PZA: A Fly On The Wall - 2022 Boys Medical/Medicine Story

Pouting, somber, or serious, only Grampa knows. Equivocal, noncommittal, Savannah stands barefoot in the garden, waiting. Sensitive, or simply expecting. It's a habit, now. Every day for a week. Palomino Pony practice after fifth-grade home school. Snack. Photo session…

Riding boots left on the porch. Long-sleeved red, white, and blue checked shirt, unbuttoned, already all the way open. Tawny, kid-muscle blatant, flawless to a fault. Puppy fat in all the right places; not an ounce of excess on Savannah's small body. Slender fingers, strong, soft, sensitive, torment for a degenerate lover; before, and after, always desperate for more.

A thumb loops under the waist of beltless blue jeans. Stonewashed, faded, a hole in the knee from falling off Sandy Girl. Loose on narrow hips, yet Savannah casually pulls down, past Bible-Belt decency. A teasing glimpse. Black, tight briefs exchanged for grey gym shorts.

New York fashion brat turned rancher's kid. Barely ten, not even trying for eleven, watching Grampa try to ignore. He smiles at the apple Savannah holds. A McIntosh apple from the garden. The apple of good and evil. The apple of Aphrodite. Forbidden Love. Eternal Youthfulness.

Aromatic, juicy, sweet, tangy-tart; a boy who's still not sure what he wants to be. Firm, tender, no longer virgin, the perfect size. Cultivated for a sensory purpose. Brown curly head, enigmatic stare, dark eyes. Knowing eyes. Everything a man needs to see to know he's the luckiest person alive.

Lugging the digital camera, barefoot Savannah trails Grampa through the garden. Butterflies in their bellies. Longing for secret kisses among nasturtiums. Sucking the honey-sweet secretion. Trembling lust remembering the special thing that joins lovers.

One-handed, Savannah unfastens. A metal button. Zipper. Jeans bunch at the ankles. Standing on one foot, pushing off with the other, tottering, giggling. Getting everything off except grey gym shorts

Grampa spreads out Goodwill's ugliest sheet. So far beyond pain, it's good from beginning to end.

A LITTLE BACKSTORY TO GET STARTED:

Savannah A. Martin popped out of the womb at six pounds five ounces (2.9 kg), at 10:46 am, December, 28th, 2008. With a normal-sized penis, his birth-certificate gender was unquestionably 'male.' His mother, Karen Martin, was a sophomore fashion design student at SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design, which most likely explains her choice of 'Savannah.' Interestingly, in 2008, Savannah was #30 for girls' names, and #8,532 for boys. Perhaps Mom knew all along where this story would end.

Already modelling to help pay her tuition, Karen shared the top floor apartment in a lackluster modern building with Bruce and Eric, two openly gay photography grad students. Eric was the only grandson of a Wall Street tycoon, rich and smart enough to buy real estate on Savannah's Wright Square. Eric also inherited one of the premier photography collections on the East Coast from his grandfather. Bruce and Eric did everything except stand at the altar. Savannah's father was one of them. Which one, or how Karen conceived, doesn't matter.

It should come as no surprise that Karen's MFA thesis project was playtime clothing for toddlers, with little Savannah as her model, Bruce as photographer, and Eric as raconteur. Even back then, Karen's professors said she pushed the boundaries on gender awareness.

Two years after graduating, Eric Perlmann used a small portion of his Wall Street inheritance to start TOMBOY Fashion, making confrontational unisex clothes for teens. In-your-face fashion for kids with gender-issues is not a huge market, but TOMBOY only sells through high-end retailers with outrageous margins. The market breaks down to 63 percent tomboys, 17 percent gay boys with effeminate tendencies, and 20 percent undeclared gender, which could mean anything, including transgender. Average family income, $750,000, both parents college-educated.

Nowadays, Karen and Savannah are TOMBOY pre, started in 2012 to serve the growing 7-thru-11 market. TOMBOYpre took prepubescence by storm beginning with Gangsta, 1920s pinstripes and glittery pizzazz modeled by a nearly eight-year-old sexually ambiguous high roller. Biker was faux leather, with eight-and-a-half -year-old social-rebel Savannah straddling a Harley. TOMBOY Rage was colorful linen and white latex, fashion and fetish for precocious kids to wear on the dancefloor, or to the mall. Nine -year-old Savannah pretended to pole-dance, a paroxysm of passion for the catalog photos, all shot in frenetic New Orleans. Gay boys love to party, and sent sales skyrocketing.

Karen, Perlmann's chief designer, followed up with TOMBOY RaNGe; distressed steel-gray, softer-than-normal denim with platinum-plated studs as big as cufflinks for the home-on-the-range androgynous maverick. The (No Gender) cowboy ensemble: Jacket with outsized lapels, cut overly tight, ending mid belly, with arm sleeves so skinny it was difficult to fold up the cuffs, $199.99; Jeans with stovepipe legs sitting very low on the hips, with only enough space for a three-inch (7 cm) exposed chromed-brass zipper, $119.99. A choice of a long-sleeved denim shirt with elongated tails or an extra-long white T-shirt rounded out the basic outfit.

Our story begins when they just finished shooting RaNGe marketing photos at Cimarron; that's Savannah's grandfather's vineyard/ranch outside Elgin, in southern Arizona. Cimarron backs up to the Patagonia Mountains of the Coronado National Forest, Nogales Ranger District. It's a 45-mile fast drive to Nogales on Route 82/83. Horseback takes longer, three days minimum on well-marked trails. In less time, you can ride all the way to the Mexican border without seeing a soul, not!

