself. They'd all been Sigourney Weaver wannabees, shaving their heads and butching up like Ripley from that third Alien movie. The final result, in most cases, was almost farcically androgynous. The majority had looked about as butch as Kate Moss during her waif period.

Yana had tested the water with one of them last June, partly out of curiosity, mainly out a desire to survive the most savage part of Deep Winter. It had been her first time with a female. Her name had been Tish, a grungy little girl with a sexually ambiguous body and a diminutive porcelain face. She had a delicate silver ring looped through her right nipple, a sight Yana never ceased to find wincingly unpleasant. She always felt an impulse to cover her own breasts whenever she saw it.

She crossed Royal Parade and entered the Red Zone, her eyes clicking into high surveillance. This was where the problems would start. Heads were swarming in the cloying heat, their faces long and canine and festering with mindless rage. Of course, they were easy to pick. The Badge presented the main problem, particularly during the Festival. Badge was far more difficult to pick than Head. Police of the plainclothes variety were about as ubiquitous as ratz in a subtube. The Westside was virtually drowning in Suits, and you could never be sure which one was working undercover. You could never fool a Badge. Selina said they practically wrote the book on reading Face, they could spot a runaway with their eyes closed.

Badge had a nose for sugarflesh, sniffing them out like white pointers and hauling them off the street to the proverbial Fate Worse Than. Strip searches and cavity probes weren't exactly legal where child prostitutes were concerned, even under the Special Powers Act, but you heard a lot of horror stories walking the Wall late at night. From what Selina told her, the Badge had a long history of protecting paedophiles and sugarpimps, and it hadn't ended with the Inquiries of the late-nineties. Hidden video evidence had landed a few scapegoats in the pen, but the trials had mostly been media spectacle. Child sexual abuse had been the tabloid fashion at the time. Public hysteria had been satisfied, but the underlying carcinoma had barely been grazed.

Badge still wore the meanest rep in the force, particularly the undercovs. Many of the older hard-asses were still on the take, and teenaged girls came at a premium. Jacinta had almost certainly fallen foul of the Vice Squad. Probably caught her up by Albert Square and sold her off to the Radcliffs for a percentage of the trade. There was no shortage of paying customers, even a pizza-faced slag like Frankie the Shit could afford an hour of quicktime every now and then. Of course, that particular debate had become academic long ago. Jacinta hadn't surfaced since her disappearance, and no one was really certain what had happened to her.

Yana quickened her pace, holding her gaze dead forward, and body-surfed her way along the sidewalk. Federation Gardens was still fifteen minutes distance. The monorail didn't go that far. The subway went close, but the walk from Coronation Station to the Fed was even worse than the last half-kay of Victoria Street. The Zone offered an illusion of safety if nothing else. There were lights and crowds and the possibility of assistance should something go wrong. Coronation Drive offered the possibility of a violent, sudden and agonizing death. Non-natal caesarians, apparently. Heads out there would slice you open for the six dollars you had in your shoulder bag.

Of course, Yana was lucky to have a shoulderbag, let alone six dollars to carry 'round in it. Most homeless owned the clothes they wore and rarely had more than the price of a MacDonald's cheeseburger on their person from day to day. Well, she was squatting now, and life had improved marginally since she quit the midnight run.

Yeah, she was still living on the jagged edge, and she was still punching tickets on the Westside express, but at least she had some place to come home to, even if Meat Packers was nothing more than a dilapidated old theatre out by the School of Art.

Nine weeks ago, she'd been an urban nomad, dodging Badge and turning tricks in the alley behind the Royal Hotel for five dollars a shot. Angie had changed all that; Angie looked out for her. That was what the other girls seemed to forget: Angie looked out for them. Sure, she could be cold and arrogant and had a tongue you could gut a fish with, but she'd turned things around for all of them. No one squatting at the Meat Packers went hungry, none of them had to face the midnight run or fear the rent collectors who worked the shelter circuit. There were a few things Meat Packers couldn't provide; hot water or new clothes or dope, but Angie said they could worry about luxuries once they'd pooled enough cash for a lease. Besides, there were a few perks to be found in the Zone; gifts, trades, favors between hustlers. The Wall was a network of streetlife contacts, and Yana was still finding her place.

She'd only been trading along the Wall for a few weeks, but Yana knew many of the regulars from her Albert Square days. A lot of runaways and sugarflesh used to hang out at the Square, bumming loose change and trade from the locals. Like Yana, they'd seen the economic potential for bleeding the incoming Festival crowd and decided to cruise the Fed. Angie sometimes referred to them as sugarclones because they all looked alike, even the boys. A few could have passed for Yana's older sisters. People had often mistaken she and Jacinta for twins, although the similarities were as superficial as skin color and hairstyle.

The Madges were less familiar, and Yana tended to avoid their company. The majority were meaner than catshit and roughly as territorial as a riverful of saltwater crocodiles. Several of them regarded her with the sneering contempt that can only be felt by aging whores or johns of any vintage. They found her youth and appearance (to say nothing of her pimpless status) irritating beyond all tolerance; Yana always copped a few rounds of slagmouth whenever she turned up in her brief lycra dress and stockings that stayed up by themselves. Only one of them had ever treated her with any respect, and Yana had known her almost as long as she'd been in the Junction.

"Hey!"

Selina raised an ivory palm in greeting. Standing beneath an equine relief, she was a delicate alabaster figurine clothed in lurid indigo shadows. Katie smiled and waved back. She liked Selina. Selina with her surgically reconstructed figure and her technologically perfect features; Selina with her fifty year old mind nestled within a hormonally enhanced adolescent body.

"Hey!" Yana replied and walked over, reaching into her shoulderbag for her heels, "How's trade?" The obligatory question.

"Brisk. Snoid came by looking for you earlier on."

"Oh, God," Yana relied, crimping her face in disgust, "what did he want?"

"Same as always," Selina answered. Snoid was perhaps the most loathsome creature in the entire Westside, lower on the evolutionary scale than even Frankie the Shit. Yana slipped off her flats and stepped into the heels, magically lengthening her thighs by about six centimeters.

"So why's he always asking for me?"

"You're about the only one who'll put up with him." Which was true. Not even the Madges wanted to touch him. Granted, all johns had nauseating habits, it was programmed into their genes, but most of the girls would have preferred to go swimming in a pool full of cold mucus than spend five minutes in vitro with the Snoid.

Yana straightened up, dropping her flats into the shoulder bag abyss, dismissing Snoid and his revolting fantasies.

"You got what I need?"
"Yeah. Right here."
"How much?"
"Twenty." This was cheap, a favor, a big one, but it was still more than Yana had on her.
"Hold it for me?"
Selina shook her head.
"No. Take it now, babe. You can pay me back in an hour. Night's getting old."
"Thanks."

This was a supreme act of trust, rarely witnessed this side of the Wall. Selina produced two small containers, shifting her body to mask the transaction from any covert gaze. She moved with a casual, fluid confidence, the expertise of decades, seeming to touch Yana's elbow, directing her towards the promenade. Selina was a world-class coolhand, she'd spent most of her life under some form of surveillance. The Westside was full of eyes, but Selina knew how to throw up a blind spot. Not even the Badge would have seen anything more unusual than a pair of hustlers parading the Wall, their faces lowered in furtive sugartalk.

Traffic droned incessantly along Memorial Drive, streams of chrome and halogen radiance. Yana put a hand to her mouth as if yawning. The night wound on, intolerably hot.

The night Cathy Hargraves grabbed her kid sister and climbed out the bathroom window of the Stonehaven Children's Home, she imagined that her life would unfold something like this:

First, she and Ellen would run away to Macquarie Junction, where they'd take refuge with the Salvation Army or one of the welfare shelters in the Westside. Cathy would take work as a waitress or kitchen hand or whatever and start putting away money for more permanent lodgings, then, after a few months, she'd meet this big, hunky guy with a drop-dead smile and a red porsche (the guys in Cathy's fantasies always drove red porsches). He'd take her out and spend a lot of money on her, then ask her to shack up with him. They'd move into his big house overlooking the Harbor, Ellen would go to primary school, and Cathy would spend the rest of her life buying clothes, smoking dope, and having spine-clenching sex with her beefcake swain.

Ten months later, her life had turned out something like this:

She and Ellen were living on the midnight run. The Salvos were overflowing with homeless, and the people over at the Junction City Mission had tried to hand them over to the Badge. They were constantly sick and dirty, ate maybe three times a week, and both had been reduced to scrounging out of garbage cans on numerous occasions. Their hairlines were caked with crumbling reefs of dandruff, their clothes reeked like used sanitary pads. Even the stuff they lifted from the Brotherhood Shop began to crawl with microlife after a few days in the Westside heat.

Worse still, Cathy had discovered that the big hunky guys who drove red porsches had absolutely no interest in filthy slagheap runaways such as herself. The Jackets and Straights who frequented places like The Tech or Links in the Westside already had girlfriends, long-legged Kylies in tightblacks and slettoes. The only guys that Cathy seemed capable of attracting were skags, sleezoids and wannabe sugarpimps. Beefcake was on short supply in Cathy's bankrupt demographic, which seemed to consist exclusively of losers, cuntswabs, and the hideously ugly.

No, about the closest she'd come to her red-porsche hunk had been the three months she'd spent with Riko Laguna.

Riko had been a petty thief and persistent dole-fraud; a tall, skinny, weasel-faced tosser with slickback hair and a Latino accent. Said he came from South America, told endless stories about Rio de Janiro; childhood struggles with poverty, gangs, and the law. Claimed that the Westside was a church picnic after the streets of Rio. It had been a long haul spanning two continents and a black market career of international proportions, but Riko had the vision and the drive.

It was all bullshite, pure and unadulterated bullshite, as her old man used to say.

His name wasn't Riko; he sure as hell wasn't Latin. Couldn't even speak Spanish. Looked about as convincing as one of those Saturday night flamencos that hit the Matador every weekend. Took tanning pills and blackrinsed his hair to look Hispanic. Said it made him irresistible to women. This was another example of Riko's amazing capacity for self-delusion.

He had offered them lodgings in his gangrenous little bedsit at the beginning of the previous year's winter. Cathy had only agreed because she'd caught that Malaysian flu which had been decimating the suburbs at the time. Nearly as bad as the thing in that Stephen King movie. Another three days on the street and she'd have been catfood. No choice really. Move in with Riko the chinless wonder or feed the roaches. It wasn't the first time she'd been reduced to abject desperation since leaving Stonehaven. At one point she'd been willing to drop her pants for half a pack of Marlboros. Sharing a hole with Riko Laguna couldn't be any worse than that, nothing could have been worse than that.

She'd been wrong, of course.

Like most of the skags Cathy met on the street, Riko was a walking bag of fecal matter. You could almost see the sleeze dripping from his face like huge gobbets of liquid shit. He contaminated everything he touched. The touching wasn't all that bad in itself, she'd learned to blank out unwanted groping as far back as Stonehaven. Unfortunately, whitenoising simply didn't work where Riko was concerned.

Being horribly unattractive to women, he was obsessed with the humiliation and victimization of his desired objects. Cathy became the surrogate for all the Kylies he'd never had, the ones who'd turned him down, pissed him off, made him feel short and weak and ugly. The ones who had treated him with the utter contempt he deserved. He'd stored up decades of hate and anger and self-loathing, for which Cathy's body became the vessel.

However, his revenge hadn't happened all at once. Riko may not have looked too bright, but he was about as cunning as a shitpoke full of sewer rats. Cunning enough to move slowly, gradually poisoning her already depleted reservoir of self-esteem and building up to a crescendo of perversion. Looking back, Cathy wondered how she hadn't seen it coming. She'd been on the midnight long enough to recognize the signs. Standard pimptrick, right down to the promises and the addictive substances.

That year's poverty special had been Rage, a comparatively inexpensive synthetic which replicated the effects of XTC without the lethal side effects, at least according to the publicity. Riko got her started almost as soon as she'd moved in. Didn't even wait for her fever to subside; said it would 'speed up' her recovery. Kill the virus, lower her temperature. No, don't worry, sweetchunks: Rage is non-addictive. Pure as rainwater, sweeter than crystal springs.

Lying prick.

She'd been hooked by her third rock, and Riko moved in like the failed barracuda he was. Left nothing undefiled. Made her do things that she never would have done, even back in her starvation days. The sort of things that only a man could imagine doing to a fifteen year-old girl. Made her feel like offal. Like shit from the body of some diseased animal. Two months in sexual purgatory, the starring attraction of a freakshow's wetdream. Cathy still had nightmares about it, particularly when she'd gone straight too long.

Well, that was history, or at least Riko was.

Dumb fuck had pushed his luck too far one night down at the Matador. Picked a fight with some wimpy little geek from the western suburbs. Started with some stupid argument and a lot of macho posturing. Streetword said Riko went in playing Rambo. Thought he'd kick the geek's runty asshole and get a medal for doing it. Ended up pleading on his knees with tears running down his scrawny face. Turned out the wimp had a switch blade and a truckload of meanstreet friends. That was Riko, no argument. He'd been pretty handy with his fists where she and Ellen were concerned, but no real balls when it looked like he might get hurt.

Cathy had tried to keep the bedsit after Riko's heroic demise, convinced that she could claim squatter's rights. That was one of the great urban myths of the midnight run: if you found a decent hole and managed to hold onto it for more than a week, you got to stay there. No one could throw you out. Not even the legitimate owners. You had squatter's rights, which under Cathy's definition amounted to the right to do anything you pleased. Didn't matter that you weren't paying rent, didn't matter that you were only fifteen years old and had once traded sexual favors for the price of a couple of Big Macs. Didn't even matter if the Suit came 'round waving his papers and threatening to call the Badge. You had squatters rights, which meant you could stand at the door, stick your bird in his face and tell him to go lick your ring.

Didn't last too long, of course.

Badge did come by one morning, and she didn't ask them to lick anything. Barely managed to shove Ellen out the back window while the Boys kicked down the door and shouted for them to stop. Even closer than that day at the City Mission. They'd been riding the Westside express ever since, with Cathy punching tickets for whatever the johns were willing to pay. Which wasn't much at the best of times. Sometimes they didn't pay jackshit, just fetched her a backhand upside the face if she gave them Mouth.

Rent collectors posed similar difficulties.

Collectors were homeless Skags; basket cases for the most part, but occasionally you ran into the odd psychotron who went about extorting money from streetkids and anyone too small to fight back. Common practice in homeless circles, as common as sexual abuse and blagging. Three of them had forced her out of an empty hole she and Ellen had been sharing with a boy named Kerryn. Just turned up one night and gave them a choice between paying rent or getting out. One of them slapped Kerryn around when he tried to do that hunter-gatherer thing teenage boys do whenever someone threatens their turf. Not being stupid, Cathy took Ellen and got out before the collectors decided they wanted more than a bit of loose change.

She never saw Kerryn again. Bit of a pity; he was the only decent guy she'd met since Stonehaven.

Winter might have passed, but the streets were just as vicious. They'd been sleeping in doorways and lifeline bins for weeks now. Squatting was no longer an option since the Festival came to town. Space was shrinking, no room anywhere, even out by the industrial section. Festival was a lightning conductor for homeless. They seemed to be drifting in from all over the City, probably attracted by the drugs and trade. Meanstreet kids from places like Ashtown or 'Drute, armed with pigsticks and slazors. Pre-generation Heads, conurban bacteria multiplying in the arcades and back alleys and commission districts. Gott Allmächtige would've had trouble finding a squat during Festival.

Then there was the excess baggage to consider. Being homeless in the Westside was asspain enough, but having to constantly look out for a whining ten year-old girl was a full-scale Rectinol. Ellen was a constant burden, slowing her down, clinging like a pre-pubescent octopus, simping and crying whenever she got frightened or tired. Jesus, the little shit hardly ever spoke at all, except to complain that she was hungry or thirsty or too hot or too cold or whatever else was bothering her. Sometimes Cathy felt like grabbing her by the back of the head and slamming her dumb face into the nearest wall until she shut the fuck up.

Of course, Ellen wasn't really the problem, was she?

Fact was, the only legacy of her season at Casa Riko was a Rage habit that registered eight on the Richter scale. Streetprice had been jacking up over the last month, and Cathy couldn't turn the trick fast enough to raise what the street doctors were asking nowdays. Festival prices. Hustlers down by the Wall were making the big cash, but they were professionals, all of them, even the sugarflesh. Got around in stretchskirts and heels and torsos. Cathy would have been lucky to own a clean pair of underpants.

