Date: Mon, 9 Aug 2004 02:57:09 +0100 (BST)
From: kristy leigh <kristyleigh2001@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: JANEY and DAVE (PART 2, TG, YOUNG FRIENDS)

JANEY and DAVE

PART 2: THE WINDS OF FALL

1.

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 kidnaps little
boys and cooks 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 parker; 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 parker. Doubts were cast over his
sanity by fans and critics alike (even little 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 the 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 lightening, 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.

2.

Janey and Dave bolted along Memorial Drive, heads lowered against the
downpour. They crossed the bridge at Braithwaite Canal (overflowing its
banks already) and sprinted along the sidewalk, all but swept away in the
tempest. Stumbling to the corner of Threadmont Avenue, David paused long
enough to get his bearings, then grabbed Janey by the right hand,
pointing towards a dim gray shape in the distance.

"Over there!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, "the BUS shelter!"
The girl nodded in reply, although she could barely hear him over the
wind. They scrambled down the footpath in a welter of knees and elbows,
feet slipping on the wet concrete. The girl held a forearm over her face;
the rain was hammering down hard enough to leave marks on her pale
flesh. They'd never seen a storm like this, none they could remember
anyway.

Reaching the bus shelter, they hunched off their backpacks and began
shaking the chill out of their bones.

"I knew we shouldn't have stayed at the park so long," Dave said,
looking out into the deluge. He was a lanky young galoot with a shock of
curly red hair framing his face. Looked about as Irish as you got this
far west of Lower Manhattan. He eyed the heavens apprehensively, hearing
that odd wailing in the wind again. What the hell was it?

Janey picked up the hem of her red gingham dress and started wringing the
water out of it. She was an unusually pretty child with melting blue eyes
and soft, girlish features -- although she wasn't precisely a girl,
contrary to all appearances. Like many children in born in Ridgewick over
the past fifteen years, Janey Watson was somewhat --- unique.

"You said it was going to rain this morning," she commented, her voice
high and faint against the squall. Her frock was pasted against her body
and she was shivering with the cold. Fall had come early; there was a
threat of snow in the wind. "How did you know that?"

Dave shrugged. He got that question a lot, and he was never sure how to
answer it.

"I dunno. You can smell it in the air sometimes." It was true: storms
often carried an acrid, mineral scent. Strange that no else ever noticed
it. "Rain has a kind of metallic smell, you know that?"

"No," Janey shook her head, spraying droplets everywhere. She dropped
her hemline and hugged herself against the wind, teeth chattering. "How
we gonna get home?"

"Wait for the bus, I guess," Dave answered, adjusting his hood and
wishing he'd never left home this morning. He had no desire to stand
around in this maelstrom, but didn't see what other choice they had.

"How long'll that be?" Janey demanded.

"About half an hour."

"I'm freezing!"

Lightning flickered to the south, remote and distant. A rail of thunder
followed a few seconds later, just loud enough to set their hearts
racing. Janey gnawed a lip, watching the horizon fearfully. The thunder
was closing in, she could tell that much at least. Damn that Katie
Prescott and her One Last Game of tag. If they'd left when Dave said,
they would've been home by now.

"We can't wait for the bus," she said uneasily, "we might get hit by
lightning or something."

"Aw, don't worry, this'll blow over in a while," Dave replied
offhand, although he didn't feel as confident as he was trying to sound.
The storm had him spooked so bad he was ready to run like a split streak.
The skies were darkening almost by the minute, and that peculiar waling
was getting closer. Whatever it was, Dave didn't care to be here when it
arrived. All the same, he didn't want to worry Janey with his fears, she
looked scared enough as it was.

"We'll be safe here," he reassured her, waving a dismissive hand about
in the air, "that lightning's about a zillion miles away. I mean, if
you count the seconds between -- "

His words were drowned out by a deafening concussion directly overhead.
The entire sky flashed white for a fraction of an instant, and the ground
literally shook beneath their feet. Janey tensed against him like a child
afraid of the dark, he could feel her clenching her teeth to keep from
screaming. No -- that wasn't her: it was him. Any louder and he would
have run shrieking into the downpour. He stared off down Memorial Drive,
cringing in the bitter gale, feeling his knee-joints buckle and weaken.