Be warned it's a long story; however, we'll take it a day at a time, beginning when Savannah is nine years, five months, and three days old.

Opening scene; it's Wednesday, 7:30 pm. Both personal choice and mandate from a weight-conscious mother, Savannah mostly eats salads for dinner. Tonight, it's Frank's Cimarron Salad, a Savannah favorite — a bed of baby mixed greens with pine nuts, black beans, red bell peppers, sweet onions, orange slices, and avocado, topped with grilled chicken; especially tasty with low-calorie orange vinaigrette.

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and four days old > > >

On Friday evening, Frank Martin served hot-from-the-oven crusty sourdough bread and his Cimarron Salad. The celebratory dinner deserved his hand-painted dishes, Talavera style purchased from Dolores Hidalgo, Guanajuato. The wine was his Copper Top, Syrah, 2015, a dark full-bodied wine with a hint of blueberry and a spicy peppery aftertaste. He made sugar-free, hand-squeezed lemonade for Savannah.

Savannah nibbled on a half plate of Cimarron salad while pawing through two days of photos, just back from processing in Tucson.

Karen teased with a drawn-out sigh. "Only a scamp like you would say 'hot' at the dinner table."

The photos featured a glorious desert sunset, brilliant gold and fiery red. Silhouetted, Candelerio Peak and Copper Mountain turned into distant beacons; they were phallic if one wanted to find sexual meaning.

"Me, scamp?" With an experienced headshake, Savannah flaunted a mane of long curly hair.

"For one thing, your pose is proactively provocative," Karen added, her fork poised with a chunk of avocado fresh from the garden.

In all but three photos, Savannah's expression leaned toward wicked, teasing, or simply mischievous; the genderless, yet sensual child without shame. There was no white T-shirt in the last dozen photos. With the jacket unbuttoned, one saw Savannah's bare chest, two tiny nipples, a flat little tummy, and an innie bellybutton.

Everyone at the table knew Savannah was beguiling in front of a camera, not just fashion photographers' cameras, any camera.

"I guess." Precocious Savannah met Mom halfway with a disingenuous smile. "It doesn't count as a crotch shot, Mom. You can't see anything."

With the most revealing photo in hand, Savannah showed it around the table. She paused when she came to Bruce, a smirk lurking behind the photograph because he'd taken it less than 24 hours earlier.

Bruce Thorpe was 34, an expatriate Canadian and Eric Perlmann's favorite photographer, his live-in boyfriend eight years earlier. Photo #242 was his favorite. If he had anything to do with it, that photo was destined for the cover of the TOMBOY Spring into Spring catalog.

Photo #242 exposed skin, flawless from ribs to bony little hips, to the tempting junction of thigh and lower belly. He'd posed Savannah leaning against the corral fence, slender fingers toying with a vaguely symbolic lariat draped from the second-from-the-top rail. On her other side, her pony saddle hung over the top rail. The pose was a side profile, as much to show style and fit as golden-brown coils reaching to the middle of Savannah's back. The jeans were so low, he had Savannah push pastel-purple panties out of sight, revealing the start of a shadowy swelling where the jeans' waist wasn't tight enough.

It was an excuse of a kind for what surely bordered on child porn, unbridled sexual desire in a nine-year-old fashion brat.

He glanced at the photo again before forking a slice of zesty chicken from his second serving of salad. He much preferred medium-rare hamburgers with blue cheese.

'Not an ounce' was a slight exaggeration; everyone at the table was used to seeing thin ripples of skin when Savannah leaned over.

"For TOMBOY, skinny is market driven," Karen said, dismissing anything Bruce or anyone else might have to say on the matter.

With a quarter of America's straight kids failing the pinch test, Karen designed for the kids who weren't straight, or overweight. At home, she walked the same walk. Savannah was seriously slender. She was also petite, noticeably shorter than the average nine-and-half-year-old.

"I'm not taking sides. All that matters to a photographer are results," Bruce chuckled, raising his wine glass. "The bonus is she's a joy to behold, graceful and gorgeous."

Savannah continued around the table, gleefully showing off the photo, her flimsy gold wrist bracelet loose on her wrist. However, only her grandfather took special note of the bracelet. It was a shackle forever binding them together.

'Graceful and gorgeous' was just fine in Frank Martin's opinion, although he'd never admit it aloud. As Savannah' photos went, #242 was one of the best, yet he had to say something.

"Provocative; now there's a word you don't hear around these parts. The saddle's a nice touch, though."

Savannah snickered without looking up. The saddle was her idea, inspired authenticity. Her grandfather had spent hours polishing it, as shiny as her hair in the photo.

"You're not helping, Dad," Karen rebuked, in a very good mood after two glasses of Syrah.

Having finished the final day of shooting TOMBOY RaNGe outfits, her job was done. She was already working on Fall/Winter. There were pencil sketches for TOMBOY ROCK all over the living room.

Savannah was somewhere between soprano and treble, with a mixed-up accent. Starting life in Savannah, Georgia, moving to Midtown Manhattan, and going to a Montessori school with three Italian teachers, competed with spending holidays with her grandfather in southern Arizona.

Frank Martin stopped watching a buzzing black fly. A new one intruded every time someone went outside. It landed on the salad bowl. Not a moment too soon, it left for the kitchen.