Not that underwear figured high on her list of priorities at the moment. She'd been straight for three days now, and she was shaking worse than that Tokyo 'quake a few years back. She'd managed to score a little Haze from Frankie the Shit last time she saw him, but Haze was to Rage what jacking off was to sex. No comparison, no satisfaction, no real edge. If she didn't get a few rocks pretty soon, she'd go premenstrual with a bullet.

Still, there was the alternative Frankie had hinted at the day she'd wheedled the Haze out of him. Told her he knew a way she could earn herself an even tenner and enough Rage to last out the next month. Pretty extreme, but so was her habit...

---

---

Jess Taylor ambled swiftly up the driveway, fishing his keys out of his pocket as he approached the front door. He was a boy on a tight schedule; his Mother would arrive home at five, dinner would be on the table no later than six. That left him less than three hours of free play; three hours of simple, childish joy in the late September sunshine, three hours on the swings and slides and monkey-bars down at O'Connell Park.

Heart pounding with excitement, Jess let himself into the house, dropping his backpack in the hallway. His Mother would probably give him grief over that later, but he was in too much of a hurry to consider the consequences. Heading towards the staircase, he unzipped his jacket and bolted up the steps two at a time. It was 3.15 in the afternoon; the day wasn't getting any longer.

Leaving his jacket hanging over the banister, he scrambled into his bedroom, hurriedly pulling his t-shirt over his head. Six hours a day in the school from hell, surrounded by creeps, cretins and bullies. He couldn't wait to get changed, kick off his school clothes and slip into something more comfortable - so to speak.

Pausing in the middle of the room, Jess climbed out of his jeans and walked over to the closet, a petite, twelve-year old boy with long blond hair and pale blue eyes. His soft, effeminate features lent him a lush, girlish appearance, the illusion further enhanced by his rounded, curvaceous shape. Exceedingly pretty, he was often mistaken for a girl at first glance. Strange to say, this was something Jess didn't mind at all.

Jess, you see, was a very special boy.

He opened the closet door and started sorting through the racks and hangers. One side of the space was full of boy's clothing - pants, shirts, gym socks, boxer shorts and runners. Jess didn't spare it a second glance. Boy's stuff; ugly, scruffy things, he'd never had much use for them. He certainly never wore them once he got home from school. The moment he stepped in through the front door, Jess was free to shed his male identity as a snake sloughs its skin. He could be his real self.

Jessica.

The right side of the closet was lined with cutesy little girl's things: skirts, vests, tank tops; printed floral blouses with puffy sleeves, drop-waisted sunfrocks with outrageously frilled hemlines. They were all gifts from his Momma; stock-taking specials from her downtown kidswear store. Strangely enough, she'd always been surprisingly tolerant of his feminine preferences, even going out of her way to encourage his cross-gendered behavior. Jessie suspected it had something to do with her not liking men.

Jessie reached into the closet and removed a pastel pink sun-dress, a delicate cotton wisp decorated with tiny rosebuds around the neck line. Sheer, loose and almost unbearably cute, it was one of his all-time favorites. Momma had helped him pick it out for his last birthday. It had been one size too big at the time, but he'd grown into it over the past nine months.

Laying the frock out on his bed, Jess walked over to his chest of drawers and took out a pair of pristine white panties - flimsy cotton briefs with a dainty trim encircling the legs and waistline. Jessie's pulse began to race as he stepped carefully into the underpants and drew them slowly up his thighs. Easing the pants into position with a loud, elastic snap, he went back to the bed and pulled the sundress over his head.

And, in the blink of an eye, a boy became a girl.

Smoothing the cool fabric against her tummy, Jessie turned to look in the mirror, smiling at what she saw. The boy she been a few minutes before had disappeared without a trace. Jess Taylor had vanished the instant she'd kicked off the jeans. No - that was wrong. Jess Taylor had never really existed in the first place. He was just a mask she wore during school hours. A mask, a name, and nothing more (quoth the raven ...).

Giggling a child's innocent laughter, Jessica spun around several times to make the skirt twirl. The dress flared up in a pink arabesque, then floated lightly back into place. The hem barely reached down past the tops of her thighs; the cotton was so thin that her underpants were clearly visible through the gauzy fabric. She posed in the mirror, admiring the line of the frock, the shape of her long, tapering legs. Moistening her lips in anticipation, she whirled around once more, allowing the dress to sail up past her belly button this time.

Having completed the dress-twirling ritual, she retrieved a pair of socks from the drawer and sat down on the bed to pull them on, one tiny foot at a time. They were the kind with a lacy white frill decorating the band. He'd picked them up during a recent shopping expedition to Ridgewick Mall. Jessie had fallen in love with them at first glance, putting them on right there in the Stocking Shop, attracting more than a little attention in the process.

Jess stood up, glancing at the clock. It was 3.25; time to go. Her friends would be wondering where she was. Stepping into her pink Barbie runners, she grabbed a black hair-band on her way out and tapped off down the hall. She descended the stairs at a gallop, binding her hair back in a long, golden ponytail. Not a second to lose now, she'd have to sprint all the way to the park.

---

Angie stepped into the changing booth, laying her purchase over the chair. Cheeks flushed with girlish pleasure, she shut out the busy hum of the showroom, reaching back to unzip her bright red sun-frock. A trim young girl with wavy blond hair trailing down past her shoulders, she smiled with the vaguely guilty expression of a child caught with her hand in the candy jar.

Dropping the dress down to her tiny waist, she began to shimmy it over the curve of her hips. A faint crescent touched her lips; the Fever had been raging through her system for more than three weeks now. It was like one of those tunes that spiraled endlessly around at the front of your mind, despite your firmest efforts to push it away. Well, the fire would be quenched today, her yearnings finally satisfied. She looked back into the mirror, admiring the lithe flow of her petite figure.

Like most girls her age, Angie loved wearing pretty underthings beneath her day clothes - it was a delicious secret she could hide from the rest of the world. Her brassiere was a pastel-pink wonderbra, thrusting her full, pert breasts up to form a deeply divided cleavage. One of the straps looped off her left shoulder; it was covered with a delicate white trim. Her flesh was as smooth as alabaster, having only the barest touch of a suntan.

Long hair hanging over her face in blond arabesques, she wriggled her bottom out of the dress's slim waistline, gradually exposing her scanty, high-cut briefs. They were a pair of pink satin bikini panties, decorated with tiny bows and white lace fringes. Gleaming like molten silver against her creamy skin, they looked as if they'd been airbrushed onto her body.

She stepped gingerly out of the dress, careful not to catch her stilettos on the red fabric. She'd ruined one too many expensive outfits with a careless turn of the heel. Hanging the frock over the door hook, she swept her hair back from her face, feeling a warm, moist blush rising through her tummy. Angie had good reason to feel excited. She'd found what she'd been looking for.

Finally.

Stepping across the booth in her undies and high heels, she leaned forward to inspect her purchase. She'd spent close on a month browsing her way through Chamberlain's Westside, visiting every boutique and lingerie store in the Fashion Quarter, cruising her way around the plazas and the malls. Searching for just three shreds of intimate fantasy, remnants of a forgotten decadence.

Grinning a radiant smile, Angie picked up the dainty lace garter belt, marveling at its fragile and complicated beauty. A magical wisp of lace, lycra and shimmering liquid satin, it was as complex and as insubstantial as a dream. The suspenders trailed in long, ornate streamers of floral elastic. Stretching the straps between her lacquered fingertips, Angie felt a thrill of pure feminine allure strafe through her entire body.

She laid the garter belt back on the chair, imagining how it would look clipped around her waist, then picked up one of the stockings, smoothing it out with her left hand. The jet black denier whispered enticingly between her fingers. Sheer and gauzy and almost completely transparent, it was a genuine silk stocking, the kind with a reinforced toe and a seam down the back.

Angie squandered a few moments admiring its gossamer perfection. The barest touch raised gooseflesh along her arms and shoulders. It felt unspeakably feminine, a thing of dreams and unspoken desires. A long, delicious shiver raced the down length of her spine; the very thought of drawing that nebulous material along her thighs made her ache with anticipation.

Kicking off her high heels, Angie bent down to slide the stocking over her right foot. The naughty-little girl smile stole across her features again.

Garter belts and suspender stockings were rather difficult to come by these days. You could still find exotic, sensual underwear around the "bohemian" districts and recycling centers, but the larger retailing chains seemed to stock only the most utilitarian garments. Pedestrian, plain, unimaginative. Some women referred to them as "Passion Killers", recalling the silk-ration shortages of the war years. Dull, colorless and boring.

Life had been depressingly monotone since the Conservatives returned to power.

The latest Swing to the Right had unleashed a torrent of traditional values, surpassing even the excesses of the Churchill years. Bigotry had sprouted across the country like a furious, virulent weed; these were dangerous times for those who wavered at the edge of "acceptability." Campaigns had been launched, witch-hunts mounted against the "pink stain". Diversity was being driven underground.

Naturally, there had been a backlash from liberals and civil liberty activists, but the movement had been swiftly and ruthlessly undermined. Protestors vanished into the shadows literally overnight, many had gone into hiding. Invisibility was the safest option: fear, isolation and loneliness was preferable to ridicule, harassment and burning crosses.

Fortunately, Angie had very little to worry about. She was already invisible. No one would have guessed, even for a second, that she had not been born female.

"Are you okay in there?"

Angie glanced around with a gasp, a vague blush touching her porcelain features. The door to her cubicle had been flung open, allowing the world outside a generous view of the booth's lavender interior. A tall, thirty-ish sales woman stood by the doorway, smiling in at her. Virtually paralyzed with surprise, Angie looked self-consciously into the showroom, frozen in the act of slipping her long, tapering leg into a silk stocking.

Embarrassment blossomed in the warm depths of her belly. Angie was young and strikingly beautiful; a willowy adolescent on the edge of maturity. Her eyes were twin pools of late November sky; huge and innocent and glowing with child-like wonder.

She crossed her hands modestly over her cleavage, stepping back from the open doorway.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the sales assistant apologized, brow furrowed in genuine concern, "did I startle you?" She was a tall, elegant woman with beaming, elfin face. Her ID tag read JEAN, the sort of name that sounded inexplicably appropriate when attached to women of her generation.

"No, no - not at all," Angie replied, her face reddening to the tone of a maraschino cherry, "just a little jumpy, I guess. I'm... I've been looking for..." her sentence trailed off into the endless limbo of the unfinished statement. It was ridiculous - ludicrous really - she still grew as coy as a ten year-old whenever she went shopping for underwear.

Jean stepped into the cubicle, absently forgetting to close the door behind her. Angie opened her mouth to say something, but couldn't quite get it out.

"Do you need a hand with that?" Jean asked, indicating the garter belt.
Angie blinked several times, almost flustered beyond words.

"Well, I... yes, I suppose so. I mean..."

The assistant nodded, her smile almost comically sympathetic: it's okay; I know exactly how you feel.

"They can be a little difficult, especially if this is your first time trying one on," Jean told her, picking up a handful of lace corsetry and stepping into the narrow confines of the changing space. Taking Angie gently by the shoulders, she turned the blushing young girl towards the mirror. She stood in her bra, panties and stockings, flushed to the tips of her eyebrows.

Jean passed the garter belt around Angie's waist and hooked it into place, her fingers moving with the expertise of long practice. Excitement poured over Angie's body like some thick warm fluid, her breathing quickened to swift, shallow spurts.

"It's sort of like putting on a bra, except lower down," the older woman was saying, "the tricky part is attaching the stockings".

Angie could only nod her assent, feeling the belt constricting her waistline by at least three inches. The satin was stretched taunt against her rosy flesh; the garters dangled against her bare thighs.

Out in the salesroom, heads were craning about on flexible stalks. It was Saturday morning, and this was the only store this side of the city to stock European underwear. Evidently half the population of Chamberlain was in the showroom at the moment, and every single one of them wanted a better look. Well, at least the saleswoman's presence was blocking their view for the most part.

Thank heavens for small mercies, Angie thought to herself, a tiny giggle rising to her lips. Taking a deep, calming breath, she pushed the laughter back into her belly, shifting her center of balance to her left hip. Her eyes literally danced with feminine mischief. Her heart was pounding in her throat, she felt almost delirious with exhilaration.

"There, that's done," Jean said, turning the girl around by the elbows so they were standing virtually face-to-face, "now, let's get those garters hooked up. Could you step forward on your right leg for a moment?"

Angie thrust her knee slightly forward in the classic pose while Jean began adjusting the suspenders. She fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds, fussing over the garter-strap and drawing the stocking up a few inches. Translucent denier stretched against Angie's lean, white haunch.

Jean clucked under her breath, hitching up the stocking-top with some difficulty in the claustrophobic space of the changing booth. She released the clasp after a brief struggle, then straightened up with an oddly skeptical look on her face.

"Here; come out into the showroom", Jean said, taking Angie lightly by the wrist, "there's not enough space in here for the two of us."

A two second pause. Then:

"Pardon?"

Angie's cheeks flared like a pair of wild strawberries.

"Come on out", Jean repeated, smiling placidly, "it's a little too cramped in here. There's plenty of space in the showroom."

"The showroom?!" Angie gasped in surprise, "but...but I'm not... I'm not wearing anything." Her tummy swarmed with hummingbirds, a wave of panic surged through her entire nervous system. She felt herself stepping into her stilettos, her mind suddenly slipping into autopilot. Her lips parted in shock, eyes bulging from their sockets.

What was she doing?!

"Oh, don't worry about that," Jean replied amiably, leading her forward by the right hand, "we have pretty young girls like you in here all the time. It is a lingerie shop, after all." They were at the very threshold now: in a few seconds, Angela would be exhibiting her lingerie before the entire store.

But there are MEN out there, Angie tried to say, though the words never actually left her mouth. The store was literally crammed with ubiquitous males (or so she thought); husbands and fathers, silvermaned patriarchs in dark smoking jackets, little boys in baseball caps clinging to their mother's skirts. Angie strutted forward on her impossibly high heels, her head spinning with a mixture of shock, embarrassment and pure, breathless delight.

"...anyway, you need to see yourself in the three-way to get the full effect," Jean was prattling on, oblivious to the girl's crimson-faced reluctance, "those change-room mirrors just can't give you the distance you need for a full-length view."

I must be dreaming, she thought wildly as they stepped through the doorway into the brightly lit salesroom. Time seemed to pause as she was led towards the central display, weaving a trail through a small forest of gaping mouths and goggling eyes. The store was absolutely bristling with customers, and most of the clientele seemed to be of the masculine persuasion.

Angie simply couldn't believe this was happening to her. Although she'd harbored fantasies of this kind for years, she'd never - NEVER in her wildest dreams - imagined she'd find herself parading her gleaming satin underpants before a roomful of startled (and somewhat admiring) onlookers. Her luscious, teenaged body was bursting with the ripening fruit of dawning sexuality. A rare, fine color was stealing up her torso, tinting her red from chin to belly button.

This can't be happening, Angie thought once more as the crowd parted before her.

---

As mentioned elsewhere in my writings, my parents originally came from Eastern Europe (former Soviet Union) and considered child nudity completely normal, especially in warm whether. My sisters and I grew up roaming round the house in our undies and playing under the sprinklers during summer. I guess this was nothing unusual back in the day; it was an age of innocence when there were very few prohibitions against juvenile dishabille.

There were also certain benefits to be reaped from disregarding social conventions. In my case, I learned early on that a half-naked girl gets far more attention than a clothed one, and found every possible "excuse" to shed my clothing whenever we had guests or relatives over.

This exhibitionistic streak became a slight problem after a few years, as my folks had trouble keeping my clothes on inside the house. I was always walking into the living room in my panties, hoping to surprise our visitors. My parents never freaked out over this; they knew I was just a little girl trying to get a reaction. I was usually ushered back upstairs with a light smack on the bottom, much to everyone's amusement.

On the other hand, my Mom soon noticed that while I thought nothing of walking around the household in my bare knickers, I absolutely hated being undressed in public. Being one of the most wily women in human history, she often used my sense of modesty to her best advantage.