Janey didn't look much better: she was trembling from crown to heel, her
body a collection of tight little knots. It was mainly the cold, but Dave
knew she was frightened too -- terrified in fact. Nor could he blame her.
A sense of urgency was slinking into his mind, a foreboding of impending
disaster. They had to get out of this cyclone, right now, this minute,
and they couldn't waste any more time waiting for some bus that may
never come. Something bad was approaching, he was certain of that now.
Something worse than the thunder, worse than the lightening, worse than
anything he could imagine in his worst nightmares.

"Listen, my place is only two blocks over," Dave yelped, pointing
across the road, "we can cut through Old Man McGinty's field, it'll
take us around two minutes."

"Doesn't McGinty have a dog?"

David hesitated several seconds, startled her choice of question.

"No," he answered finally, "I been through there thousands of times."

"Okay."

Shouldering their backpacks, they held their breath and plunged out into
the rain. The storm engulfed them in a solid gray curtain, effectively
limiting their vision to zero (but that didn't matter; they were kids,
they were twelve and they frequently ran on instinct alone). Hauling
themselves across Memorial Drive, they darted through to McGinty's
Field, half expecting the Hound of The Baskervilles to come slavering out
of the chaos. No dogs were in evidence however (not even McGinty's
fabled mongrel), although the clashing of the heavens added enthusiasm to
their departure.

Somewhere along the line, Janey's fingers found his hand, and they ran
the entire distance joined at the wrist.

3.

Roughly five minutes later, they were standing in the front hall of
Dave's house on Lancaster Avenue, kicking off their shoes and babbling
in excited canary voices. Even with the door closed, they could still
hear the banshees wailing around the gables. Dave sloughed off his
parker, listening to the windows shake in their frames. It was already
dark outside, and it couldn't have been later than four thirty. It
didn't seem natural, even this late in September. None of it seemed
natural, now that he thought about it -- the clouds, the storm; the
vicious, lancing winds. What was going on?

"Coming down like a machine gun now," Dave observed, looking out
through the door's leadlight paneling, "sounds like its raining
bullets." Hailstones the size of golf-balls had started impacting on the
veranda, exploding into smaller fragments. Bad as the rain had been, Dave
was glad they hadn't been caught in the hail; he honestly thought they
mightn't have made it home. It was almost as if the storm had tried to
stop them reaching the front steps.

Janey coughed beside him, bending over to cover her face with both hands.

"What time is it?" she asked, straightening up, "I never seen the sky
go black during a storm before." She started wringing out her dress once
more, pulling the hem up to the top of her thighs. Her legs were long and
sleek and beautifully shaped for a girl her age.

"I dunno," he replied, then remembered he was wearing a watch: "it's
about ten past four." He looked through the leadlight once more, his
expression pinched with concentration.

"David? Is that you?"

Roslyn Henson, Dave's mother, appeared at the far end of the hallway, a
tall, slim thirty-something with dark brown eyes and chestnut hair tied
back in a short ponytail. She came down the corridor wreathed in an aura
of freshly baked cookies. Dave turned to answer her, hoping she wasn't
angry.

"Yeah, Mom. Janey's here too."

"What happened, why are you so late?" she asked in a voice tinged with
worry, "did you get caught in the storm?"

"Yeah, we were playing down at Memorial park when it started raining,"
Dave explained, hanging up his slicker on the coat rack, "then we got
stuck in this bus shelter --"

"You should've called from the park," Roslyn fussed in obvious relief,
"I would have come out to get you. Well, at least you didn't get too
-"

She paused in mid-sentence when she saw Janey standing behind him,
quivering like a shipwreck survivor. The girl managed to raise half a
smile, but her cheeks were blue and her dress was streaming on the floor
boards.

"Oh, Janey. You must be soaked to the skin, honey," Roslyn cooed,
reaching out to touch the girl under the chin, "come on into the living
room, we'll put you in front of the fire." She took Janey's hand by
the fingertips and led her down the hallway.