Savannah held up a finger, a little flagpole to tease, or deliberating showing him her delicate gold wrist bracelet. With Savannah, one never knew for certain. This time, she wrinkled her brow, not frowning, obstinate, and shrewd like her mom.

Everyone watched anxiously as Grampa shuffled through the nearest stack of photos – Savannah valued his opinion, even if no one else did. Among 20 'throw-outs,' he selected a cowboy pose, one hand on her hip, her other hand holding the lariat. With the RaNGe casual ensemble, jacket, T-shirt, and jeans, the only exposed skin, besides hands, was a swathe around Savannah's neck. The silver pendant on her leather-cord choker was aptly ambiguous, ankh or Venus symbol, life or female; who knew.

Unlike most parents, she never denied her child was a sensual being. Even as a toddler, Savannah wasn't innocent, always brazenly physical, both mother and grandfather bombarded with shameless snuggles, and very personal questions.

"Some of the poses are rather suggestive." It was one of those times Frank Martin should've kept his mouth shut.

Bruce got involved. "Sensuous and suggestive? What does that make our little fashion brat?"

Sitting across from Savannah, Bruce's assistant, Randal, emphatically fluttered his eyes. It would've been amusing if Savannah was older. He segued to rubbing his index finger thoughtfully across his lips as he studied photos on the table.

It was loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. Anyone who cared to look at the photos could see what he was talking about. Some kids had bunny fluff; some kids had peach fuzz; some kids had a gossamer sheen; Savannah had nothing. Nothing but a sleek expanse of utterly smooth creamy skin, occasionally pimpled with goose flesh.

'Pollito' was 13-year-old Raoul Ramírez, the effeminate post-puberty model for TOMBOY. He was Cuban-Hispanic, born to dance disco. From the way he acted around other males, he was also a born bottom.

She gave her father another threatening look. With awful timing, Photo #154 was right in front of him. It had been there ever since she consigned it to 'private,' what Randal charmingly referred to as the 'pedo-pile.'

Photo #154 was the last photo Bruce recorded on the first day. Dusky and chilly with a faint penumbra in the west, mostly from cloud reflections; there was just enough light to see Savannah was apprehensive, shivery among carefully construed shadows. Her only clothing was a TOMBOY RaNGe denim shirt. Its long tails hung to mid-thigh, with a gap large enough to see there was no underwear. Nine years and five months old, and the shirt was open to the last platinum-plated stud, little fingers toying, only a moment away from unfastening. With it unbuttoned, everything would be on show.

With shirtsleeves rolled past elbows, Savannah's slim, lightly tanned arms were like aged ivory, burnished by loving hands. Not quite fully exposed, Savannah's pale front was a Carrara white-marble statue with myriad minute pimples, innocent, vulnerable, and intense. Savannah's ever-present silver pendant was particularly prescient.

Everyone at the table knew Photo #154 was destined for Perlmann's private collection.

"I think you shave Savannah every morning, Karen," Randal teased, swilling Syrah. "If you don't now, sooner or later you'll have to start."

Like #154, his comment verged on vulgarity, enough that Karen and her father exchanged glances. She'd already told him that Randal regularly visited Perlmann's Midtown Manhattan penthouse, often staying overnight. Even if he wasn't the current boyfriend, her message was clear; say nothing in his presence that you didn't want getting back to the boss.

She smiled slightly, intentionally vague like her child's gender. "Have you shaved Raoul yet, Randal? Or is he still too tiny for you?"

"Well, he's right about one thing, Karen; for TOMBOYpre, puberty is an issue," Bruce interrupted. "Sooner or later, things start changing."

"You don't know Eric like I do, Karen. To say he's a little perturbed about the next few years is putting it mildly."

Randal snorted. "Worried sick is more accurate. Savannah's his best model by far."

Seeming indifferent, Savannah picked among baby greens, hunting down two pine nuts before looking up. "Who knows, I could start puberty late."

With Bruce and Randal on their way back to their motel in Tucson, Karen cornered her father in the kitchen.

Frank stopped washing dishes in the sink. Hand-painted ceramic did not go in the dishwasher. She beckoned him over to the island counter, pulled out a stool for herself, and sat with her arms folded.

"You've always been very understanding, Dad. Ever since I got knocked up, you've been there for me, helping with money, taking care of the Sav when I had projects due."

Frank nodded, fairly certain where this was heading. It wasn't the first time they'd discussed transitioning. Karen was all for it. He was dead against it.

"You've been around Savannah enough to know there was never a choice. It's not what I want, or you want, Dad; it's what she wants."

Karen rubbed her eyes tiredly. "You think I don't worry about that?" She sighed. "What Bruce said tonight, about puberty…"

Panic inherent; there was a range for starting puberty; 95 percent fell within two standard deviations of the mean, yet it didn't seem possible, not at nine going on ten.

"You've seen her in the bath tub often enough," Karen snickered. After Frank looked at her blankly, she added, "Not from what I've seen."

"What should I look for?" He gave a silly snicker, trying to make it sound unwitting.

"For what it's worth, Dad, the nuts get a little bit bigger about a year before it starts."

"So, there's still time." Panicky, Martin grasped at straws. "The doctor in Boston said he'd prescribe drugs to delay it."

"Savannah doesn't want blockers, Dad. Her mind is made up about having the operation."

Karen and Savannah were an invincible team when it came to 'the operation.' They shared a mantra, 'sooner is better.'