For example, if I were taking too long to get dressed in the morning, she'd threaten to send me to school in nothing but my scanties. This was usually enough to galvanize me into action, and I'd always be ready within two minutes flat (I thought about calling her bluff on several occasions, but the nerve failed me each time).

By the time I reached adolescence, Mom and Dad were employing public humiliation as a form of "behavior modification" – especially when we were camping around Lake Ridgewick. My folks were old-school hiking enthusiasts, and used to take us camping at least three times a year. We all looked forward to these periodic vacations, but being something of a tomboy, I tended to run wild as soon as we arrived. This was a matter concern for Mom and Dad: between scaling outcrops and stirring up hornets' nests, I was constantly getting into mischief. By the end of the second day, my folks were normally at their wits' end trying to curb my "enthusiasm."

That was usually the point at which I was ordered out of my clothes.

I should mention straight up that this was the last resort when I was getting out of hand; the one sure way to keep me safely around the campsite. They knew I wouldn't stray too far if I were stripped to my undies, so after the usual warnings had been ignored, my Mom would call me over to the tent for the Dreaded Walk of Shame.

I'd start blushing as soon as I heard her tone, because I knew from prior experience precisely what to expect. There was a kind of ritual I had to follow: first, I was made to stand to attention by the tent while my parents gathered up all my belongings and locked them away in the car. Next, I was forced to take off almost every stitch of clothing – one piece at a time.

I usually began to plead around this stage, trying to broker deals and promising to be on my best behavior if she'd only let me keep my clothes on. Needless to say, it made no difference whatsoever: Mommy never listened to my protests; she'd given me fair warning and I was fully aware of the consequences. I had no one to blame but myself.

My head always started spinning as I pulled my t-shirt over my head. I frequently experienced a drifting, out-of-body sensation, as if I were watching myself from someone else's perspective. Goosebumps swept down my torso while Mommy slipped my shorts down, leaving me in nothing but my fresh cotton panties. I was then instructed to stand perfectly still with my hands laced on the back of my neck while Momma checked me over for nicks, scratches and poison ivy.

Around this point, people would suddenly appear out of nowhere, staring in curiosity as they passed along the main pathway. Lake Ridgewick was a popular tourist site and swimming hole; during the summer, there could be dozens of campers and day-trippers wandering about on at any given hour. Naturally, this made my forced striptease all the more embarrassing; there seemed to be hundreds of casual spectators walking past, casting inquisitive glances in my direction (inevitably, many of them were kids I knew from school).

After Mommy finished packing my remaining clothes away, she'd return to find me crying in child-like misery. The shame was utterly overwhelming – I was on open display to every stranger in the vicinity, reduced to a half-naked, weeping infant. Words cannot adequately describe the abject humiliation I experienced.

After reassuring me that this for my own good, Mommy would point out my boundaries and explain which areas were off limits. They wanted me to stay within visual range of the tent, I wasn't allowed to leave the camping grounds for any reason. No trail blazing, no rock-climbing, no exploring. I was allowed to go swimming in the nearby reservoir but only in the shallows. She would conclude by reminding me that going off alone was completely forbidden, and that breaking any of these rules would result in a willow-switch across the bottom.

"I'm sorry we have to do this," she would conclude, "but you've left us no other choice." She would then send me off to play with my sisters, both of whom were (of course) fully dressed. This seemed indescribably unjust to me, since they frequently went off by themselves, but I knew from long experience that the matter simply wasn't open to negotiation.

As a general rule, I wasn't even allowed to wear my sandals, unless we were traipsing through the woods with Mom and Dad. Even then, I was still required to stay slightly ahead of my parents without veering from the path. Daddy carried the switch in his right hand, ready to motivate my steps if I started falling behind. As I quickly discovered, there really was nothing like a hot, smarting bottom to put a spring back in my tread.

I suppose all of this must sound rather cruel and unusual, but looking back over the years, I know it wasn't as bad as it sounds. At the end of the day, my folks were trying to keep me safe, after I'd demonstrated I couldn't be trusted when left to my own devices. It only took me a couple of days to adjust to my "newd" circumstances, after which I settled into an otherwise normal routine with my family.

The only parts I truly regret were the daily collisions with children I knew from school. They always asked me why I wasn't wearing any clothes, and I had no alternative but to tell them the truth. Even now, two decades later, I can still hear their laughter echoing through the clear, green woods…

---

Standing in a pool of moody backstage lighting, Charise Granger drew her t-shirt slowly over her head, revealing a shining white satin bra, the kind with detachable straps and tiny lace trimmings around the cups. She paused a moment to shake out her strawberry blond hair and moisten her full, crimson lips, stealing a glance at the mirror. A tall, delicately built young woman with alabaster flesh and liquid blue eyes looked back.

Hanging her t-shirt over a nearby chair, Charise began to unbuckle the belt of her stone wash jeans, listening to the restless murmur of the Friday night crowd. The Palais Royale was perhaps the most popular adult venue in the Red Zone; the main bar would be swarming with nightlife by ten. In less than fifteen minutes, the lingerie parade would begin, and Charise would be sent out along the catwalk wearing little more than a whisper and a promise.

She was almost feverish with anticipation.

Charise had been working at the Palais for just over two months now, and still felt a little nervous before every show. Barely eighteen, she had little experience modeling outside a couple of down-home mannequin parades and amateur reviews (and certainly not in her bra and panties; such activities had been confined largely to her bedroom). By contrast, the Palais was a place of satin radiance and neon ecstasy. Stepping onstage in her impossibly tall stilettos, she felt a wonderful shiver of embarrassment fill her trim, firm tummy. She was young, she was beautiful, and the questionable nature of the 'entertainment' made her delirious with excitement.

There was, of course, another reason for her mounting anxiety.

Adjusting a wayward bra-strap, she began unbuttoning her jeans, progressively revealing the lacy tops of her high-cut white briefs. In a matter of minutes, every inch of those skin-tight lycra panties would be visible to every person in the bar. She could feel a subtle flush rising to her cheeks, tinting her flesh with a warm, carnation glow.

What am I doing here? she thought, working the levis slowly over her hips, enjoying the gently sinuous movement of denim down her thighs.

Peeling her jeans down to the floor, she stepped lightly out of them, brushing her hair back from her face. Her snowy white panties shimmered with a satiny radiance as she walked barefoot across to the clothing rack. Gleaming like quicksilver, they seemed to have been airbrushed onto her body, filming her hips like a second skin.

Her fingers played with the elegant French lace trim encircling the waistband; touching that sheer strip of floral gossamer made her ache with longing. She wanted to be out on stage as soon as possible, her long, slender legs absolutely bare, her lingerie on display to half the town.

What am I doing here? Charise asked herself again, running her hands down the length of her torso. How could she explain this sultry, breathless desire to place her underpants on full inspection for a room full of faceless strangers? She might have spent years wading through the mountain of literature devoted to her unique psychology (indeed, she'd started already), but her reasons were deceptively simple in the final analysis:

Parading her underthings made her feel beautiful.

Voguing across the catwalk in her scanties was an experience both thrilling and sensual; her state of dishabille always made her feel gloriously feminine. Having recently turned eighteen, she loved wearing pretty lingerie, and the opportunity to reveal her flimsies beyond her bedroom rarely presented itself under normal circumstances. The panty shows appealed to her sense of fun; like all teenaged girls, Charise enjoyed testing the limits.

Charise was young and pretty and she enjoyed parading around in her bra and panties. It was as simple as that. True, the money was good, but it wasn't her primary motivation for working at the Palais; Charise would have been perfectly willing to do it for free. She wasn't even particularly concerned about the style of lingerie she wore, just so long as it made her feel and leggy and lovely and unforgivably naughty.

In short, wearing lingerie made her feel like a girl.

She'd been amazingly lucky.

Few would have described it as luck, but it had been luck nonetheless, a type of luck relevant only to Charise herself, fortune of a magnitude that only she could truly appreciate. How many of her kind were born with a face which spanned the gulf between the male and the female so perfectly? A body so completely androgynous, poised at the very cusp of human gender, needing only the barest hormonal nudge towards the feminine?

Not many, she'd come to realize. Her transition had been crystal smooth, the drift of a feather through some flawlessly blue sky. She'd begun her metamorphosis shortly after her eighth birthday, back when She had been a He.

A boy.

A boy with tiny wrists and huge misty eyes and a voice like fine autumn rain. Missing his cue and entering the stage too late for puberty, he was constantly mistaken for a girl, a delicate, ivory tomboy attempting to hide her femininity behind short hair and Nike runners and those ungainly black duffle coats so popular a few years ago.

She'd known, even then. In a way, she'd always known; her earliest childhood memories involved aprons and lace and bright yellow ribbons; the innocent, dawning fantasies of a transgendered child. The knowledge had been abstract and hazy, like the blurring lens of a unfocused camera, but the understanding had been there all along. Over the years, it had grown into a certainty, a conviction profound enough to bring about the reconstruction her body, her identity and ultimately, her entire being. All set in motion the age of five...

When The Change had begun.

Backstage traffic was relatively heavy Friday nights; waiters, barhands and security staff passed through the changing area in an endless stream. Make up, dressing tables and clothing racks had been provided for the girls, but their employers saw no need for privacy. Girls who modeled their underpants for a living had no use for dressing rooms, as far as the management was concerned.

Charise glanced self-consciously around the changing area. Beautiful young girls were disrobing all around her, slipping out of blouses, stepping out of skirts and frocks. Not a single one over the age of nineteen, they walked about in their prettiest underwear carefully oblivious of the activity around them.

She often wondered about the other girls; did they feel that indescribable silken thrill that preceded clipping a suspender belt around a tiny waist? Did they enjoy the same moist, gasping fantasies she experienced whenever she slipped a wisp of black denier along her thigh? Charise believed there was nothing more sensual than stepping into a pair of Doir stockings, feeling the silk whisper along her cool, marble-smooth skin.

She hung her jeans over a hanger on the clothing rack, then wandered back to her table to check her costume (such as it was) for the evening. The show was about to begin; all around the changing area, the other girls were adding last minute touches to their make-up; fourteen achingly pretty young women stripped to their knickers, bending over their mirrors and displaying their lush, ripe bottoms to the world.

Charise joined them, pausing to step into her glistening black stilettos. Heels were absolutely essential to the job. No girl was permitted to set foot on stage without them. High heels gave her legs that sexy, tapering appearance the patrons admired so much. She turned her back to one of the full-length mirrors, appraising her curvaceous figure, eyes narrowed self-critically.

She stood with her hands on hips, looking back over her shoulder, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The stilettos were the only outerwear she would retain during the performance; ironic that they could add so much to her innate feminine sensuality.

The parade catered to a diverse range of tastes; in the first ten minutes of the performance, the audience would be treated to expensive Italian corsetry, high-class Victoria's Secrets, outrageously frilly petite culottes a la Francais; even good old-fashioned Playtex cross-your-hearts. And that was just the warm up.

Charise's personal favorite was the girl-next-door sequence of the program, with its adorable selection of full-briefs, control panties and plain, pretty lycra: the comfortable, sensible underthings that women wore in their everyday lives. She loved walking onstage flashing her underwires and cottontails; the very same undies she might have worn while shopping out at Chamberlain Plaza or buying a cheese burger at MacDonalds. She couldn't explain it; maybe she just felt more accessible striding the catwalk in her nylon hipsters.

Clicking back to her table, Charise gave her face a final check, tinting her cheeks with a soft carnation glow. She'd need a dab of powder before she stepped out into the spotlights. Just enough to take the edge off her breathless, rosy blush. Like most of the girls here, Charise favored the 'natural' look. Not that she needed too much sugar-frosting at the best of times; her complexion was as close to perfection as her unique biology could provide.

Charise just had finished her final preparations when the stage assistant bustled into the dressing alcove, calling for the girls' attention.

"All right ladies, time to go," he babbled in his thick Gaelic brogue, "everybody take your places please."

A burst of excited chatter followed this announcement as the girls deserted their dressing tables and flocked towards the Grande Stage. The atmosphere was tense with expectation. Tonight, they'd be doing things differently; tonight was going to be special.

The management had decided to spice up the festivities with a change to their normal routine. Each girl would enter the stage fully dressed and exit in nothing but her high-heels and stilettos. It would still be a lingerie parade, complete with a trip down the runway into the audience, but their skimpy little 'underwears' would come off over the course of the entire evening. It would be an extra treat for the audience, an unexpected thrill for the male contingent. Charise slipped quietly into the leggy throng, heart slamming into over-drive. Her body seemed to tingle with a kind of frigid heat, the way it always did before the show began.

Out in the auditorium, ambient noise gave way to rising cheers of the crowd. Glaring spotlights dazzled her eyes, and Charise had to bite her lip to reign in her excitement. In a matter of minutes, she would be standing on open display with only a flimsy pair of satin knickers to hide behind.

Contrary to popular belief, a classic Spectacle Érotique requires far more than walking around half-naked. There were certain protocols to follow, procedures to be observed. Fortunately, Charise had committed all of them to memory.

First, the girls would line up on the stage, resplendent in their svelt black minnies, sheer midnight stockings and six-inch stilettos. With their hair professionally styled, they'd be the very definition of elegance, as befitted the occasion.

Of course, looking beautiful was only half the job. The rest involved taking their clothes off, one piece at a time. And that was nowhere as easy as it first appeared.

At the beginning of the set, each of the girls had to walk down the catwalk, where they would shed all of their "inhibitions": first an earring, then a broach, then a deliciously long black glove. Next, they'd discarding their outer clothing, placing their tantalizing figures on public display. Only this time, they'd be taking it one step further: everything had to go: corsets, suspenders and bustiers would be cast aside with barely a second glance. By the end of the session, they'd be left standing in nothing but their high-cut lace panties.

In short, the whole affair was a thinly-veiled excuse to strip a group of pretty young girls down to their bare essentials. Once the bras came off and the breasts were bared, they would gather up their clothes and tip-toe backstage to prepare for the second set, where the entire process would begin all over again.

Standing backstage amongst her twittering co-workers, Charise felt her pulse quicken with a mixture of outrage and expectation. It was the most gratuitous exploitation she could imagine.

And she could hardly wait to get started.

---

CYNOSURE: SELECTED BRIEFS: this special illustrated edition features eight brief vignettes covering a wide range of transgendered themes. Written in the racy, fast-paced style of the classic pulp era, Cynosure Illustrated Fiction is an eclectic blend of whimsy, pathos, humor and fantasy. Highlights include:

Fallen Angel: for close on two years, 18 year-old Angel Harland has lived under the influence of his domineering aunt, subjected to an ordeal of shame, humiliation and cross-dressing. Finally reaching an age when he can decide his own destiny, Angel finds himself trapped in a web of psychological torment, from which escape may ultimately be impossible.

Tickled Pink: humiliation turns to ecstasy when a pretty young tranzie is tied down to a bed and tickled beyond human endurance. After the torment finally concludes, "Trina" realizes she will never be the same again.

The Playhouse: struggling to survive the lethal excesses of a post-apocalyptic world, young Verity Sherman has volunteered for "genetic reconfiguration" - a long and torturous medical procedure which effectively transforms biological males into fertile young women. If successful, Verity will be granted wealth, comfort and privilege beyond her wildest dreams - but only if she can survive the horrors of reconditioning.

Art and text released into the public domain. Feel Free to reuse as you see fit.

---

Hi all. I've just added another anthology to the public domain, you can read the collection here (PDF posted above) or over at Archive.org (see link below). Please feel free to alter, rewrite or expand the material any way you choose; author attribution is not required.

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A bolt of panic shot down my spine when I heard the key settling in the lock. My eyes flickered over towards the door: it had to be Aunt Cathy! What was she doing home so early? She'd headed off to her bridge club less than fifteen minutes ago; I wasn't expecting her back for several hours. My pulse leapt into overdrive as the key slid into place with an audible clack!

NOOOOOOOOO! I thought, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks. My lips parted in a silent gasp. My greatest fear was about to be realized; my deepest secret revealed. I stepped backwards in rising alarm, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

This couldn't be happening. Not here, not now. Not after I'd spent so many months hiding my true identity in the shadows. I glanced wildly about the room, mentally calculating the odds of making it across to the stairs unseen. Every nerve in my body started screaming with electric fire. Aunt Cathy was home, I could almost see her standing out on the landing, chatting way with her friends from the bridge club. Any second now, the door would open and they'd step inside, eyes widening at the spectacle of a teenaged girlie-boy dressed in frilly blue panties...