It was an oddly affectionate gesture Dave had seen several time before.
He knew his mother had grown genuinely fond of his friend over the past
four months, seemed to regard her almost as a member of the family. He'd
found their instant karma rather baffling at first, but at least it meant
he could have her over anytime he wanted (there were many people in
Ridgewick who wouldn't let a tranzi in through the back door).

Dave fell in behind them as they headed down the corridor, listening to
their chatter but not really following their conversation. He was keeping
one ear cocked towards the storm. That weird howling noise was somewhat
muted now, but he could still hear it through the closed door and it was
setting his teeth on edge. God, he was glad they'd escaped the bus
shelter when they had.

Janey sneezed as they walked into the living room, doubling over in a
rush of moist blond curls. Roslyn led her over to the fireplace, glancing
down at her in some concern.

"That's a nasty sneeze you've got there, sweetie. Let's get you out
of those clothes before you catch cold."

And Janey did a double take.

What did Mrs Henson just say? Something about taking her clothes off? No,
that couldn't have been right. She looked over at Dave for confirmation,
but he didn't seem to have heard. He was heading for the arm chair over
by the TV, the remote already in his hand. As she watched, he sat down
and started flicking through the channels, barely aware of their
presence. Seemed rather distracted, as a matter of fact.

Arriving at the fireplace, Mrs Henson sat down on the sofa and drew Janey
up in front of her, holding her by both hands now.

"No wonder you're sneezing so hard," Ros told her sympathetically,
"your hands are like blocks of ice."

"The rain was f-freezing, Mrs Henson," she stammered under her breath,
"c-colder than that s-snow we had last year, I th-think."

"Well, don't worry. Once we get that dress off, you'll warm up in no
time." Reaching forward, she began undoing the buttons down the front of
her dress.

Janey's heart fluttered in her chest as she realized what was happening.
Mrs Henson was going to undress her -- right here in the living room as
if she was no more than four years old. In a few seconds, she'd be
stripped to her lacy white underwear. Arctic heat prickled up and down
the back of her neck, her blood pressure began to spike. Roslyn's hands
moved slowly down her front, and then the frock was hanging open to the
waist, revealing a hint of dainty white training bra. Janey looked down
at herself in childish curiosity. Her skin had assumed a faint orange
glow in the firelight; her tummy was buzzing with gooseflesh. Felt good
in a way she couldn't quite define.

She cast a furtive glance towards Dave, wondering if he was watching out
of the corner of his eye. He seemed preoccupied with the TV, but she
couldn't tell for sure. Normally speaking, she wasn't self-conscious
around Dave; he'd seen her panties like a million times since last
August. That had never really bothered her, they'd grown very close over
the past few months. Close as cousins, close as brother and sister. All
the same, she couldn't help feeling just a trifle naughty, all things
considered.

Ros noticed her expression and deduced its meaning immediately. Very few
things escape a mother's notice, even when the child concerned wasn't
her own. Janey was probably feeling a little modest, the way any twelve
year-old would. Well, that could be remedied simply enough, although she
doubted that Dave would appreciate the solution. Smiling quietly to
herself, Roslyn called her son's name.

"David"

Dave glanced over at his mother, eyebrows raised in mute enquiry.

"Could you go upstairs and get a blanket for Janey?" Roslyn asked,
absently undoing the next button, "she's freezing to death over here."

"Sure Mom," Dave replied, replacing the remote and hopping off the
armchair. Chamberlain Regional News droned away in the background.

"And while you're up there, could you get my hair brush off the
dresser, too?" She looked back to the little girl and touched her on the
nose. "We'll do your hair while we're at it, sweetie." Janey shot her
a sweet, demur smile and looked down at her feet.

"Okay," Dave said with an off-hand tilt of his head, and stepped
through the living room door. Ros watched him leave with a raised
eyebrow, surprised he hadn't put up more of a fight. Odd behavior indeed
for a boy his age: hardly seemed to notice there was a twelve year old
girl getting naked in his living room. Well, no matter; the excuse had
worked, the errand would keep him out of the room for at least five
minutes. She turned her attention back to the girl standing in front of
her.