"Maybe so, but there's not a hospital in this country that will do anything about it. At 16, maybe. At nine and a half, no fucking way!"

"There are clinics in Thailand, Dad. No questions asked. It takes a week to ten days, and the problem goes away, for good." Karen made it sound simple. Before Frank could ask, she added, "Two air tickets plus $10,000 to get started."

"Thailand? There are flies everywhere. God only knows if the doctors actually attended med school. You're crazy."

"We wouldn't go there, Dad. I'm just saying, that's all. There are other clinics that don't follow our rules. They're safer, and much closer."

"She's changed a lot in two years, Dad. Once Savannah's done, we'll all be happier."

Frank gaped at her, mouth gaping at 'done.' His point of view, happiness was a matter of degree. You lived with the hand you were dealt. For a five-card hand, even a pair of twos could be a winning hand. However, it wasn't something a doting, very-biased mother should hear.

He was going to say 'so be it. However, he wouldn't pay one cent to help out. One look at Karen's face and he gave up.

"… starting puberty is the worst thing that can happen," Karen finished before he got started.

By then, Frank was about to say, 'he'd pay half if they used an American doctor.' No one was more aware than he was that puberty separated boys from girls in countless ways.

As if seeing the chink in his armour, she went on. "The good news is at Savannah's age, it's not a matter of all or nothing."

Frank didn't hear Savannah enter the kitchen – with little bare feet padding across ceramic tile, there was almost no sound at all. When he pivoted on his stool, Savannah was within reach, ubiquitous iPhone in hand, wearing the extra-long T-shirt from the RaNGe ensemble. It hung loosely, making everything apparent, if not visible.

It was a standing joke for the last two days, guaranteed to turn Savannah into wriggling tickles and giggles whenever he pretended to yank up the T-shirt, supposedly to see what she had on underneath.

Savannah tried to smile, blinking too much to be happy, right on the edge of breaking down and bawling, which was normal when Mom and Grampa argued about her 'gender issues.'

"Mickey's doctor in Mexico is American," Karen continued. "He moved his clinic there eight years ago when he got tired of shooting kids full of progestin."

Frank felt his face get hotter. Something buzzed in his ear. He swatted impulsively.

Karen smiled at 'gorgeous.' Mickey was pretty; Savannah was gorgeous, and built just right.

'Stable' meant a consistent and strong gender identity, a child whose psyche had switched genders, and who was emotionally prepared to transition.

"How can you tell at nine?" Frank protested. "Mickey especially. The kid's looney at the best of times."

It was mostly to cheer up Savannah. Mickey wasn't looney, just very overt. She was more 'Barbie girl' than Savannah. She dressed up, too; Fashion Brat in glitter, satin, and lace, not dresses, shimmering blouses and sexy pants to show off her androgynous body.

"Every doctor I've talked to says it's better for them to be hormone neutral for a few years, get things settled down before the big decision."

"It's one option. The sooner she starts, the less risk of rescission," Karen added.

Putting things back to the way they'd been before the operation was impossible. Even the desire to switch back could be devastating.

"It's all very complicated," Frank allowed, certain that Karen was already in communication with the doctor.

Savannah sniffled, inching closer. "He does kids like me in three or four stages, Grampa."

"That many, huh?" He shook his head. Karen and Savannah were so calm about it that it boggled the mind. "How much, Karen?"

"Dad!" Karen was exasperated. "If you must know, the initial stage is between $2,000 and $5,000. Most kids combine the first two stages. It's over $15,000. There's plastic surgery involved."

Frank pulled Savannah closer, silky moist cheek against his chest, his right hand tenderly, fondly, patting T-shirt-clad butt. He felt like a pervert, not even cute little bikini panties to get in the way.

Savannah's feelings on the matter came out in a melodic melodramatic whisper. "I can't go through puberty, Grampa. It ruins everything."

Frank Martin nuzzled a little ear, trying to see what was on her iPhone. It was harmless enough, just lines of text too far away to actually read. With a single finger tap, her screen switched to a crowbar whacking at the screen. Another tap, a chainsaw started up. Savannah grinned up at him and squelched the sound.

Hidden among long golden curls, Savannah's delicate gold earring brushed his nose even as the awful truth roared in his head. He loved Savannah, the boy. Giggly and girlish was part of the charm; he could deal with that if he put his mind to it. It was the playful, energetic part, always teasing, sometimes flirting part that he adored.

Nine-year-old Savannah knew what 'stop' meant. So did Frank, all too well. Taking out testicles, it wasn't only testosterone that got stopped. It was the end of the Martin line.

Frank joked when he felt inadequate. "So, clip and snip, and no injections, huh?"

A very-determined Savannah gave her grandfather the stiff upper lip treatment. "I hate getting shots, Grampa."

By then, her cellphone was in full destruct mode, with muffled gunshots, new holes appearing with every finger tap.

The ever-present cellphone didn't seem to bother Karen. "It's worth the money not to have the hassle, Dad."

Not in Frank's opinion. He'd be the first to agree that bravery was not Savannah's strong suit. When it came to injections, she wailed at the first sign of a syringe. Worse still, was taking blood samples, of which there'd been many in recent years. However, monthly injections were minor compared to a risky surgery, recovery time, catching up on schoolwork, rescheduling photo shoots and fashion shows…

"The important thing is she won't be making hormones. For an extra ten grand he does the second stage at the same time. It's mostly aesthetic." Before Frank could ask what that meant, Karen added, "A partial conversion with the available skin. It's for a gender- conforming body image."