Turning away from the door, I caught sight of myself in the cheval mirror I'd set up near the sofa. It showed me as I truly am; a petite young woman with long blond hair and full, crimson lips. How could I explain this, account for my sudden metamorphosis? In all the months since I had come to live with her, Aunt Cathy had never seen me as my real self. She would never understand: very few people could, even in this day and age. I've never truly understood it myself.

The door swung open.

Aunt Cathy stepped across the threshold, adjusting her sunglasses and leading a flock of gabbling matrons into the living room. Frozen to the spot, I turned to face them, self-consciously covering my mouth with both hands.

A deafening silence fell upon the house as half a dozen babbling voices halted in mid-sentence. The moment seemed to spin out to eternity: how was I ever going to explain this?

An infinite span of time later, Aunt Cathy decided to break the insufferable tension with a single word.

"Chris?" she asked in a voice laced with honeyed arsenic. She stared me up and down with a long, measuring gaze, barely capable of hiding her amusement. I nodded, opening my mouth but unable to form a reply. What was she thinking? I could read nothing from her expression, apart from the faintest trace of mockery.

She knew! I realized in sudden, breathless clarity, she knew all along! Worse still, she'd set me up for this gratuitous humiliation.

I've never forgiven Aunt Cathy for what happened next. The house filled up with housewives and homemakers, spanning the Parlor from pillar to post. They milled about in conspiratorial groups, casting furtive glances at my thighs and panties.

I glanced towards the stairs, feeling two dozen pairs of eyes crawling all over my half-naked body. If the path hadn't been blocked, I would have bolted for my room and locked the door. Noting my obvious anxiety, Cathy suddenly called for attention.

"Ladies," she began, looking around at her friends, "you all know my nephew, Chrissy?" A murmur of assent rose from the crowd, which was now closing in around me in a loose semi-circle.

"Well, as I mentioned earlier, he's agreed to put on a show for us," Cathy continued in a bright, conversational voice, "as a matter of fact, he's been so eager he seems to have begun without us."

Some of the older women were laughing now: soft, placid chortles for the time being, which would soon give way to vicious, waspish cackling. The younger ones were smirking at one another, virtually incapable of keeping their faces straight. Aunt Cathy motioned them towards the armchairs and sofas, encouraging them to find a ringside seat.

"Chris has been working on this routine for months now," she explained merrily, "from what I can gather, he models his underwear every time I'm out of the house."

I groaned in utter despair. What did she mean, what was she going to make me do? Whatever she had in mind, it was certain to rob me of my last vestige of human dignity. I bit down hard on my lip, holding back the whimpers that threatened to escape my throat.

I knew most of these women by sight, having accompanied Aunt Cathy to several of her Bridge nights earlier in the year. One of them I placed as Adeline Rhodes, the president of the local P&T. The others I couldn't pin a name to, although I had the impression they'd all dropped by our house several times over the past six months.

Worse still, I was fairly sure they all had children, most of whom attended my school. Any hope of secrecy had flown out the window the moment these blue-rinse horrors walked in through the door. By this time tomorrow, the gossip would be all over town; everyone in Chamberlain would be discussing the color of my undies.

I stood to one side of the chattering group, trembling with barely suppressed panic. I wanted to run away, hide in my bedroom, but Cathy had no intention of letting me off that lightly. She'd spent weeks - possibly months - planning this moment, and nothing was going to rain on her parade.

Taking her place by the antiquated stereo system, she switched on the radio and tuned into the Melodies station. Low, sensuous "elevator" music drifted about the living room, setting the mood for the afternoon's festivities. Once the preparations were finished, Cathy addressed her audience, extending a hand in my direction.

"As I was telling you, Chrissy has ambitions of being a fashion model. This is probably why he's been stealing knickers off the neighbors' washing lines."

My jaw dropped in astonishment. That was an outright lie. I hadn't stolen anything; I'd saved up my allowance for months on end, buying all of my costumes via mail order. She must have known that; she seemed to know everything else I was doing. This was just an excuse, a flimsy pretext for the ordeal she was about to put me through.

"Noooo, Aunt Cathy, I didn't –"

"And, as he seems to have his sights set on lingerie modeling," Cathy went on, cutting me off in mid-sentence, "I thought we should give him a chance to perform before a live audience."

My eyes bulged from their sockets as I realized what my Aunt had been saving up as the Grand Finale. For one second the floor seemed to lurch beneath my feet. I shook my head in utter disbelief: this simply couldn't be happening. Even she wouldn't do this to me; wouldn't subject me to such total humiliation.

How wrong I was.

"OK, pay attention everybody," Cathy exclaimed, taking me by the wrist, "It's time our little model put on his show."

"Please Aunt Cathy, I don't want to do this," I whimpered hopelessly, trying not to stammer my words, "everyone will make fun of me." Cathy laughed her response.

"Oh, what are you so worried about? You make a beautiful little girl."

"But I don't want to look like a little girl, Aunt Cathy!!"

She leaned in close, lowering her voice and impaling me with a searing blue gaze.

"Well – I guess this is what you get for sneaking around behind my back, young man. You're going to model your pretty little panties in front of everybody, and that's the end of it!"

Faced with this intractable sentence, I immediately found myself begging, sobbing for clemency: No, please Aunt Cathy, don’t make me do this, I promise I’ll never do it again, please.

All to no avail. Cathy deflected my pleas with a careless wave of her hand, dismissing my fears as inconsequential. I pressed on regardless, appealing the verdict in growing desperation. Again, I should have known better. It was a doomed venture from the start.

"You're the one who wants to be a lingerie model," she said, effectively terminating any further discussion on the subject, "so here's your big chance."

"Noooooooo!" I wailed as she led me to the center of the floor. I stumbled along behind her, blushing all the way to my eyebrows. An urgent, feverish heat filled my tummy: this was really happening, she was going to make me dance in my underwear before a houseful of complete strangers.

I stared around the Parlour, heart thundering in my rib cage. The living room was a mass of babbling, wild-eyed housefraus. They were literally squealing with delight, eyes shining with feral pleasure. This was one show they weren't going to miss. I felt surrounded, trapped, hemmed in.

"No, no, please no!" I cried, heart pounding in my throat, "take me up to my room! I don't everyone to see!" A rash of laughter rippled through the audience. Some of them chortled over my childish modesty, others sighed with maternal pleasure. Someone patted me affectionately on the bottom: there there, sweetheart, no need to be shy.

"Don't be silly, Chrissy," Cathy replied gaily, "you're a girl, no one minds seeing your undies." She pushed me slightly ahead of her, then walked back to the stereo, leaving me alone in nothing but my bra, pants and stockings.

More laughter from the audience; high-pitched giggles of sheer derision. Several of the elder Moms clapped their hands in ribald encouragement. Overwhelmed with misery, I stepped away from them, only to discover my exit blocked by Mrs Rhodes and several grinning conspirators. The message was clear: I wasn't going anywhere.

Gasping with shame, I tried to to cover my flimsy little briefs with both hands. The action prompted a chorus of amusement from the audience: Isn't he just the sweetest little thing, look at him trying to hide his underpants, you'd never guess he was a boy, would you?

By this time, my face was blazing the color of a ripe tomato. Even now, years after the event, I can still recall the breathless, gasping shame of that moment, the leering, contemptuous cheers of my audience. That was how it seemed to me at the time; teenaged boys are terribly self-conscious about their bodies, particularly where strangers are concerned. Of course, none of that mattered to Aunt Cathy. She and her company were enjoying the spectacle far too much to consider my emotions.

"OK, let's get this show on the road," Mrs Rhodes said behind me, her high, warbling voice pregnant with excitement, "Cathy, ramp the music up a little".

I cast a final, imploring glance at my Aunt, but found no sympathy there. Her face was hard, stern, accusing. I knew that expression from painful experience. You're going to do this, it said, right here, right now, and without another word!

I choked back on my tears, knowing there was no room for debate, no room for negotiation. She'd reached her decision long ago, and nothing was going to alter her judgment. I would probably get a spanking later on anyway; the only question was whether it would take place in front of these screeching harpies or in the privacy of my room upstairs.

Cathy dialed up the music, then nodded her head in my direction, her eyes narrowed and threatening.

The moment had arrived. It was time to model my lingerie.

---

---

Anyone here remember their annual school physicals?

To this day, I still cringe at the memory for various reasons. Back in Ridgewick Elementary, we used to have at least one every year (two if you count the annual sports check up). Ours could be really embarrassing, because they were usually unannounced and we often had to take our medical in the same room as the boys.

It always started out the same way. First, we were ushered in two lines into the gymnasium, where the nurse divided us into two groups; 'girls' on the right side and boys on the left. This was where things started to get kind of weird. The boys only had to remove their shirts and singlets, but we had to strip all the way down to our panties.

I'm not exactly sure why this was, but I can hazard a guess based on the guidelines and protocols governing the treatment of transfeminine students. I think there must have been an unofficial policy to examine the tranzies more closely. And as we'd all been born male, the school board couldn't have us fraternizing with the 'real' girls.

There was no partition in the room at that time, so the boys got to see us undressing on the other side of the gym. After we'd taken everything off, we had to fold our clothes in neat piles and leave them on the wall-side bench. It's hard to describe how embarrassing it was, standing there in nothing but our undies, waiting for the doctor to call us into the clinic. All of my friends agreed it wasn't fair that the boys got to keep their most of their clothes on, while we had to mill about in our panty-knicks.

When the Doctor was ready to see us, the boys sat down on the left side while we were told to line up and wait their turn. The "clinic" was at the far end of the gymnasium; a brightly lit space with a table, some chairs and a set of scales. There was also a folding screen next to the doctor's chair, in case anyone needed a more "thorough" examination.

Like most of my friends, I was blushing to my hairline and trying to hide my underpants by crossing my hands in front. A couple of girls picked up their vests and tried to hold them around their waists, but the nurse told them to stop being silly, and made them wait with their undies on open display.

By now, you're probably wondering what kind of panties we were wearing. Back in those days, thongs and g-strings were banned by order of the school board, so most of us were wearing plain cotton full briefs. The majority wore pastel-colored knickers with elastic waistbands, while a few of the "cool" girls had floral prints with a little pink bow at the front. I was wearing white cotton pants, the kind that come all the way up to the belly button (yeah, if I'd known the medical was that day, I would've worn something different).

One of my friends – Helena – had on a pair of bright red nylon briefs that shimmered under the lights every time she moved. Naturally, she stood out amongst the crowd, and was the subject of schoolyard discussion for the next few days.

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, the Doctor called us up to his table one by one. When my turn came, I walked up to the scales in my snowy white panties, feeling every eye in the room on me. My tummy was fluttering with butterflies, and for a while I felt like I was watching myself from a different perspective (this used to happen to me a lot when I was young). Stepping up onto the scales, I held my arms up in the air while the nurse weighed me then took my measurements. My heart was literally pounding against my chest, because my entire body seemed to be completely on view, as if I was stark naked. I wasn't really, of course, but that was how it felt.

After the nurse had finished with me, the Doctor asked me my name, then checked it off on his medical form. I instinctively went to cross my hands in front again, but he told me to hold them by my side while he checked my breathing (it's odd how a stethoscope always feels cold, no matter how many bodies it touches).

He asked me numerous questions during the examination, mainly about my family and general health, instructing me to turn round while he examined my spine. I practically fainted on the spot, knowing that I'd be facing my entire class at that second. It's strange: I suspected that worse was yet to come, but seeing everybody staring at me in my fresh white knickers was embarrassing beyond all description.

For some reason, my examination went on much longer than anyone else's. Completing the preliminary physical, the Doctor got me to perform some flexibility exercises. I must have been blushing from heel to crown by that time, knowing that my panties had been viewed from every possible angle. When he instructed me to spread my feet as wide as possible and place my palms flat on the floor, my pristine white bottom went on display to the whole wide world.

When he finally finished (after what felt like half a million years) the Doctor made another note in his report and sent me back to the girls' line. Walking across the room in my bare knickers, that strange, disembodied sensation swept over me again, twice as strong as before. My belly seemed to be melting with warm, liquid heat. It seemed so terribly unfair; none of my friends had spent so much time in their panties, parading about before half the grade.

I brushed shoulders with Helena at the half-way mark; it was her turn with the Doctor, and she looked even more reluctant than I'd been ten minutes before. Her bottom jostled along in tight little circles, highlighted by her glimmering scarlet panty-pants. I wondered how long she'd be under the stethoscope, breathing a sigh of relief that my ordeal was over.

Well, not exactly. For some inexplicable reason, we weren't allowed to get dressed again until the last girl had been examined. There were at seven more girls to go, meaning that the free show would continue for at least the next twenty minutes (if not more).

---

Question: By definition, does a transgendered story absolutely require transgendered characters? Could it simply be a story in which the male reader adopts a female character's perspective; ie becomes the girl in the story?

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On a perfect spring morning at the very beginning of May, a boy named Dave Henson was sauntering down Lancaster Parade, a lanky red-haired lad trailing a bright red yo-yo from his right hand. School had been out for just over a week and the sidewalks were wavering with soft white heat. It was a wonderful time to be twelve years old with the entire summer spread out before you. Ridgewick was a sleepy little burg famed for its clement seasons, the kind of place you read about in Ray Bradbury stories. Lawn mowers droned in some remote distance, dragon flies whickered across moist, green lawns.

Crossing the intersection at Memorial Drive, Dave slung the yo-yo into a perfect overhand spin, letting it hover half an inch over the asphalt. The days were getting warmer; you could almost feel the afternoons leaning into summer. In a few weeks, the roads would be bubbling with hot black tar. He continued on towards Memorial Park, leading the yo-yo and keeping to the shade. A fresh spring mistral flickered down the avenue, rustling the overhanging branches.

"Hi Dave."

The voice came from somewhere overhead; high, clear and rather sweet. Dave glanced up and saw Janey Watson sitting on a low-hanging bough, feet swinging idly back and forth. Janey wasn't exactly a friend, but they were on pretty good terms. Dave was on pretty good terms with everybody. Janey lived up on The Crest, so they often crossed paths on the way home from school.

"Hey, Janey," Dave replied, snapping the yo-yo up to his palm, "whatcha doing up there?"

"Just climbing," Janey answered with a shrug, "you can see all the way to Chamberlain if you climb high enough."

"Yeah?" Dave asked, eyebrows raised in vague disbelief. Chamberlain was a collection of distant skyscrapers on the eastern horizon, regarded with semi-mythical awe by the local kids. Dave sincerely doubted you could see much of anything from Janey's vantage point, but he was tempted to climb up for a look, all the same. A glimpse of Chamberlain's gleaming towers would be tantamount to seeing God or something. Unfortunately, he'd grown a little wary of the whole Tarzan thing since he took that fall last year. He'd spent the whole summer in plaster up to his hips, and he didn't much care for a repeat performance.

Anyway, the view was pretty good from where he was standing. Janey's dress was breathtakingly short, barely reaching down to her thighs. Slim coltish legs descended towards the sidewalk, smooth and tanned and rather shapely for a kid of twelve. A light spring breeze was whispering through the leaves, lifting Janey's abbreviated hemline. Dave found himself craning his neck to see what lay beneath. Which was rather odd, considering that Janey wasn't really a girl.

Janey Watson was a tranzie.

There were a lot of tranzies around Ridgewick these days. Seemed like every second kid you met was one - although you probably wouldn't have known, not unless you'd lived here all your life as Dave had. Half the time, you hardly noticed they were even there. Dave knew most of the tranzies out at Ridgewick Elementary, he'd been through the system with them. There were eight in the sixth grade alone – something like ninety in the school, all up. A pretty sizable number, considering the school's population was barely four hundred.

Tranzies were transgendered children – kids who were neither male nor female. They were also known as transfems or T-girls, depending on which part of town you came from. They seemed to have a lot of different names, actually. Chamberlain Central News referred to them as "The Transsexual Generation" (the one that came after the Pepsi Generation, evidently). The Ridgewick Advertiser had labeled them "The Third Sex," while the North American Journal of Genetic Research described the phenomenon as Toxically Induced Sexual Morphosis; TISM for short.

On the other hand, some of the local epithets were dubious to say the least. Old man Nevin at the Beef 'n' Burger called them "fruits." Coach Phillips out at the high school dismissed them as "queer-boys" (and later claimed he was the victim of a "fag conspiracy" when he lost his job). Reverend Daniels from the League of Christian Decency denounced them as "an abomination in the eyes of God."