Janey's dress was now split to the tip of her panties; a sliver of lace
was visible through the narrow V-line opening. Her torso was glistening
with rainwater; soaking-wet cotton adhered to her figure all the way up
to her neck. Time to get her out of that dress before she turned blue.

"Still cold, Honey-girl?" Mrs. Henson asked, popping the last button.
Janey's frock fell completely open, exposing her slinky white panties.

"Yeah, a little," she replied with a shy giggle. A gentle, fluid heat
was creeping through her tummy, raising her temperature by lush degrees.
It had nothing to do with the fireplace. This was the first time she'd
ever been undressed by anyone besides her own Mommy, and she was almost
breathless with embarrassment -- a rich, sultry kind of embarrassment
that bordered on expectation. She'd experienced this feeling with
increasing regularity over the past year or so, particularly since she
hit puberty.

"Well, let's take off that dress and get you warm," Roslyn said, and
slid the sleeves off Janey's rounded shoulders. Her belly tingled with
pleasure as the damp material peeled away from her body; she barely
managed to suppress a squeal of delight. A subtle pink flush colored her
features; she beamed up at the Rosy in undisguised affection. She liked
Mrs. Henson very much, had come to regarded her as a second mother (much
as she'd adopted Dave as an older brother). Four years ago, she would
have refused to let Mrs. H. touch her. But four years ago, she'd been a
completely different person.

Roslyn lowered the frock over her waist and hips, dropping it to the
floor with a loud, wet slap. A delicious tremor swept through Janey's
system as the air kissed her bare skin, electric fire danced up and down
her spine. An odd sense of pleasurable humiliation flooded her mind as
she stepped out of the dress and stood up in her bra and panties. She
looked up at the older woman, her complexion darkening to a deep,
helpless crimson.

"Okay, turn around," Roslyn said, patting her gently on the hip, "we
don't want you to getting a chest-cold, do we?"

Janey's eyes widened with surprise. Mrs. H. was going to take off her
training bra! Her heartbeat kicked into overdrive as she obediently
turned her back and faced the door, arms hanging loosely by her sides.
This was terribly embarrassing, no sense denying that, but it was also
sort of nice. Like most little girls, Janey loved being spoilt. The
breath caught in her throat as Roslyn's fingers found her bra strap. Was
Mrs. Henson going to make her take off everything -- even her panties?

"Deep breath, Sweet-heart."

Janey arched her back as Roslyn popped the clips. The brassiere gave way
with an audible twang (it was six months old and one size too small), the
shoulder-straps slipping loosely down her arms. Pert, tiny breasts
flashed into view, gently curving nubs tipped with red, pointed nipples.
Janey raised her hands to cover herself then noticed the bra was still
tangled around her elbows. Giggles threatened to bubble up from her tummy
as she imagined how she must have looked. What if Dave came back and saw
her like this?

Rosy took her by the shoulders and turned her `round, peeling the
brassiere off her arms.

"I'll put those things in the dryer in a minute," she said, dropping
the bra to the floor next to the dress. Janey stood before her, a lithe,
pretty twelve year-old wearing nothing but her white nylon underpants.
She looked round the room feeling small, helpless and terribly
vulnerable. And incredibly, it was the most wonderful feeling in the
whole wide world.

"Now," Ros said, taking the girl's hands and bringing her forward
again, "let's have a closer look at you."

4.

Roslyn Henson was thirty-three years old and had lived in Ridgewick all
her life. She'd been in her late teens when the Blaxland Disaster made
national headlines, and like many of her friends, she'd witnessed the
arrival of the first transsexual children -- though none of them had
realized it at the time. TISM doesn't manifest until the eighth or ninth
year, and sometimes not until the advent of puberty. Roslyn considered
herself very fortunate in this regard. David had never developed
transfeminine characteristics (and probably never would at this late
stage). It was like winning the lottery in a way; she'd delivered a
perfectly normal baby, quite an unusual event in this particular town.