Savannah stopped tapping cellphone destruction. "Mickey got both. Her vulva's awesome. Mommy's seen it. She'll let you see it, too, if you want, Grampa."

Frank rubbed his forehead, beyond disbelief. There'd been a time when he was curious about Mickey, especially after Savannah announced that Mickey wasn't circumcised. Two weeks later, he garnered a glimpse in the hallway. Mickey had noticeably bigger testicles, otherwise about the same as Savannah, except for foreskin.

After that, he made a point of not going into the bathroom when the kids were bathing, or even together in Savannah's bedroom.

He caught Karen's eye. "Not a good idea, Sanny." Besides, he didn't love Mickey.

"Mickey said the third stage is mostly boobs and stuff. They do it after they induce puberty, so you look right," Savannah added almost buoyantly.

There was wisdom in retaining options, putting off *that* decision in case things changed.

"I already do, Grampa. The doctor wants me to be 16 before everything goes away."

Before Frank could ask where 'there' is, Savannah climbed onto his lap, hugging tightly, her iPhone between them. Out of sheer desperation, he hugged back, as tightly as he could, squeezing Savannah, nuzzling long golden hair, hoping the cellphone screen didn't break because he'd have to replace it.

Savannah nodded and settled back, hot little hands grasping his arms. So warm and soft, hair smelling like fresh orange blossoms, and Karen's lavender perfume elsewhere, her little gold bracelet a constant reminder.

Karen gave both of them a strange look. It wasn't as if Savannah didn't cuddle with him every night, immediately after bath time, and again at bedtime. However, this trip, overt cuddles happened even more frequently, almost as if planned.

"The doctor requires an overnight visit to make sure she's stable. It's an examination and checkup, too."

"Makes sense," Frank agreed, reckoning two more days of missed school wouldn't matter too much at the end of fourth grade. "If everything checks out?"

Lost for words, Frank hugged Savannah. Without warning, she gave him a kiss on the lips, wet, warm, and much too long. When she lifted her iPhone for a selfie-kiss, he pulled her arm into his chest, slightly shaking his head, hoping Karen didn't notice.

"Before you ask, Dad, I've paid a $2,000 non-refundable deposit. It doesn't mean we're committed," she added awkwardly.

"Bad joke, Dad. Both parents have to be there for counseling. The nurse said you could substitute," Karen added, her tone as much as saying, 'don't let us down.'

"You're almost my dad, Grampa," Savannah murmured, playfully nuzzling around her grandpa's right ear; at the same time trying to recover her iPhone from his grasp. "We have the same last name, and you're not *that* old."

Suddenly in a playful mode, Savannah licked his cheek. He felt like a randy teenager, making out in the back seat of the family Buick all over again.

Either it didn't bother Karen, or she preferred to ignore Savannah's carrying-on. She went over to finish washing the dishes.

Not even trying to whisper, Savannah snickered, "You want more puppy licks, Grampa, you need to shave."

With shock on her side, she deftly plucked her iPhone from his grasp. She wasn't done teasing, jamming it against her crotch and giving him a mischievous 'I dare you' look.

Karen glanced back at giggles. Again, she ignored their shenanigans, just a hint of a smile. As soon as her back was turned, Savannah twisted round on Grampa's lap and smooched him again, her iPhone-camera back at arm's length.

Frank was far from naïve. He smooched back, bear-growling with sloppy kisses on her neck and ears. Savannah switched from sitting in his lap to straddling his thighs, both arms around him. He bear-hugged her, aware she was setting him up, getting into position for yet another shameless selfie. She slurped his lips, little tongue fully extended. They parted, and for a few moments, they gazed at each other, scarcely aware that Karen was only a few yards away at the sink.

It was a prelude to grinding malleable kid-butt against hard grandpa-cock. It had never been so deliberate. No longer innocent, no longer teasing him, squirming on the lump under her bottom because she knew how to get what she wanted. Already hot, his face turned crimson.

< < < Tickle Teddy, Grampa> > >

Frank Martin calmed down on the return drive from Tucson. Karen had calmed, too; she greeted him at the mudroom door with an ice-cold beer, a well-intentioned hug, and was on her way back to the kitchen before he took off his shoes. He traipsed after her, still planning his apology.

"I was way out of line, Dad. Savannah cried for an hour after you left."

Frank heaved a sigh. "Good intentions don't count for shit if it adversely affects Savannah's gender identity."

"She really loves you," Karen added, briskly stirring a pot of vegetable soup.

"I really love him." Frank winked to show he intended 'her.' He still got the lecture.

"Dad, you've gone to the doctors with me, and I really appreciate it. Given that, you ought to understand by now. " Karen hesitated to say it. "I also know you want a grandson."

"But?" There was always a 'but;' a mighty big 'but' as far as Frank was concerned.

"It's not about what's down there, but what's up here." Karen touched her forehead. "Savannah sees herself as a girl. The only person who thinks she might grow out of it is you."

"Kinda hard to get used to the idea given what's down below." Frank exhaled. "I'll try harder, okay? What we argued about, I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"'A football is an investment in Savannah's future,' seriously?" Now, she smiled about it.

He gave a timid shrug, mocking her ever so slightly. If she asked, he'd returned it to the store. Actually, he locked it away in his gun safe, right above his Remington pump-action shotgun. A Super Bowl XLIII football, Cardinals and Steelers at Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, Florida, 2009; not the Wilson mass-market version. Signed by the team, it was worth a small fortune in Arizona. In another ten years, it would pay Savannah's college tuition.