Of course, the kids around Dave's neighborhood – none of whom ate at the Beef 'n' Burger – had eventually settled for "tranzies," a child's diminutive which seemed less threatening and somehow more familiar. No one quite remembered who had coined the phrase, but it had passed into the vernacular back in the third grade, and was now the generally accepted term on the east side of town.

Dave had once asked his mother how a boy became a tranzie. Looking Back, David realized that his Mom had been expecting this particular question for quite some time, as she had a long and rather complicated answer prepared. Most parents discuss the birds and the bees with their children; in Ridgewick, they talk about something else entirely.

Apparently, it all had something to do with a chemical refinery over in Blaxland. The place used to make insecticides and defoliants (whatever that was), and there'd been this big chemical leakage about fifteen years ago, several years before Dave was born. The EPA had shut the refinery down, hoping to limit the damage to the surrounding environment, but by that time, the damage was already done. The seepage had reached the water table, and had been absorbed into the food chain.

A whole bunch of weird stuff started to happen over the next couple of years. Babies were born with webbed feet, some with mashed-up faces and crazy, twisted bodies. Others had gills and tails and the damp, moist skins of amphibians. It was like something out of The Twilight Zone. All of these died very young (which Mom thought was something of a blessing) and people hoped that was the end of it.

But then the first tranzies came along.

According to the medical journals, there were two distinct forms of Toxically Induced Sexual Morphism (Dave's mother had read a lot of articles on the topic for some reason). The first were "intersexuals" – anatomical hermaphrodites with a foot in both camps – although they more often passed as female. These were comparatively rare, despite being the first to appear after the Blaxland disaster.The second (and more common) form of TISM was known as transfemininity.

Transfems were biological transsexuals; young boys who morphed into little girls over a period of years. Exactly how this happened, no one was entirely sure, but Dave's mother had told him it was a little like going through puberty – except that you changed from one sex to another (this particular revelation had provided Dave with more than a few sleepless summer nights). Transfems tended to be frail and delicate from birth, with girlish features and slender proportions. Most began to 'turn' around the age of seven, taking at least three years to complete the process. From there, they continued through a more conventional puberty – though none were capable of menstruating or bearing children.

Janey Watson was a typical transfem.

He was, in fact, the quintessential transfem: small, petite, and indistinguishable from a real girl. It wasn't just his appearance, either: it was his behavior, his voice, his overall personality. He walked and talked and acted like a girl. Always had, even back in the first grade, when he wore Osh-Kosh overalls and Doc Martins For Boys. Dave himself wouldn't have known the difference, if they hadn't started out in the same class six years before. He found it easier to think of Janey Watson as a girl nowadays. Truth be told, he found it practically impossible to think of Janey Watson as anything else.

Especially since she'd begun wearing a training bra.

---

It was a perfect summer day, one of those endless, golden afternoons when the air was clear and still, with just the barest hint of a cool change in the early afternoon. The shadows beneath the trees were cool and green, the sky overhead a deep, faultless blue. The low droning of a million cicadas echoed from yard to yard.

Kellie Carlyle sped along the sidewalk, generating small tornados in her wake. Her face was flushed and her long brown hair whipped out in a streaming ponytail. Standing on the pedals, she hurtled down Ascot Street, dodging sprinklers and ducking branches. A slender girl in a bright yellow top and a short blue skirt, her eyes were dancing with innocent, child-like joy. School was out, the sun was hot, and the season was spread out before her like an endless white beach.

Easing down on the brakes, she turned left down Greenway and flew through a cold haze of garden spray. She screamed in pleasure as the water touched her skin: a million tiny rainbows shimmered into existence around her. Shaking the moisture out of her hair, she rode high on the saddle, her long legs pumping the stirrups at roughly the speed of light.

Crossing the road, Kellie took the short-cut through Greenway Park, where a bunch of high-school boys were horsing around with a football, trying to impress their girlfriends. Two of them yelled at her to get off the field, rushing at her with their bare chests glittering in the sunshine. Kellie lost them easily, gliding through the commotion with an insulting lack of haste. Baiting the big boys was a well-loved game, one she'd relished almost as far back as she could remember.

Emerging into Lincoln Avenue, she sailed along the bubbling asphalt, ringing her bell as she glided home. The Carlyle house was a highset centennial edifice, the kind of place featured in Better Homes and Gardens in the heritage section. Jess pulled up in front of the low brick fence, straddling her bike and glancing up at the attic window. No shadows, no movement, no motion. Yes: the place was empty, her folks wouldn't be home for hours.

Good!

Ditching the bike without a second thought, she glanced up and down the street to make sure the neighbors weren't watching (a habit she'd formed some years ago - always better to be safe than sorry), then literally dashed up the garden path, eager to get started.

Cheeks flushed with excitement, Kellie locked the front door behind her, sloughing off her backpack and scampering down the hall to the rumpus room. Her heart was racing and her colour was high. She'd been planning this Matinee for days on end, counting down the hours and minutes and seconds until the curtain rose on her Command Performance.

Bursting through the batwing doors, Kellie ran over to the old storage closet where she kept her costumes hidden. Her pulse was racing in her throat, her tummy was quivering with butterflies. It had been weeks since she'd last been left on her own, weeks since she's been able to shed her cumbersome male identity and stand revealed as her true self. Well, the doors were locked, the curtains were drawn and the stage was set. It was time to party!!

Pulling open the chest of drawers at the back of the closet, Kellie started sorting through her wardrobe. So many different characters, so many different identities. She had plenty of time, and literally dozens to choose from, but which one first? The Spoilt Girlfriend? The Sweet Young Thing? The Fashion Model? It didn't really matter, she had the whole afternoon before her. She stood up, making her decision, and peeled her Nike t-shirt over her head in a single fluid movement.

Burlesque!

Yes, she'd begin with a striptease; it had always been one of her favorites. She had at least a hundred different routines to choose from; Vegas showgirls from the Tropicana; Parisian danseuses from the Bal Tabarin, London starlets from The Windmill. Dozens of personas catalogued and stored away in the vault of memory.

Putting a slim hand to her ponytail, she removed a sequined elastic binder, allowing her tangled blond hair to cascade down past her shoulders. With her thick, curly tresses sweeping to her waist in a shimmering gold arabesque, she looked sweet and fragile; a pretty teenaged girl with crystal blue eyes and flawless, alabaster features. Kellie had been rather fortunate in this respect. She'd possessed a sexually ambiguous appearance since her early childhood, and the recent onset of puberty had little effect on her largely androgynous form.

Thowing off her jeans with a casual gesture, she slipped rapidly into her costume, starting with a pair of shimmering lace panties. Her entire nervous system flared with pleasure as each gossamer layer touched her flesh. Putting on her outfit was like assuming a new body. She always felt this way before the curtain rose on her Grand Performance: a swirling rush of backstage anxiety and moist, rippling expectation.

Glancing towards the nearby cheval, Kellie reached for her delicate red corset, its adjustable suspenders and hook-and-eye closure promising a perfect fit. The mere sight of it filled her with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Securing the basque around her waist, she carefully stepped into a pair of seamed midnight stockings, mindful not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the garters to mid-thigh, she turned to face the mirror, savoring the sensation of the nylon against her skin. Her legs seemed lean and coltish, encased in their ebony sheaths.

Her stomach fluttered with anticipation as she gazed at the reflection before her. The girl in the mirror stood tall and slender, exuding a quiet elegance. Her lustrous blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face and highlighting her large blue eyes. She appeared youthful, perhaps in her late teens, with an innocent, almost dream-like quality.

The ensemble was nearly complete, but the skin-tight black dress remained. Arching her back, Kellie drew the shimmering lycra hemline over her head, stretching the material almost as far as her knees. The dress was a masterpiece, adorned with crisp red stripes running down both sides. Exquisite lace traceries embellished the shoulder straps, infusing the outfit with a hint of allure. She complemented her regalia with long, crimson opera gloves and slipping into gleaming stiletto heels, their sharp points clicking softly against the floor.

Standing before the mirror, the transformation was striking. The dress clung to her form, accentuating her silhouette, while the accessories added a flair of sophistication. Her reflection exuded confidence and grace, embodying the essence of the character she was about to portray. With a final adjustment of her gloves and a deep breath, she was ready. The stage awaited, and it was time for the show to begin.

Closing her eyes, she began transforming the room around her, willing The Playhouse into existence. An auditorium began to materialize — a grand, cavernous space bathed in the warm glow of the main spotlight. The air was thick with the scent of aged velvet and polished wood, a symphony of sounds filled the space: the soft murmur of an eager crowd, the distant rustle of costumes backstage. The moment was at hand, the curtains poised to rise, and the magic of the performance awaited.

The weight of the evening settled upon her. The anticipation was palpable, the silence before the storm. The night was shattered by a staccato clash of drums; lights dimmed in preparation for the spectacle. The Theater leapt into sharp, technicolor resolution, its looming walls darkened by drifts of purple smoke. She could actually hear the quavering notes of the orchestra tuning up, the low, droning rumble of a moody audience —

And suddenly, Kellie Carlyle was on stage.

---

I suppose it must have come as something of a shock for The Boy Next Door. He and his family had moved in only a few weeks before, and when his mother sent him over to borrow a cup of sugar, the last thing he expected to see was a pair of firm, young bottom-cheeks staring him dead in the face.

You see, I was dancing the cancan.

Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but I've always thought the cancan was an incredibly sexy dance. The idea of whirling across a stage with my skirt raised to my chin made my heart race every time it crossed my mind.

It had taken me a while to assemble the costume, starting with a garish satin dress I found at a Red Shield store out in Chamberlain. It looked practically brand-new when I took it down from the rack. The shop-lady told me it was an authentic chorus-girl outfit, a hand-me-down from one of the local dance schools. I managed to talk her down to ten dollars for the dress and a pair of black stiletto heels I'd seen in the window. Everything fit perfectly; I literally couldn't believe my luck.

The layered petticoats were a little more difficult to locate (not to mention expensive) but I eventually came across a dancewear supplier on the net specializing in music-hall accessories. I used my mother's credit card to buy them online and had them mailed to a post-box number at Chamberlain Mail Centre. I paid her back with interest, although I never told her what the transaction was for.

I picked up the lingerie at a Valentine's sale out of town, pooling my allowance for weeks in advance. The sales assistant wasn't sure whether I was a girl or a boy, but she was helpful enough once she saw the color of my money. So helpful, in fact, that I bought four of everything; bras, panties, bustiers and waist-cinchers. Variety being the spice of life, I settled for matching sets of white, pink, red and black.

As for the garter-belts and suspender stockings... well, that's a story in itself, which I'll get round to telling in due course.

The outfit looked absolutely fantastic once I added a cincher-belt and a pair of shoulder-length lycra gloves. I couldn't wait to try it out in the rumpus room (which my imagination transformed into a 19th century Soho music hall). Unfortunately, it had been weeks since I last found myself alone in the house. My bedroom was a little too small to dance in and I didn't want to run the risk of Mom walking in on my performance unannounced. Truth be told, we kept very few secrets from each other, but like any other kid my age, there were certain things I just preferred doing in private.

Anyhow, by the time summer rolled 'round and Momma went to spend the weekend at Grandma's place, I was almost climbing the walls. If you've survived puberty, you'll know how desperate the situation becomes when you're struggling in the grip of raging hormone levels.

Finally having the house to myself, I pulled the ensemble out of its hiding place in the wardrobe and carried it down to the rumpus room. It was large and well-lit, with plenty of space for twirling and kicking. There was a cheval mirror set up to one side of the television. Walking over to the sofa, I laid the garments out in careful order, preparing for the afternoon's festivities.

Peeling off my t-shirt, jeans and hipsters, I stood before the mirror, ready for my transformation. I paused a few moments, allowing the excitement to surge through my system like waves of moist heat. I'd been waiting months for this moment, feeling the exhilaration building up inside me like a slow-burning fever.

Shivering with anticipation, I reached for the lacy, black garter-belt.

It was the sort with adjustable suspenders and a hook-and-eye arrangement at the back. Just looking at the thing made me delirious with embarrassment. Clipping the flimsy piece of lingerie around my slim waist, I picked up a pair of seamed midnight stockings and stepped carefully into them, cautious not to tear the sheer fabric. Adjusting the suspenders to mid-thigh, I turned to pose in the mirror, enjoying the touch of nylon against my bare flesh. My legs looked long and tapering in their ebony sheaths.

Next, I pulled on a pair of pristine white panties, slipping them over the garters with a whisper of liquid satin. Delicate and nebulous, they shimmered like platinum in the lazy afternoon light. The garter-belt was plainly visible through the gossamer material. The hips were decorated with a delicious floral trim. I was blushing at the thought of exhibiting them to my imaginary audience.

I put on a matching white underwire brassiere, adjusting the shoulder straps with vaguely tremulous fingers. My tummy was fluttering with anticipation; the girl in the mirror was tall and slim and quite beautiful. Shining blond hair tied back in a long ponytail, she looked maybe fourteen years old; her large blue eyes and tiny mouth giving her an innocent, child-like appearance.

Turning around, I looked back over my shoulder, enjoying the curve of my figure; the lush, full shape of my bottom. The panties were a little high-cut at the back, exposing a generous amount of cheek on either side. I wriggled my fanny impishly, smiling back at myself. Raising one hand, I slapped myself, very hard, on the right buttock, leaving an angry red mark. My smile broadened in pleasure. I needed a good, hard spanking; I was an extremely naughty little girl, after all.

Returning to the business at hand, I pulled on the petticoats, their flouncing bulk accentuating the luscious swell of my hips. Two layers of alabaster frills, an absolute pre-requisite to dancing the cancan. Waved above the waistline, the crinolines formed a kind of backdrop for the underwear, a curtain raised to exhibit the panties and stockings.

However, the costume wasn't quite complete.

I drew the satin hemline over my head, allowing the dress to drop into place over the massed petticoats. It was beautifully designed, with a halter top and a full-circle skirt that swept down to just below the knee. The frock was ornate and rather gaudy, red and black stripes ran the length of the skirt. Lace traceries embellished the bustline. I finished my preparations by drawing on the long, crimson gloves and fastening the cincher around my waist. And then I was ready.

I posed in the mirror, stepping forward on one foot and lifting the petticoats to reveal a saucy black garter. My heart was racing in my chest, my eyes twinkled with mischief. Was this how it felt, waiting backstage while the band warmed up its horns and strings? I could almost hear the murmur of the crowd, the popping of corks and the clinking of glasses. In a very few moments, I'd have to run onto the stage with my panties on full display. My entire body was trembling with expectation. Gazing into the mirror, I saw a rich, pink glow suffusing my features.

Snatching up two handfuls of flocked white lace, I conjured up a packed Victorian nightclub on the south side of London. For one second, I could almost see the chandeliers flickering overhead, the coils of smoke rising to the rafters, the dim shape of the audience beyond the footlights. The band had started up with a clashing of drums: I was being summoned out before the crowd. It was time to reveal my gauzy white underwear to the world!

Grinning my most brilliant smile, I raced onto the stage in an avalanche of gossamer frills. I launched into my routine with a series of classic high-kicks, straining my garter-belt to the breaking point as my feet swept towards the ceiling. A vast star of joy seemed to explode in my belly. Heart pounding in ecstasy, I spun into a long, wheeling pirouette, skirts flying out in a perfect circle. I orbited around the room, exposing my panties all the way up to my belly button. Stockinged thighs flashed in the mirror as I swirled past, my hair flailing about my shoulders.

Every nerve in my body seemed to tingle with electric fire. Drawing a deep breath, I pitched forward into a cartwheel, scissoring my legs in mid-air to allow the crinolines to fall away. I paused at the height of my arc; suspended upside-down with my petticoats cascading over my head. Cool air whisked between my thighs as I went over, almost shrieking in rapture. It was wonderful, better than I'd ever imagined.

Landing gracefully on my feet, I whipped the dress back up to my throat and kicked my heels over my head, laughing like a child as I leapt from foot to foot. The audience roared its approval, their deafening shouts echoing about the ceiling. I rushed forward, waving my skirt as high as it could go. I felt sweet, feminine and unbelievably naughty. Tight black garters snapped against my haunches, virginal white panties glared in the mirror.