Unfortunately, the pregnancy itself hadn't been free of complications.
Dave had arrived slightly premature -- not enough to endanger his health,
but more than enough to endanger hers. A breech birth had exacerbated the
situation to critical levels, and her doctors had opted for a C-section.
Several minor disasters ensued in a virtual cascade of agony, but at the
end of her ordeal, the nurses had handed her a beautiful, red-haired baby
boy.

Along with the worst news she could otherwise have imagined.

Was it somehow related to the Blaxland Disaster? Probably not; her
pregnancy had been a text book case-study right up to the eighth month.
It wasn't unheard of for a woman to lose the ability to conceive
following a difficult delivery. Nevertheless, it had come as a crushing
blow after everything she'd endured to bring David into the world.

Must as she loved her son, Roslyn had always harbored a secret, unspoken
regret over the circumstances of his birth. Because she'd wanted more
children. A whole tribe of them, in fact: raging and roaring `round the
house; scuttling beneath her feet and getting into the cupboards when her
back was turned. Children rustling through the undergrowth, children
sliding down the banisters and swinging off the chandeliers. Children of
every make, shape and size. Tall and thin, short and round, good and bad
alike, she'd wanted them, each and every one.

Most of all, she'd wanted a daughter.

Which was probably why she'd taken such a shine to David's little
girl-friend.

Okay, she wasn't exactly his girl-friend -- wasn't even a girl for that
matter -- but Roslyn had never met a child quite so endearing. Janey
Watson had a delicate, ethereal appearance; her eyes were so bright they
seemed to illuminate everything she looked at. More than that, she was
kind and sweet and radiantly happy, the way a little girl should be.
Roslyn had come to love her over the past four months, much the same way
she loved her nieces and younger cousins -- maybe a little more than
that, in recent weeks. And with a mother's unerring intuition, Ros
understood that her feelings were being returned.

She placed a hand on Janey's cheek, brushing moist blond curls back from
her face. She had the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen, huge and deep
and liquid blue. Her mouth was a tiny red pout surmounting a dimpled
chin, her nose a bump between rose-tinted cheeks. It was easily the most
kissworthy face in human existence (aside from her son's, at the age of
two), capable of inspiring Renaissance poets to Elizabethan raptures.

Roslyn skipped her gaze down Janey's narrow figure. Her body shimmered
like a soap bubble in the wavering orange light. Rain-water trickled
between her budding, nascent breasts. Rosy trailed her hands down the
girl's torso, stroking the nipples with her fingertips. Janey was going
through puberty, blossoming into a woman, there could be no question of
that. The breasts were small but perfectly formed, the nipples big and
dark against her milky flesh. Ros could feel them straining into her
fingertips.

Other signs of the onset were evident -- a thinning of the waist, a
ripening of the hips; the beginnings of an hourglass form. And while she
wasn't tall, her legs were long and tapering, lending her the illusion
of lean adolescence. In a few years, she'd be shattering hearts every
time she stepped out the front door; reducing grown men to tears of
desire. Impossible to believe she'd ever been male.

"You must be the prettiest thing I've ever seen," Rosy told her,
poking a teasing finger into her belly button. Janey squealed with
pleasure, accepting the compliment with a brilliant smile. Noting the
reaction, Roslyn walked her fingers over the girl's half-naked form,
tickling her rather mercilessly. Janey writhed between her hands,
squiggling about in childish outrage (but made no attempt to escape, Ros
noted with a grin). The torment went on for nearly a minute until
Janey's eyes were brimming with hapless mirth.

"How was that?" Roslyn asked, still holding the panting child by the
waist. They were both feeling rather breathless by now: Rosy had
forgotten how enjoyable a good tickling could be, especially when the
victim was so willing. Dave hadn't let her tickle him for over two
years. He was a boy, and considered himself too old for that kind of
stuff. "Did that warm you up?"

Janey nodded, eyes dancing with excitement.

"Does your Mommy tickle you?"

"Yeah, lots," the girl replied, "she tickles me in my panties
sometimes too."