Frank followed her into the breakfast room. It had the best sunrise view; late afternoon wasn't much different, the ranch and mountains in the distance. Karen had been working at the table, pasting and taping pages as they exited from the printer, cutting patterns for her next release of unisex kid clothes. She was calling it 'Savannah Collection' until a better name came along.

From the mess, Frank wondered if he should've detoured by Staples and purchased more paper. "I bought Savannah something else, if that's okay, Karen?"

"You can give her anything you want to, Dad, so long as it's for a girl."

"It's not much." Frank pulled the jewelry box from his jacket pocket, and opened it for her. "Another investment in Savannah's future," he joked.

A plain gold chain for a child's skinny wrist, no hearts, no flashy gems, no plate for engraving a name, no tiny charms dangling, yet a straight boy would never wear a bracelet that delicate.

Smiling, Karen raised an eyebrow. He could tell she approved.

"I doubt there's a thousandth of an ounce of gold in it."

"It's the thought that counts, Dad."

"A special chain for a special kid was kind of what I thought. As soon as I saw it, I was sure she'd like it."

"She'll love it, Dad."

Frank grinned, relieved they were talking like father and daughter again.

"Um, I also bought Savannah a pony for her birthday. That way, you guys will visit more often."

Any number of hints, a pony was in Savannah's future; yet, Karen shook her head in mild disbelief. A moment later, she smiled.

"Okay, but only if you give her riding lessons."

"I'll start her bareback like a Navajo boy," he joked. "Where's my favorite fashion brat?"

"She's in the living room, consoling Teddy because he's feeling miserable."

Frank walked to the doorway and looked through the dining room. He couldn't see beyond the fireplace, only embers left. Still, the noise from the TV was enough.

"Sounds like Hannah Montana is with her."

"I let her watch so she doesn't annoy me. I'll be up until midnight as it is."

Frank lifted his eyes heavenward. Any moment, he'd say what he really thought about the trash on TV.

Karen beat him to it. "You've seen her Hoedown Throwdown, Dad. Hip-hop meets line dancing, waste of time, or not?"

With almost no practice, Savannah transformed two years of jazz ballet lessons into a little dance dynamo. Her Hoedown version was incredible, especially wearing Karen's version of hip-hop and country girl, white-latex jodhpurs and black leather boots. Six years after Hannah Montana The Movie, Savannah's YouTube video got 86,000 hits in the first week, a growing if somewhat creepy fan club of followers, and a curious phone call from Eric Perlmann. He wanted to expand, TOMBOYpre with high-fashion ensembles for younger kids, take New York by unisex storm.

Frank caved. "Aerobic exercise and good coordination are important."

"I'll take that to mean you think she's sexy as hell," Karen teased.

"I wouldn't put it quite like that, but yeah." He reddened slightly. "I didn't say that."

Karen nudged him out of the way, picked up the most recent pattern, and held it up for critical review. A minute passed before she noticed he was still there.

"You want to put Sanny in a dress now?" Frank said, trying to remain calm.

"Why not? She'll wear one sooner or later. I'd rather it was one of mine." She crumpled the pattern and tossed it at the trashcan. "You're right; it's not her."

"You think the bracelet is okay, though? I didn't want it to look flashy. Maybe it's not showy enough."

"It's perfect, Dad." She regarded him, tickled by his awkwardness. "Give her a special kiss when you put it on her."

"Huh?"

"You know what I mean; and tickle her before she goes to bed, too, she loves that."

With beer in hand, Frank wandered in the living room. Savannah curled up on the couch, surrounded by Navajo blankets, both arms wrapped around Teddy D. Bear. The TV was on, the volume now turned down.

Savannah looked up and smiled shyly. "I was worried you wouldn't come back, Grampa."

"I wanted to see you before you fell asleep."

Feeling rather like a scary spider from the barn, Frank sat down beside her, vulnerable and petite, wearing only her mom's Rodeo Girl T-shirt, oversized, pulled up to mid-thigh. He inhaled kid-shampoo, unable to decide if the scent was peach or plum blossom. It wasn't orange; it was fresh and invigorating, vaguely tropical, and very satisfying. He stroked a bare arm, warm, soft like a baby. Savannah squirmed against him. Like every other night, he hugged her, and she snuggled up even closer, keeping Teddy between them.

"Tickle Teddy, Grampa." It was an order.

He spread the nearest Navajo blanket over both of them before he started. His right hand massaged the stuffed bear's fat belly. His left hand stroked long golden curls, little ears, and a silky soft neck. Far more enjoyable was listening to Savannah's melodic very-agreeable whimpers.

"I love you so much," he murmured.

"You're my teddy bear, Grampa," Savannah murmured back.

Almost immediately, Savannah's hot little hand inched closer, backed away, circled and cautiously crept closer again, teasing, tempting, aborting, torturing. To anyone watching, it might seem innocent play, except for the ultimate destination.

"Maybe I should tickle my teddy bear?" he whispered, so close his lips brushed honey-hued hair.

"Uh huh."

Frank's right hand abandoned Teddy's faux-fur belly and glided onto Savannah's warm belly, firm flesh under a very loose Rodeo Girl. He scratched around the little navel playfully.

"I reckon you got fleas."

"No fleas, Grampa. Do my bellybutton properly."

"How's that?"