The performance lasted about ten minutes. Pulse thudding in my temples, I careened through a succession of kicks, handstands and flip-flops, taxing my gymnastic abilities to the limit. My stockings crept imperceptively down my thighs, exhibiting more bare flesh until the suspenders were as taut as violin strings. Wild exhilaration filled my veins; I spun ever faster, giggling and screaming as my petticoats rose and fell.

I finished up with by bending double and tossing my skirts over my back, baring my ripe, pantied bottom to the entire room. Breathless with excitement, I stood with my heels together and my dress hanging over my head. I clenched my bottom-cheeks impulsively, listening to the crowd cheering; thundering for more. I smiled to myself in pure, innocent delight, prepared to stand up and give them the encore they deserved.

Just at that second, someone cleared their throat behind me.

---

Verity Sherman walked down the central colonnade of the Facility, a pretty young woman in a pastel yellow sundress, her full lips pursed with trepidation. It was Monday morning; the Committee was meeting at ten thirty-five to discuss her latest progress report. Verity noted the time with an anxious turn of her wrist. Attendance was mandatory, she couldn't afford to be late by even a few seconds. She quickened her pace to match the pounding in her chest.

The colonnade was a vast expanse of iridescent columns sweeping off into an alabaster limbo. Opalescent pillars loomed on either side, their crystal surfaces glimmering in the muted light. Verity could hear her heels clicking along the vast corridor, remote echoes in the brooding, marble stillness. A fresh summer breeze seemed to flicker along the Italian floor tiles, raising the hem of her dress.

It was a trick, of course. Like everything else in the Facility, the breeze was an illusion, a simple mirage redolent with the scent of grape and honey-suckle. Deception was the only truth in this house of vacant fantasies. Everything here was either a lie, a dream or a nightmare - although the boundaries between the three were somewhat obscure, Verity had come to realize.

In the three months since she'd entered the Program, Verity had been exposed to indignities without number: probes and penetrations; medical procedures which invariably left her shaken and tearful. The invasions never seemed to end. They'd explored her most intimate recesses with a barrage of wicked-looking instruments, delving and touching and pricking and poking until she'd begged them to stop, wailing like a child as each new device was inserted.

Still, there was something worse than all the violations she'd suffered over the past ninety days.

There were the Interviews.

Reaching the end of the colonnade, Verity entered an equally extravagant hallway decorated with Baroque oils - Rembrandts, Van Dykes, Rubens and hundreds of others she'd never heard of. The walls were covered with thick indigo velvet, lending the hall the appearance of some lavish private gallery. Verity wasted no time examining the artwork; she could think about improving her cultural literacy if she survived her probation. As it was, she'd be lucky to make it through the next twenty-four hours with her sanity intact.

Verity wasn't alone in her never-ending pilgrimage through the Hall of Wonders. Like every other candidate in the Reorientation Program, she had a bodyguard assigned to accompany her whenever she moved about the Facility. A combination security guard, escort and prison warder, he rarely spoke, other than to inform her which door to enter or what direction to take.

Verity looked shyly up at the man striding beside her. He was a big, heavy-set veteran in a black business suit, aged perhaps in his mid-thirties. He walked with the precise, measured step of a military serviceman. His dark, impassive face was masked by a pair of reflector sunglasses, enhancing his hard, disciplined bearing. The tag on his lapel read TYLER, F. Verity had often wondered what the 'F' stood for, but had never summoned up the courage to ask. She was under strict instructions never to engage the bodyguards in private conversation.

They walked past a chain of sumptuous Rococo sculptures depicting the Rape of Persephone ('rape' being the operative word in this case), arriving before an enormous oaken door, half as tall as a Los Angeles apartment block. Verity's gaze wandered up to the coat of arms mounting the portal. Painstakingly embossed on the sepia woodgrain was a silver serpent coiled around a cross. The letters 'TVC' were inscribed in gold leaf directly below the shield. Verity had never understood the significance of the crucified snake, but she thought she knew what the initials stood for.

The bodyguard stepped in front of her, his large frame blocking her view of the logo. He must have been at least four feet across the shoulders. Touching a finger to the side of his sunglasses, Tyler F spoke quietly into his comset.

"Miss Sherman's here."

Endless grey silence for several seconds, followed by an equally ominous click: hidden locks turning in varnished oak panel. Verity's knees weakened as she contemplated the reception awaiting her on the other side of that monstrous door. She was dizzy, light headed; almost feverish with fear and expectation. It was a consistent paradox: despite her misgivings, Verity always felt a thrill of excitement as she prepared to face the Committee.

The door opened, evidently of its own volition.

"Go in," Tyler told her dispassionately.

Stealing a final, calming breath, Verity stepped across the threshold.

---

Let me say this from the outset: coming from a large, extended family with dozens of relatives, my childhood was an epic of non-stop tickling. Most of our people emigrated from Eastern Europe, eventually settling into the same neighborhood, which meant there were always plenty of kids around on weekends and holidays.

Our folks took turns taking care of us after school, sometimes sending an older cousin over to keep an eye on us. This was a favored tradition from the old country, where everybody in seemed to be related by blood or marriage. The majority of our babysitters were relatives, but our all-time favorite minder at the time was our "long lost" cousin Karla.

Karla Jeygensen was three years my senior, making her around fifteen when she started babysitting my sisters and I. We quickly discovered she was a world-class tickler, and while we all fell victim to her torturous fingertips at one time or another, I soon became her prime target – mainly because I did everything in my power to provoke her most of the time.

I guess I need to explain a little about myself. I was born with a rare glandular condition known as TISM - Toxically Induced Sexual Morphism. While genetically male, I appear anatomically female in virtually every respect; only the specialists can tell the difference, and then only after extensive examinations and testing. The medical literature connects it to an industrial accident back in the sixties, which released several thousand tons of insecticide into the local environment - much of which consisted of conjugated estrogens. The result was an ecological disaster and several generations of transsexual children - transfems in the regional parlance - of which I happen to be a prime example.

The condition effects something like one in seven males in the Courtland district, meaning that I really wasn't seen as anything out of the ordinary at the time (religious fanatics and right-wing nutjobs notwithstanding). Transfems had become a fixture in my hometown decades before, and my parents were willing to raise me as a girl during early childhood. So did everyone else, which is where cousin Karla comes in.

As the proverbial black swan of our family - an archetype gothic art student with a 'take no prisoners' attitude - Karla had my number from day one, and never failed to remind me who was in charge. It made absolutely no difference what my preferred pronoun was: she utterly refused to put up with even the slightest hint of rebellion on my part. If I started something, I could be darned sure she'd finish it.

And believe it or not, that suited me just fine.

Being the middle child in the family, I was slightly starved for attention, and usually acted out in chronic misbehavior. I was also a budding tomboy (a lethal combination back in those days), so I was always getting into some kind of trouble. Karla was somewhat on the rough-and-tumble side as well, making her the perfect foil for my frequent escapades. In common with most little 'girls,' I enjoyed a good tickling every now and then, but more importantly, I loved Karla's undivided attention whenever she dropped round for the afternoon.

I think Karla picked up on it early on, because she started "punishing" my high jinx with extremely long tickling sessions, sometimes lasting more than fifteen minutes with intermittent breathers. My sisters, Tanya and Lydia, usually joined in the festivities, making sure I never got off too lightly. Much as I dreaded these protracted marathons, I still looked forward to Karla's weekly visits and often dared her to chase me down for a tickling. I simply could not help myself; I always believed that I'd get away with it this time.

From the very start, I urged her on with incessant mischief. At first, she would jokingly warn me off, threatening me with the most diabolical torments imaginable. Naturally, this would only make me more determined to push the limits as far as possible. Within a few seconds, I'd be playing the nuisance while she tried to read a book on the sofa (or whatever). I never knew when the warnings were going to run out (that was a crucial part of the excitement), so I always screamed like a banshee when my ordeal began.

---

CRASH!

Ian Bradford paused at his computer, glancing up at the ceiling in growing irritation. What the hell was Aggie up to now? He had two papers due next Monday and she'd been bumping around upstairs all afternoon. The constant pounding was wreaking havoc with his concentration; he'd just written the same paragraph four times. God, he wished he'd headed down to the library this morning. His life had descended into chaos since his precocious young cousin moved in. He turned back to the keyboard, shaking his head in mounting annoyance.

CRASH!!

"HEY!" Ian yelled, almost leaping out of his skin. Another concussion, loud enough to rattle the windows this time. What was going on up there? She couldn't have been jumping around on the bed again: not even that would've have made so much noise (unless the legs gave way, which was entirely possible). Then again, what else could it be? Mom had told her off about that last week, so she should have known better. Evidently, she'd suffered a relapse. Aggie tended to act up whenever Mom wasn't around to regulate her behavior, particularly when she was seeking attention. Oh well, the hell with it. He had more pressing concerns than playing hall monitor to a hyperactive twelve year old. Shifting his chair closer to the computer desk, Ian placed his fingers on the keys and started typing.

A third, catastrophic detonation, shaking the foundations beneath his feet: CRASH!!!

And Ian saw finally red.

Pushing back from the desk, he stood up, saved his file and stalked out towards the staircase. Any more of this and the roof was likely to collapse. Aggie was - without exception - the most exasperating child in the universe. For all her endearing qualities (and there were many), she could be insufferably naughty when it suited her. Well, enough was enough. Time for some direct intervention, so to speak. Ian started up the stairs, heavy brown boots announcing his approach.

Aggie's quarters were at the far end of the first floor landing, a spacious, skylit bedroom with a slanting attic ceiling and cedar paneling. Ian loped down the hallway, listening for the tell-tale sounds of tortured bedsprings. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. Truth be told, he didn't mind her jumping on the mattress, he just wanted her to keep it down to an acceptable level. He strode down to her room and stuck his head in the door.

"Aggie!" he barked, a little louder than he intended.

Framed a hazy shaft of afternoon sunlight, Aggie Preston was a pretty young girl with rose-petal lips and curly blond hair spilling down to her waist. Her petite figure was outlined by a red cotton sun frock, so translucent that Ian could see the ghost of her underwear. She was standing before a large cheval mirror (an heirloom passed down from their mutual grandmother) with her arms raised over her head. She looked like a high diver about to catapult from a springboard.

"What're you doing? You're making enough noise to wake the dead!"

Aggie lowered her hands and looked over at the door, her face as bright and open as a summer morning.

"I'm practicing," she told him.

"Practicing? Practicing what?"

"Handstands."

Yeah, that'd be right, he thought ruefully, serves me right for teaching her how to do cartwheels yesterday. He shook his head incredulously. When would he ever learn? Next it'll be backflips and somersaults.

"Why don't you go practice down in the backyard?"

"I want to watch myself in the mirror," she replied, gesturing towards the cheval, "only I can't because my dress keeps getting in the way."

Ian rubbed his temples in disbelief. Was that why she'd been thumping around like a goddam elephant for the past two hours? Surely not.

"Well, put some shorts on, then."

"I want to see what I look like wearing the dress."

"Yeah, that makes a lot of sense," Ian commented wearily. The conversation was getting loopier by the second. He couldn't believe this was happening. Two book reports due next Monday and here he was, talking gobbledygook with a twelve year old. No, sorry - a twelve year old who likes turning handstands in front of the mirror. Wearing a dress.

And the loopiest thing of all? She wasn't even a girl. Not really.

Aggie was a transfem.

To quote one of Ian's contemporaries, you saw a lot of transfem around Ridgewick nowadays. Seemed like every second kid you met was one - although you'd simply never have guessed, not unless you'd lived here all your life. Half the time, you hardly noticed they were even there. Ian knew most of the transfems out at Ridgewick Consolidated, he'd been through the system with them. There were two dozen in the eighth grade alone – close on two hundred in the school, all up - a rather significant number, considering the school's general population was somewhat less than a thousand.

Transfems were biological transsexuals; genetic males who morphed into anatomical females during early childhood. Nobody was completely sure how this occurred, but the scientific literature theorized it was caused by an alpha-five mutation, similar to the cases documented in the Dominican Republic. Apparently, it was a little like going through puberty – except that you changed from one sex to another. Most began to 'turn' around the age of seven, taking around three years to complete the process. From there, they continued through a more conventional puberty – though few – if any – ever experienced the rigors of menstruation.

Aggie Preston was your typical transfem. No, actually, she more than that. She was your archetypal transfem: frail and delicate, with girlish features and slender proportions. It wasn't just her appearance, either: it was her voice, her attitude, her overall bearing. She was literally indistinguishable from a 'regular' girl. Always had been, as far back as Ian could remember.

OK, she could be a little rough-and-tumble at times, scaling trees and hurling snowballs with the best of them, no doubt about that whatsoever. But behind all the tomboy bravado, there was an underlying softness to Aggie's character – genuinely feminine, rather than effeminate.

Ian, who was Aggie's senior by (barely) one year, had enjoyed – or maybe suffered – a particularly close relationship with A.G. Preston throughout most of his childhood. As first cousins, they'd been virtually inseparable in elementary school, blackening eyes and fattening lips whenever trouble reared its ugly head in the playground (escapades which landed both in the principal's office on more than one occasion).

In that regard at least, Ian had looked on Aggie as a kid brother, one who was always watching his back when the chips were down and the daggers were drawn.

This had lasted all the way through to the third grade, when Aggie's Change had become apparent. Her transition had been remarkably swift, lasting barely eighteen months. Looking back now, it seemed to have happened in the blink of an eye, stunning even the endocrinologists who were researching her case files. It was like watching Tom Sawyer turn into Becky Thatcher between the space of two summers.

And quite suddenly, Ian no longer viewed Aggie Preston as his kid brother.

No, this was an entirely different ball game, played by rules neither of them quite understood. There had, inevitably, been a brief period where they'd drifted apart – perhaps by only the slightest of degrees – as Aggie had adjusted to her new social role and Ian discovered there were plenty of others willing to watch his back (though none of them ever accompanied him to the principal's office).

And yeah, a few awkward moments had ensued – like that trip to Lake Ridgewick where he'd seen Aggie in a one-piece for the first time – but they'd been amazingly few and far between, considering that she'd undergone a complete gender reversal. The most difficult part (for Ian at least) was adapting to the new pronouns, and that was only due to force of habit.

There was, however, one significant difference that everybody else seemed to notice. Ian and Aggie had somehow changed – virtually overnight – from the closest of sibling comrades to the bitterest of sibling rivals. It wasn't the sort of schoolyard competition you might have expected from a couple of boys, either: it was a full-on sis vs bro, guy vs gal, knock-em-down, drag-em-out gender-feud of Homeric proportions.

The situation had naturally been exacerbated when Aggie had relocated to the Bradford residence last fall (a move necessitated by her father's unexpected business transferal to Europe). Placing the pair in such close proximity was the equivalent of housing two scorpions in a depth charge. And despite all appearances, it wasn't so much the constant fights and bickering that drove Ian to the brink of insanity. It was the incessant smart-mouthing, back-chatting and batspit crazy girl-talk!

All the same, Ian – who had only recently turned thirteen and had inherited all of the hormonal calamities that accompanied that memorable age – was about to learn that there were at least a few advantages to having a transgendered cousin around the house.

Especially since she'd started to … well, grow up.

"Can you watch me to see if I'm doing it right?" she asked, oblivious to the mayhem she'd wrought in his work schedule. That was Aggie Preston all over. Not content with simply ruining his afternoon, she expected him to stand around praising her gymnastic abilities to the skies. All the same, Ian felt inclined to capitulate for the time being. She'd probably lose interest if he indulged her whims for a few minutes. He sat down on the bed, resigning himself to the inevitable.

"OK. Show me what you've got."

Aggie turned back toward the mirror, paused for several seconds, then dropped over onto her palms. Her dress fluttered inside out, allowing Ian a generous view of her fresh, white underpants. She arched her spine for balance, feet waving precariously in mid-air. Ian noted her locked elbows, the subtle curve of her belly. Not bad, for a beginner. She held her legs up for about five seconds, then fell back on to her feet.

"How was I?" she asked, eyebrows raised enquiringly. Her dress was still rucked up over one hip, holding on by a thread and a promise. A sliver of cheeky white panty peeked out from under the scarlet hem. Ian didn't bother pointing it out; the lesson obviously wasn't finished yet.