Ros lowered her gaze to Janey's underpants. They were sheer nylon briefs
decorated with lycra trimmings. Floral patterns adorned the front and
hips, a delicate lace frill encircled the waist. Like the rest of her
clothing, they'd been drenched in the downpour and clung almost
invisibly to the girl's pale skin. She may as well have been nude for
all they managed to conceal. Virtually everything was on exhibition.
Roslyn narrowed her eyes, inclining her head for a closer inspection.

What did she look like down there?

From what Ros had read, TISM mimics female biology to the finest detail,
right down to the reproductive system. Some tranzies were known to retain
a vestige of their former identity, though only in a minority of cases --
intersexuals, for the most part. Needless to say, Roslyn understood it
was none of her business what Janey had between her legs, but couldn't
help wondering if she belonged to that negligible percentage.

That was odd ---

Something seemed to be missing. The nylon was virtually transparent, but
there were no lips, no cleft, nothing to indicate that she was female.
Trouble was, there was no penis either, just a smooth, featureless hump
that curved away between her thighs. Reaching down, Rosy looped her
thumbs through the waistband and stretched the pants tightly against the
girl's skin. A vague frown crossed her features: despite their gossamer
transparency, not trace of Janey's labia showed through her underwear.
It was as if she had nothing down there -- nothing at all. What did it
mean? Was she completely --- asexual?

`Do I have to take off my panties too?" Janey asked naively.

Roslyn stared at her in some surprise (mainly because she'd been
thinking precisely the same thing), then shook her head. Truth be told,
the temptation to satisfy her curiosity was practically overwhelming, but
Ros knew she couldn't remove Janey's underpants on a whim. Anyway,
David would be back in a minute, she had to think of him. At twelve, he
was both too young and too old to see his little friend buck naked (she
wasn't sure if he should see Janey in her panties either, but they'd
worry about that when he came downstairs).

"No, they'll dry out soon enough, Sweetie," Roslyn said, releasing the
band with a snap, "they're half-way there now"

Before another word could be spoken, a strafe of lightening flickered
beyond the window, followed by a blast that quaked the house to its
foundations. The ceiling trembled, the lights blinked out of existence,
and Janey leapt into Roslyn's lap with a startled cry. Coiling her arms
around the woman's neck, she buried her face in Rosy's shoulder,
struggling to control her whimpers. The thunder was so close now, almost
inside the room with them.

"You scared of the storm, Honey?" Roslyn asked, unnerved by the
light-show herself. Sounded like the roof was going to collapse, that
time.

Janey nodded, biting her lip to keep from sobbing.

"Nothing to worry about, baby," Ros soothed, smoothing down her
rain-matted hair, "the lightning can't hurt you in here."

Janey snuggled up against her Roslyn-Mom, a fragile little girl in flimsy
white panties seeking warmth and protection. She could hear the night
raging against the walls like some vicious, black animal and the sound
terrified her. It was trying to claw its way inside; any moment now, the
front door would explode off its hinges and the beast would rush snarling
down the hallway, its red-coal eyes as huge as storm beacons --

"Honey, you're still shivering," Roslyn said, gathering the child so
close they were practically breathing through each other's mouths,
"come on, let's get you closer to the fire." She started chafing
Janey's slender limbs to get her blood flowing. Warm, gentle hands
roamed over her body, massaging her back, her thighs, her lush, ripe
bottom. Janey melted gratefully into Rosy's arms, closing her eyes and
sighing in pleasure. Cheeks were kissed, faces nuzzled, and earlobes
nibbled without mercy.

Outside, the storm tore through lawns and gardens, uprooting trees and
lifting roofs in its wake. The keening winds slammed at the doors and
windows, seeking entry through slot and jamb and keyhole. The skies were
totally black now: not a single shaft of moonlight penetrated the
swirling clouds. It was a wild, hellish night, the stuff of terror and
nightmare. Of all of this, Roslyn Henson was largely unaware. She'd
found the daughter she'd lost the day her son had been born, and nothing
else mattered to her at this point. Mother and daughter lay together,
nestled together in a warmth deeper than that of the fire.

Neither noticed when the snow began to fall.


NEXT: JANEY'S STORY

Let me know if I should continue this one.