"The way you're supposed to." Savannah hiked up her t-shirt. "Now, make circles."

Safe under the blanket, Frank caressed bare tummy. With belly button as center, his tantalizing trail was more spiral than circle, expanding, contracting, always impossibly slow so nerves had time to tingle. Gradually, 'circles' became orbiting ellipses, larger and larger, slowing down at crucial locations. Savannah's breathing quickened, little trembles erupting, whimpers steadily getting louder.

Frank made a point of retreating to safe territory, still he worried. Skin texture lured him back, increasingly delicate the closer he approached. Softer than silk, gliding smoothly, resolve melting before his fingertips; it grew warmer, too. She whimpered, peculiar, edgy, intense.

"Shhhh."

"Mom, he's tickling me!" Savannah shrieked, grinning right at Grampa, knowing she'd scared him half to death.

"I'm really busy, Savy. Tell him to stop if you don't like it," Karen called back.

Savannah dragged the blanket away. "Look what you did to my belly, Grampa."

From belly to shoulders, she was pimpled with goose flesh, both tiny nipples pricked up.

"You got a stiff, too," Frank pointed out.

Although he hadn't touched, his fingertip had come shockingly close on the 'circles.'

Savannah flipped at it, pulled it down, and let it bounce back. "Stupid thing!"

"He's extra special, just like you," Frank whispered, not about to explain 'extra special' again. "He just wants to have fun, too

"Is yours big?"

Frank swallowed spit, thinking 'out of the mouths of children.' "Yes, because of you."

Savannah was breathy, anxious, eager even for her. "Can I tickle him again?"

"Maybe when you're in the bath."

Savannah wriggled against him, hot and shivery at the same time. "Now!" It was much too loud.

"Shhhh." He kissed Savannah on the forehead. "How about we tickle each other?"

Savannah looked toward the kitchen. "Now, while Mommy's busy."

With the jewelry box in hand, Frank Martin trembled. "First, I've got a special present for my teddy bear."

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and seven days old > > >

The valley of Los Mochis, Sinaloa, produced mangoes year round, at their best in summer. Frank Martin stopped the car at Mango Land, a roadside stall, purchased six ripe ataulfo, and peeled three of them right there.

"Savannah must be texting a friend," he observed, tossing bright yellow peelings into the brush, hoping they'd distract the constantly buzzing black flies.

June 4th anywhere in Mexico was hot. It was 86 degrees and headed to triple digits before the sun set. It made sense to stay in the shade. Instead of staying under a struggling tree and slapping at black flies, Savannah wandered aimlessly, either typing one-handed on her iPhone, or picking hogweed flowers.

"My bet is she's embarrassed. Fashion Brat insisted on wearing her thong," Karen said. "I made her take it off when you stopped for gas."

"It gets uncomfortable sitting so long in a car. You'd think I was torturing her from the way she carried on about it."

"It's not like Savannah has to hide what's down there from me," Frank said, a little exasperated.

He was used to seeing Savannah in TOMBOY Wonder underwear, yet when it came to his grandkid wearing a custom-made thong he was still of two minds. It was tiny and tight, designed to conceal. Without it, Savannah had barely enough bulge to convey 'boy.' With it, there was nothing to see except a genderless hump between slender thighs.

Even in Los Mochis, Sinaloa, Savannah was exquisitely attired, exuding sexy in heat. Her RaNGe jeans were so low her grandfather could see pretty pastel-purple bikini briefs whenever she bent over. Up top, a shimmering faux-silk blouse, sans buttons, tied at her waist.

It was one of those times it was all Frank could do to drag his eyes away from his gorgeous grandchild.

Frank's thoughts always converged on Savannah. He watched her, still texting between nibbling around the mango seed and licking up juice, savoring sweet creamy mango. So far the flies didn't seem to notice.

"Dr. Stein's email said just 'interview and information.' I think because of her age." She beckoned when Savannah neglected her iPhone long enough to glance back.

Karen smiled. "I said she could buy a phone if she used her own money. Big mistake!"

Savannah's iPhone was the latest model, large screen, high resolution. Wide angle and telephoto lenses, with powerful zoom. All the bells, whistles, and do-dads, over $1,000. After two hours of modeling TOMBOYpre for international buyers, a generous 'tip' from Eric Perlmann paid for it.

"If Dr. Stein's convinced it's the right thing for Savannah, we'll be back on the 24th," Karen added.

"Clip and snip before the end of the month, huh." Conflicted, he should've kept his mouth shut.

"I need a napkin, Mom!" Savannah shouted, dribbling mango juice, and licking fingers.

"Wipes are in the glovebox, Savy," Karen called. "We've been waiting for this for a long, long while, Dad."

Savannah jogged back to the Jeep Grand Cherokee, designer sneakers kicking dust.

"El Carizo to Los Mochis is less than an hour. We'll be there before 3:00 pm." Frank's happy voice was anything but.

Karen picked up. "I'll drive the rest of the way, Dad. You get to ride in the back seat and cuddle Savannah."

Frank wiped his Case Trapper penknife on yellowed grass. Twenty years old and it still looked new. With a sigh, mostly directed at himself for agreeing to go along, he picked up the remaining three mangoes, and followed them back to the car.

As soon as he fastened his seatbelt, Savannah stuffed her iPhone in the seat pocket, flipped up the dividing armrest, and scooted across to the middle seat.

Frank tried to be stern. "You're not sitting in my lap. You're all hot and sweaty."