"Not bad," he replied fairly enough, "but you're supposed to keep your feet together when you go up into your stance."

"...my stance?" she asked doubtfully.

"When you're upside down," he explained, reminding himself she'd never had any formal training. Aggie's face lit up with understanding.

"Oh, right. Like this," she said, and sailed over once more. Her skirt fell across her face, hanging almost to the floor. Pristine cotton panties went on open display, tightly stretched across her pudgy, round bottom. Aggie wavered at the height of her arc for maybe two seconds then started to topple backwards toward the bed. Ian caught her in his arms before she hit the floor.

"That's better," he nodded, setting her back on her feet, "just don't come crashing down that way. Feels like an earthquake."

"I want to try again," she chirped eagerly, "can you hold my legs, Ian?"

"Yeah, OK," he agreed, rising laboriously from the bed, "come over here." His academic responsibilities were swept aside in the torrent of Aggie's excitement. She had that effect on everybody. Reaching down, he took her under the arms and hoisted her up to his shoulder. She wrapped her legs around his waist, eyes glittering with innocent pleasure.

"Lean backwards and put your hands on the floor," Ian instructed, lowering her carefully towards the carpet. Her frock began to invert, exposing her creamy thighs as gravity snatched at the hemline. Ian glanced down to make sure she was bracing herself properly. Her panties were trimmed with pink lace.

"You ready down there?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm ready," she piped back, voice shrill with expectation.

"All right, here we go."

Holding her firmly by the ankles, Ian dangled Aggie upside-down facing the mirror, then allowed her to take some of her own weight. Careful to maintain his grip, he paused to check her stance. The reflection showed a slim young girl standing on her hands with her legs slightly apart. Her frock was trailing on the floor, completely covering her arms and head and upper body. Ian floated his gaze over her smooth tummy, her glaring white panties, her supple thighs. The dress continued inching southward, exposing more of her ivory flesh. An impudent little belly button pouted out of an alabaster torso. By this time, Ian was completely engrossed; all thought of his impending assignments had vanished from his mind.

"OK," he said, "bring your feet together. And point your toes at the ceiling."

"Like this?"

"Yeah, that's good, almost perfect," he answered. Aggie's frock had crept halfway down her midsection. Her full brief pants sat snug against the delicate rose of her skin. Tiny white ripples flowed across the fabric as she adjusted her weight from side to side. A fine lace tracery encircled the waistband, dimpling her slightly protruding belly. She'd never completely lost her puppy fat.

"I still can't see," Aggie twittered beneath a veil of scarlet cotton.

"Push your skirt out of the way."

"I'll fall over."

"No, you won't," Ian assured her, "I've got you."

Shifting her center of balance, Aggie raised the hemline with her right hand, eyes widening as she glimpsed her reflection. It shouldn't have been such a surprise; she'd seen her friends turning handstands at school, pretty much every day. But this was different, somehow. She'd never actually seen herself hanging upside down with her dress over her head (even though she spent half her life on the jungle gym like most girls her age).

"I wanna do it again!" she chortled, wriggling her hips impatiently. Her pert, plump bottom-cheeks jostled back and forth in joyful abandon. Ian smiled in spite of himself. She really had no idea how engaging she was. He set her on her feet once again, mindful to cushion her descent as much as possible. She'd weakened the floorboards sufficiently for one day. Aggie straightened up, literally dancing with excitement. She spun around, skirt flaring out around her calves, then cast a backward glance over her shoulder.

"Ian, can you undo me?" she trilled, indicating the back of her sun-frock. Ian arched an eyebrow, mildly amused by the request. He should have seen this coming; in his experience, transfems tended to be natural exhibitionists.

"Why?" he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

"So I can see what I look like without my dress." She started bouncing wildly up and down, blonde curls whipping around her head in a platinum cloud.

"OK then," he nodded, managing to keep a straight face. He fumbled with the buttons for a few seconds, then sat back down on the bed while Aggie slipped the straps off her shoulders. She shimmied her hips for a couple of seconds, sliding the frock to the floor and unveiling her sleek figure in a silken whisper. She stepped out of the discarded remnant and stood up in nothing but her socks and panties. A faint rose tint began to spread through her features, though it probably wasn't due to embarrassment; she'd never been coy about showing off her underwear in front of anybody (least all him).

Ian took a moment to scope her over. It was odd: he'd seen her undressed more times than he could number, but he'd never found her quite so ..appealing. Perhaps it was the sultry flush permeating her flesh. Perhaps it was her simple, innocence, her unconscious femininity. He noted in vague surprise that she was plump and curved in all the places a real girl would have been. More than he would have expected, as a matter of fact.

She ran over to the bed, grabbing his arm and and trying to haul him to his feet.

"Help me turn upside down again! I wanna stand on my hands like before!"

"All right, all right," he said, sounding mildly harassed. Reaching forward, he planted her on his lap, sitting face-to-face so that her tummy was pressed against his. His fingertips stroked her bare ribs, raising gooseflesh in their wake. Ian breathed in her natural scent, a combination of apples and honey and warm, fresh cream. Her heart was racing like a miniature trip-hammer, he could feel it pounding against his chest.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Laying hold of her midriff, Ian tilted Aggie back, allowing her to drop onto her down-stretched palms. She swung her legs up at the same time, remembering to aim her feet at the roof. She could feel Ian's hands gliding over her belly, adjusting her position whenever she started losing balance. Her body was a shining arabesque in the mirror.

Ian transferred his grip to Aggie's ankles, then unwound himself to his full height (which was not inconsiderable, at just thirteen he was regarded as a 'jock' by most of his friends at school), hefting her off the floor by several inches. Aggie shrieked in happy protest as he walked her closer to the cheval. Lowering her gingerly to the rug, Ian fine-tuned her posture and leaned in for a closer look.

Aggie hung topsy-turvey with her arms braced and her blond tresses sweeping the carpet. Her panties shimmered in the mid-afternoon haze; Ian noticed for the first time they had a little tag on the front, just below the waistband. So fine, so translucent he could see her milky flesh-tones through the material. Catching her reflection in the mirror, Aggie giggled in sheer delight. High, silvery laughter tinkled around the room.

Ian knelt down on one knee, encircling her waist with both hands. One of his fingers brushed her belly button; Aggie squirmed with ticklish rapture. She kicked her feet in mid air, lacy white socks flashing in the mirror.

"Hey, don't! I'm gonna fall!"

"No, you won't," Ian said, making himself more comfortable, "now - pretend your legs are like a pair of scissors. Understand? Open them as wide as they'll go. Then I'll show you how to dismount."

"How to what?" she gasped, breathless with laughter.

"Don't worry, you'll see," he replied. Aggie was giggling so hard that her eyes were overflowing with liquid mirth. Watching herself in the cheval, she began to part her legs - hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence when she realized Ian was holding her up.

"That's right," he encouraged, "straighten your legs out. And don't forget to point your toes." He found that she was surprisingly limber. Her legs were splayed into a classic aerial splits, stretching her panties tight between the thighs. The gusset was framed on each side by a dainty lace trim, and if she'd ever been a boy at any point of her life, there was absolutely no sign of it now. Ian returned his attention to the business at hand.

"All right, you ready to come down now?" he asked.

"Yeah, OK." She replied, still giggling. Tears of laughter trickled down her face, running into her hairline. Moving with an almost professional ease, Ian tilted the girl to the right, allowing her to overbalance into a half-cartwheel. Taken completely unawares, Aggie gave a little shriek as she went over, flailing her legs in surprise. What was he doing?! He said he wouldn't let her fall!

"IIIIIAAAAN!!" she screamed.

But Ian was already there.

He scooped her up in his arms the instant before she struck the floor, sweeping her onto his shoulder with a rakish laugh. She clung to his neck, squealing with both fright and pleasure, a beautiful young girl in cotton panties and frilly white socks. Ian dropped backward onto the carpet with a resounding THUMP, shaking the floorboards himself this time.

Seized by a sudden but utterly irresistible impulse, Ian ran his fingers over her midsection, tickling her ribs and back and tummy. Her reaction was as violent as it was immediate: Aggie thrashed and kicked in his grasp, desperate to evade those merciless, probing digits.

"Hey! Cut it out!" she screamed in helpless mirth, "stop it!"

"Make me," Ian challenged in devilish mockery.

After a time (or maybe two), she managed to fight him off with open handed slaps of her palms, screaming with indignant laughter as he tried to pin her to the floor. Ian never really stood a chance on this occasion: it wasn't the first time he'd subjected her to the Torture of a Thousand Tickles, and she'd always been one heck of a little scrapper, dating all the way back to their playground years.

Once she'd managed to roll beyond his immediate reach, they lay panting and breathless on the rug, choking back on their laughter and struggling to draw breath. Ian made a few half-hearted attempts to catch her by the wrist, which she fended off with the ease of long practice.

"You can be a real bastard sometimes," she finally gasped, "you know that, Ian Bradford?"

They both erupted into fresh peals of laughter, Ian cracking up so hard that tears wavered in his peripheral vision. Aggie kicked him once – no, twice – in the right leg to emphasize her point, though nowhere near hard enough to cause any real pain. They lay grinning at each other for another four or five minutes until their heart-rates dropped to something approaching a brisk canter.

"That was fun," Ian mused, propping himself up on one elbow, "want to try it again?"

"Shut up," she replied offhand, and began to rise strenuously to her feet. Between the kamikaze acrobatics and the battle of the bedroom floor, she felt fit to drop. Glancing carelessly about the room, she walked over to the bed in her prim white underwear, heedless of her cousin's wandering gaze.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked, knowing that another skin-tight wrestling match was probably out of the question (but still holding out for considerably more in the meantime).

"I dunno," she answered, stepping indifferently back into her dress, "you wanna go downtown?"

Ian considered the question for a few moments before raising his eyebrows in a comic-book expression of inspiration.

"Baskin Robbins?"

Aggie started to nod her agreement, then gave her lip a rueful nip.

"Can't," she replied glumly, "I'm skint." She started working the frock down over her hips, covering her lace-trimmed panties from his view. Ian felt a jolt of genuine disappointment as the hemline slipped to her mid-thighs, surprising himself in the process.

"That's OK, I've still got that tenner from last week."

"That enough for both of us?"

"Enough for one of us. We can share."

"You sure about that?" she asked skeptically, "this isn't just another one of your gigantic lies?"

"No, no, swear to jeezus," Ian promised on the Holy Name, and for once, his fingers weren't crossed firmly behind his back. At that moment, he would've offered her the sun, the moon and every star in the frigging galaxy for a chance to go another two rounds on the carpet with her. He also would have sold his mother's soul, his father's manhood and every last drop of his adolescent blood if need be.

"OK then," she shrugged without further debate, then started tugging with the buttons at the back of her dress, "come over and help me with this."

Ian clambered unsteadily up from the carpet – he was close to depleted himself – and stepped over to his cousin, reaching eagerly out for the back of her sunfrock. He briefly considered jamming his fingers into her undefended ribs, but Aggie was already miles ahead of him in that particular respect.

"Don't even think about it," she warned in a tone that threatened the direst of consequences.

"OK, OK!" he exclaimed in mock innocence, "I wasn't gonna try anything." A complete lie, of course. Under normal circumstances, he would have tried anything he could get away with, but the circumstances were anything but normal, and he was well aware that Aggie Preston could throw a mean right hook when she had her Irish up.

He slid the last button into place, silently reflecting on how much had changed in the space of single afternoon. He no longer saw Aggie as a rival sibling or an annoying brat. He didn't even see her as his cousin anymore, not exactly. He just saw her as…a girl. A girl near his own age, a girl who was bright and funny and as free as a wooddland nymph. A girl who'd started out as a boy, true enough; no sense in denying the obvious, but one who was at least as pretty as any he knew from school. No, the hell with that – she was the hands down the prettiest girl he'd ever known (and the fact that she wasn't adverse to stripping to her panties right in front him tended to add a little spice to the mixture).

"You sure about that tenner?" she demanded, smoothing out the front of her dress without looking up.

"Right here," Ian replied, scraping around in his back pocket. Flipping open a scuffed and faded vinyl wallet, he produced the required evidence, laying all suspicion immediately to rest.

"Okay, let's get going," Aggie nodded, casting her doubts to the wind as she turned toward the bedroom door.

They trotted down the stairs together, Ian clutching the banknote in his right hand like a talisman. They both felt tired, but their eyelids drooped in kind of blissful exhaustion. Out in the study, the computer sat unattended, its monitor flickering into standby mode. Ian didn't spare it a second thought. The final reports could wait, he could always get an extension. Well, probably not, but who cares? Like any other boy of thirteen, he had more important things to do now.

Pocketing his wallet, Ian followed his cousin through the front door and down the porch steps. Aggie's laughter receded down the sidewalk as they walked off into a perfect summer afternoon.

It was going to be a wonderful day.

Summer in Ridgewick was hazy and idyllic. The city had the down-home atmosphere of a Norman Rockwell print; a sleepy patchwork of tree-lined avenues and painfully green lawns. The streets droned with cicadas and the ponds with dragonflies, their streamlined bodies glittering like emeralds in the morning sun. Its picket-fence suburbs were perhaps the most American of the regional townships. On a fine, clear day, you could smell the heady aroma of apple pie drifting down the sidewalk; a cinnamon wave exhaled from a thousand kitchen windows.

Kings Domain extended over the eastern ridge of the city, bordered by Memorial Drive on one side and the Midland Ranges on the other. A large, rambling parkland crisscrossed by jogging paths and pine groves, it claimed a history dating back to pre-revolutionary times (hence the anachronistic title). The Commemorative Fountain at the middle of the Park was a favored meeting place with the Sole Parents Society, mainly due to its close proximity to the Adventure Playground.

Bradley Wilson couldn't be described as a sole parent, although he'd recently 'inherited' responsibility for an orphaned relative. His young cousin Angie Raymond had adopted him as a defacto Father over the past few months, a role he'd grown into with a certain degree of rueful satisfaction. A second year photography student, Brad had originally joined Sole Parents hoping to free up his weekends via the care-giver exchange. Much to his surprise, he'd discovered a network of support entirely missing from his immediate family. He'd made several friends within the Society - mostly women his own age, quietly sympathetic towards his unusual situation. His weekends were still as busy as ever, but the hidden benefits were more than adequate. If nothing else, it had provided numerous playdates for Angie, the proverbial blessing in disguise from Brad's viewpoint.

The air was crisp and still as they made their way through Memorial Gardens. They were cutting through the Wildlands, a low, rolling pine glade riddled with bike tracks and mystery walks.

Most Saturday mornings, the Playground was overrun by hordes of yowling children. Brad could hear their excited howls echoing along the trail. Sounded like a full scale riot, even at this distance. The majority would be little girls from the Heights district; pixie-faced angels decked out in pastel pinks and yellows.

Angie scampered along beside him, swinging happily from his right arm. Her bright red sun-frock clung to her waifish figure, hemline sweeping about her knees with each capering step. She'd been looking forward to this outing all week; most of her friends from playgroup were going to be there, along with some of the girls from her school.

It was shaping up to be a wonderful day. They were going to have a picnic on the grass with the ladies from Sole Parents, followed by a splash in the Fountain and a game of hunt 'n' catch in the Fort.

Best of all, Bradley had brought his DIGITAL CAMCORDER (that was how she actually thought of it; in capitals and italics), the one with the LCD DISPLAY and the AUTOZOOM. Brad had bought it down at Radio Shack a couple of weeks ago so he could tape her playing on the swings and slides and monkey bars. They often watched it on Brad's DVD before she went to bed; it was becoming something of a family tradition.

"Are you going to film me playing in the Fort?" she chortled, betraying her impatience to get the morning underway.

"Sure will," Brad replied offhand, glancing off into the pinewoods.

"What about Lindy? Are you gonna film her too?" Angie demanded, tugging energetically at his hand.

"Sure," he answered.

"What about Jane?" she inquired, bouncing about at the end of his arm.

"Who?" Brad asked, raising a laconic eyebrow.

"You know - Jane!" Angie exclaimed in all seriousness, "the one who wears the blue Scottish skirt with the big safety pin!!"

"Oh, that Jane" Brad nodded, in vague amusement. He knew exactly who Angie was talking about, but he never tired of feigning ignorance to raise her ire. Anyway, he could be forgiven for misplacing the odd face or two; all of Angie's friends looked identical to him.

"Let me swing on your arm again!" Angie suddenly demanded in a complete non-sequitur.

"OK, then," Brad agreed magnanimously, as if conferring some vast favor. Flexing the tendons along his forearm, Brad hefted the girl off the ground, dangling her from his wrist with her legs waving in mid-air. He carried her along the trail for some twenty odd paces, then dropped her lightly onto her feet. She skipped along the path singing a hopscotch chant he recalled from his childhood:

"Tom-and-Becky, sitting-in-a-tree-K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First-comes-love, then-comes-marriage, then-comes-Tom-with-a-baby-CARRIAGE!"

"What are you – six?" Brad asked, raising another eyebrow in wry amusement.

"You already know how old I am," Angie replied without breaking stride. They walked on a little further until they came to a sunlit clearing with a log bench at one side. Bradley took a seat, turning the digicam over in his hands and flipping the cover off the lens. Angie ambled on for several paces, then looked around when she realized she was walking alone. Turning back to join him at the bench, she scrutinized the tall boy with a quizzical expression.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"I think it's time we took a white balance," he answered, looking experimentally through the viewfinder. Angie knew what he was talking about, he'd been teaching her how to use the camera around the house. The white balance was the first thing you did after you switched the power on. Trouble was, they couldn't set the highlights out here on the bike trail. Everything was the wrong color.

"We forgot to bring the big white card," she said, absently kicking her feet through the woodchips.

"Well, we'll just have to use something else then, won't we?" Brad replied, snapping open the LCD.

Angie's expression changed. Her little mouth gaped open, her cheeks flushed with surprise as she registered his words. Her skin started to tingle, a storm of butterflies erupted through her belly. Her fingers dropped protectively to the front of her dress, as if it were preparing to spring up by itself. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do, and it made her head spin with embarrassment.

"Brad!" she cried, looking 'round the pine-glade, "we can't do THAT!" Her voice dissolved into a stream of helpless giggles. He couldn't be serious. Not here, not now.

"Why not?" Brad asked, testing the autofocus, "I've seen your undies before."

"Yeah, well THAT'S different!" she protested in righteous indignation (although he was completely right: he HAD seen her underwear like a zillion times before).

"How?" Brad retorted, arching one eyebrow inquiringly.

"I don't know, it just is," Angie sputtered in girlish exasperation, "anyway, you can't set the white-balance off my panties."

"They're white aren't they?" Brad asked reasonably enough.

"Well, yeah ..." she replied, blushing wildly. He was teasing her, she could see that now, but she sensed something beneath the good-natured ribbing. This was more like the games they played some nights just before bedtime. Angie loved Brad's games; they were always cute and funny and deliciously naughty. Three nights ago, he'd filled her tummy button with chocolate sauce (putting a cherry on top for good measure). The sauce had been unbearably cold, but she'd enjoyed it immensely - especially after Brad started licking it out. She'd screamed and kicked and squirmed in his arms, but after he'd finished, she'd begged him to do it again. And again. And again.

"Well, yeah ... they are," she finished, shuffling from foot to foot in an agony of indecision. .

"Well, I guess it's settled then," Bradley said, lifting the camera to eye-level.

Angie could feel her defenses crumbling; Brad was waiting expectantly, and part of her secretly wanted to play along. She was already tugging at her hemline, raising the dress to mid-thigh.

Her arms were buzzing with gooseflesh, her heart drum-rolling with anticipation. It was so incredibly naughty: despite her apparently tender years, Angie knew that young girls didn't just lift their skirts in public.

Not on purpose, anyway. But then again...

It wasn't much different to when Bradley filmed her hanging upside down from the Jungle Gym. Or when she came down the High Slide with her frock sailing around her waist. Or when she showed her friends how to do cartwheels on the grass. As a matter of fact, Brad had a small library of AVIs dedicated to his cousin: Angie getting dressed in the morning. Angie putting on her babydoll. Angie doing handstands in the backyard. Angie modeling her new underwear in front of the mirror; Angie dancing in her new underwear in front of the mirror.

"OK – little higher now," Brad said, dropping to one knee in front of her. Angie looked down and discovered that she'd been twisting the frock between her fingers, unconsciously hoisting the curtain, so to speak. The hem was less that an inch from the tip of her panties. Her legs were trim and rather shapely, the skin as pale as an English carnation. Angie stared up in round-lipped surprise, struggling to suppress her high, tinkling laughter. What was she DOING?!

"Bradley!" she sniggled breathlessly, unable to believe she was actually doing this. The front of Angie's skirt began to rise, just the barest flittering of red cotton. A sense of exhilaration filled her veins. She glanced away in childish denial, her cheeks glowing maraschino red. This was soooo embarrassing! Why did he always do this to her?

"Come on, no need to be shy," Brad coaxed, gesturing with the camera, "we'll show all your friends next time they come over."

This was too much for Angie. Sputtering with repressed mirth, she hiked her dress up over her waist, dissolving into a stream of helpless giggles. White satin panties flashed into view, gleaming with an alabaster finish in the sunlight. Tight elastic trimmings dimpled her pearly flesh, floral lace insets embellished the hips.

"All right, now – big smile for the camera," Brad instructed, pressing the zoom, "skirt right up to your chin."

"Nooooooo!" Angie moaned, but the dress climbed up her bare torso all the same. Waves of sweet humiliation rolled through her tummy. He only needed her panties for the white-balance: why did she have to hold her frock so high? He didn't need to see her whole body, did he? Giggling uncontrollably, she posed for the digicam with her sleek, supple figure on exhibition. Brad tracked the camera up and down, marveling at the lush expanse of naked midriff spread out before him.

Well, a promise was a promise, and Angie had earned her reward. He didn't want to disappoint her. Besides which, he needed new footage for the archive. Lowering his sights fractionally, Brad zoomed in on the girl's navel.

Angie had one of those painfully cute belly-buttons that curved in like a tiny thimble. He'd always found it one of her most appealing features, and never lost an opportunity to explore it with a gently probing finger-tip. Even now, he couldn't resist tracing an index around its softly pursed rim. Reaching out with his right hand, he dipped his pointer inside her tummy-cup. Angie jumped in galvanic reaction.

"Bradley, don't!" she squealed, jiggling her pantied hips, "that TICKLES!!"

"Really?" he inquired politely, "well, how about this, then?"

"Noooo!! Stop it! Dooooon't!!" Angie screamed at the top of her lungs. This was out and out torture (though she made no attempt to run away; that would have spoiled all the fun). The skirt remained poised at her shoulders, waving from side to side like a can-can dancer's petticoats. Chuckling under his breath, Brad continued spidering his fingers around her tummy, ignoring her shrieks and pleas. Stamping her little feet, Angie whipped her head from side to side, golden ringlets swishing around her face.

"Bradley! Stop! Don't! It TICKLES! Noooo!"

The torture went on for close to a minute (and would have gone on considerably longer if not for the imminent risk of discovery). By the time they finished, Angie was trembling from crown to heel, pink-faced, short of breath and somewhat short of temper. He hadn't needed to do a white-balance at all! He'd just wanted to tickle her belly button while her skirt was up.

"You ain't no pervert!" she said crossly, dropping her frock back to a more dignified position (for some inexplicable reason, this hadn't occurred to her earlier), "you're just mean!" Her hair was a mass of wild blond curls and her left shoulder strap had slipped half-way down her arm. She slid it back over her shoulder, pushing out her lower lip in a classic teenie-pout. "You always tickle me too much, Bradley!"

"Hardly tickled you at all," Brad remarked, closing the LDC with an echoing click.

"Yes, you did! And it wasn't funny."

"You look so cute when you're sulking."

"I'm not sulking!"

"Come over here."

"No!" she refused decisively, but her eyes were twinkling with anticipation. She hadn't really been angry with him: like all girls her age, she adored a good tickling in the arms of big, strong man; especially when she had no choice in the matter. She just wanted him to make it up to her was all. And yes, she wanted to give him a kiss – along with a cuddle and a great big hug – but first, she wanted an apology. Fortunately, Brad could read her mind as easily as he could read her expression.

"All right, that's it!" Brad said, rearing up off the ground with his arms outstretched, "I think it's time for a SPANKING."

Angie screamed and ran down the path, woodchips scattering in every direction. She wasn't sure if he was really going to spank her, but the only thing better than being chased was being caught. Her toes scarcely touched earth as she bolted out of the clearing, but fast as she was - Bradley was on her in an instant.

He swept her up in his arms, tossing her high overhead in a twisting spiral of arms and legs. The world turned upside down for an amazingly long moment, then she was plummeting into his hands, her dress filliping in the updraft. Gathering her voraciously against his chest, Bradley angled her head up so that her face was only an inch from his. She struggled in his grip like the heroine in a Victorian Romance - though she didn't struggle very hard, all things considered.

Angie wrapped her arms around Bradley's neck and kissed him square on the mouth. It was neither chaste, nor virginal, and would never be mistaken for an innocent peck on the cheek. It was immediately followed by a series of full-blown, spooning-in-the-hayloft lip-smackers, the kind that fogged up windscreens in 1950s drive-ins. They smooched, they snuggled, they kissed, they huggled for minute after minute until Angie remembered why they'd come down here in the first place and asked to be put down. Brad placed her carefully on her feet.

It had been a sight to shock the unwary and confound the incredulous. However, to quote a great gothic poet of the mid-nineteenth century: 'Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.' This was, after all, the city of Ridgewick, where nothing is ever quite what it seems and the most extraordinary events pass for everyday occurrences. Some cases in point:

Angela Raymond wasn't Brad's cousin, she was actually his girlfriend. And if that didn't sound extraordinary enough, there was also the issue of her age.

Contrary to all appearances, Angela certainly wasn't a child; she was almost as old as Bradley himself.

And perhaps most extraordinary of all: Angela Raymond wasn't even female.

She was a transfem.

---

So, my good friend Daisy has finally fulfilled her dream of being a catwalk model! During a recent visit to our local plaza, she was offered five hundred dollars to model lingerie in the main concourse. The rest, as they say, was history.

As you can well imagine, the fashion parade was an overwhelming success, and Daisy was spotted by an agent for the Feathertouch Lingerie Corporation. Following a few public appearances and some rather 'creative' legal negotiations, Daisy has signed a contract worth over $500,000 a year!

While Daisy's parents disapproved of the campaign's somewhat 'risque' content, they were perfectly happy with the paychecks she was bringing home. After all, how many parents can boast that their son looks good in pink lingerie?

And that's to say nothing about the matching purple ensemble she was asked to model for the Autumn collection. As the advertisement says, they're just too darned pretty to keep covered up!

Hard to believe she was actually born male, right? Of course, no girl should ever settle for second best, and Feathertouch Cottontails are without question the softest, sheerest and sexiest panties you'll ever wear!

Yes, that's what I said - sexy! And if you think I'm exaggerating, just take a look at this steamingly hot burgundy outfit with its complementary pair of midnight talls. And let's face it - at this price, what more could a boy want?

Feel free to leave a message if you'd like to "see" more of Daisy in future (who knows, she might even bring our good friend Holly along to join in the festivities). While she happens to be a virtual transmodel, she's always willing to make new acquaintances in the Real World.

---

A storm was coming.

David Henson had known it the moment he'd opened his eyes that morning. He always knew when there was a storm drifting up from the south, just sort of sensed it brooding in the distance like an ugly black secret. His grandmother had been able to do the same thing; predict the weather, sometimes days in advance. She'd been a spooky old lady, his grandma. Eighty-nine years old with a mouth full of venom and a voice that could crack a mirror from sixty yards. The kind of woman who kidnapped little boys and cooked them into ginger bread. All the same, she was always dead accurate when it came to predictions (pretty scary in itself when he thought about it). Dave had secretly rejoiced when they'd finally packed her off to the nursing home last year, cackling like some geriatric hyena, but it later occurred to him that precognition might not be the only thing that ran in the family.

Be that as it may, Dave figured that dementia was still a long way off, and he had more pressing concerns for the time being. Despite the warmth of the day, he wanted to wear his waterproof parka; a dark blue rain slicker with an adjustable hood. It was about three sizes too big and weighed like eighty pounds, but Dave knew it would keep him warm through an avalanche if need be.

Dave's Mom had shaken a skeptical head when he'd told her; the skies were crystal clear aside from a couple fleece-backs skimming the horizon. Wasn't enough there to fill a tea-cup from what she could see. But Dave had been adamant: there was a storm brewing to the south, a big one judging by the ringing in his ears, and he wasn't about to get caught in a gosh-darn tornado without a slicker. His mother finally capitulated, not so much because his arguments had swayed her judgment, but because he sounded cute when he said things like "gosh-darn."

Dave had headed stoically into school, trudging along the pavement while the sun beat down from an endless blue sky. Upon arrival, he'd endured the sneering ridicule of his classmates with almost superhuman patience, sweating bullets beneath half a ton of blue gortex. The morning lengthened to midday without a single cloud crossing the yardarm, but Dave stubbornly refused to remove his parka. Doubts were cast over his sanity by fans and critics alike (even young Janey Watson was puzzled by his behavior, although she made no comment RE his mental state). Back in the classroom, he sat gnawing the end of his pencil, watching the window the way others watched the clock.

And there it was, just as he'd expected.

A massive gray build-up along the southern horizon; obliterating the landscape as it crept imperceptibly along the Blaxland Ranges. Hardly seemed to be moving in their direction, would probably miss them by four zillion miles, but Dave knew better. This was going to be much worse than he'd anticipated. For a moment, he could almost hear his Grandma's shrieking laughter in the back of his head, high and shrill and razor sharp. For the first time that day, he started to feel scared.

The thunderheads circled Ridgewick most of the afternoon, driving cold autumn winds through the center of town. Doors and windows began to rattle, the classroom's corkboard walls began to 'breath' back and forth. Dave looked around in growing agitation, wondering why nobody else noticed the sudden change in the air. A static charge seemed to be crackling through his veins, a hundred times worse than the continual buzzing in his ears.

The skies were rumbling with purple anger when school let out around three o'clock. Most of the younger children scampered straight home trailing their backpacks, far too sensible to get caught in the rising gale. The older ones made a bee-line for Memorial Park, led by the malevolent Katie Prescott and her Minions of Darkness (that was how Dave actually thought of them: he'd discovered A.K. Rowland last year and tended to think in terms of Potterisms). Crumpled brown leaves chased them down the empty streets, streaking through fence pikes and power lines.

And still the thunderheads cycled overhead, bending the trees along Memorial Drive in their fury.

Dave tagged along in the rear guard, mainly because his friend Janey Watson had been roped into the exodus and he pretty much went wherever she did. He'd also been getting an odd vibe all afternoon, as if something black and ominous was approaching with the storm. Several times, he thought he heard dogs baying in the distance, but decided it had to be the keening of the wind. Unfortunately, this explanation did little to sooth his rising anxieties. When the short hairs on the back of his hands started to prickle, he knew the storm was almost upon them.

"We ought to go home," he told Janey, but knew she wouldn't want to leave until the game was finished. Katie Prescott had decreed an interclass tag marathon and when Katie Prescott called tag, no one left until the Final Game Was Played, not unless their parents had a comprehensive dental plan. So Dave stood inconspicuously off to one side while half the sixth grade stampeded round and round the Fountain in lunatic abandon. Sheet lightning seared the clouds several times and dogs wailed like ghosts in the background, raising the hackles at the base of his neck.

Something bad was coming.

The storm finally broke around three-thirty, blackening the skies as the rain lashed down in a literal torrent. Curbs were flooded, drains overflowed and lawns receded before the backwash. Long dead branches fell from denuded maples and were carried off to parts unknown. The One Last Game ended with a booming thunder-burst that scattered the children to every point of the compass. They emptied the playground in a swarming mass, screaming to the indigo clouds. Some of them lived close by and vanished within a matter of seconds, others bolted through the Wilderlands, emerging five minutes later into Westside Estates. A few spilled down Memorial Drive, heading towards the center of town.

Further out in the boondocks, traditional protective measures were taken by stern-faced adults. Curtains were drawn over a hundred picture windows; doors were locked and double bolted, as if this could somehow ward off the storm's howling ferocity. As a final precaution, mirrors were covered with white linen – an old superstition meant to ward off ball lightning, which was common this time of year.

Perhaps they should have painted ha'ants on the eves as well.
Who knows, it might have proven just as effective.

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