Savannah gave him the 'are you crazy' look. "I wiped them. I'm taking a nap, Grampa."

Within seconds, Savannah had designer sneakers kicked off, feet up on the leatherette seat, curled up against her grandfather, head tucked under his arm, clutching one of his fingers with a moist little fist. That close to Savannah, Frank knew the hour would pass quickly.

"Dad, the directions said to take the road to Topolobampo, then, the last road on the right. I think I just missed it, so we're nearly there."

He had the distinct impression it wasn't the first time Karen had tried to wake him.

At some point, sleepy Savannah had shifted around, knees drawn up, head now cushioned on his thigh. That moist little hand had relocated, switching from Chinese finger trap to the inside of his thigh, with a curious thumb far too close for comfort.

"Savannah's still asleep," Frank said quietly, looking from salty marshes to mussed up hair spreading over both him and the seat.

Shocked more than flabbergasted at his daughter's reaction, Frank quickly relocated Savannah's encroaching hand, adding a stern frown to get the message across.

"No harm done except to your ego!" She met his eyes in the rear-vision mirror. "You're such a hermit, I'm surprised it still happens."

Topolobampo was a grungy hillside town overlooking the bay. With an appointment at 3:00 pm, they didn't stay longer than it took to make sure the hotel at the marina had rooms available for the night.

Dr. Albert Stein officially titled his clinic, the Stein Center for Gender Research. Before SCGR took it over, it was a small mid-price guesthouse catering to gay men. The locals still called it El Chacal. (The Jackal)

Despite hordes of flies in the parking lot, inside the clinic was tidy and spotlessly clean, with the smell of pine disinfectant redolent in the air. While a dark-skinned nurse whisked Savannah off to a changing room, another nurse with passable English conducted Karen and Frank to Dr. Stein's office on the first floor, and quickly disappeared.

Previously the breakfast room, it had a view of the marshes, a distant crescent beach, and the sweeping expanse of the Gulf of California. Shortly, the receptionist entered bearing a tray. After setting a pitcher of iced tea and four glasses on Dr. Stein's desk, she went over to a low padded bench. It clearly wasn't a coffee table, yet she spread out a white cloth. She rearranged four vinyl armchairs around the bench and discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind her.

"It looks clean enough," Frank observed after a good look around. He'd worried about it for most of the drive.

Karen let out a long sigh. "Dad, if you can't be supportive, be neutral, or get the hell out."

They waited another minute, making droll comments about the view, because anything else eventually led back to Savannah, and the reason why they were there. It was like a propane gas leak; it only took one spark.

A side door opened and a dumpy little man entered wearing an old-fashioned white lab coat. After handshakes and introductions, Dr. Stein rubbed his temples, blinked behind thick wire-framed spectacles, and selected a file from a stack on his desk.

"I need to warn you in advance," he began rather sternly. "These interviews deal with very personal matters. You will likely feel uncomfortable at times, even angry with me. Please know that whatever I say or do, or have Savannah do, it is strictly in her best interest."

Karen thought his demeanor professional, yet somewhat abrupt, especially given what was at stake. Savannah's doctor in Boston was far more understanding and supportive. Frank, on the other hand, decided Stein looked like a Nazi war criminal. He glowered, glancing at the window, and the bay beyond. He began to think the tiny black spots on the glass were flies, not dirt. They moved, or seemed to.

Frank, who distrusted him from the outset, was ready to call him out to the parking lot.

"Please let me do most of the talking. If I want you to be involved, I will say so directly. Help yourselves to some iced tea while I fetch her. We'll sit over there." Stein gestured at the four chairs and bench. "I prefer to be face to face with my patient."

With that, Stein strolled to the side door. He returned hand-in-hand with Savannah, attired in a hospital gown, pale pink with teddy bears, tied in the front. They stopped by the desk to get iced teas. Stein added a teaspoon of sugar to his glass, and stirred it thoroughly.

"Savannah, I see you model for TOMBOY. I looked them up on the internet. They sell clothes for gender-dysphoric kids. Can you tell me how you feel about it?"

"The owner of the company, Mr. Perlmann, calls her his Fashion Brat; I'm sure you can figure out why. She likes to wear unisex, especially what I design. In fact, a lot of TOMBOY outfits are done with her in mind," Karen explained. "Now, you get to tell Dr. Stein about modeling, Savy."

"Um, I guess I like how I look, all dressed up," Savannah added self-consciously. "It's fun to have people looking at me."

"Well, you certainly look very fashionable." Stein still shot Karen a cold glance. "You know you don't have to be a girl to wear girls' clothes."

Savannah nodded. "I hate wearing other clothes. TOMBOY feels good, really nice, you know."

"Do you feel embarrassed if your male friends see you?" Stein asked, his tone mild.

"With other clothes, I do. Like this, it feels so right. Sometimes, it's creepy-good. Getting dressed up makes me go all shivery inside."

"It's embarrassing, but perfectly normal at your age." Stein smiled graciously. "I know it's difficult to talk about private things; however, everyone here is on your side."

Savannah twitched and glanced at Mom, a silent exchange directed at her grandfather.

Stein waited until Savannah met his eyes. "Would you be happier if it didn't get big?"

"If you have the first operation, it will still happen, only not nearly as often."

"If you really want to be a girl, and have the last operation, it can't happen. Is that what you want?" he inquired.

"Duh! I've been diagnosed with gender identity disorder." Savannah peeked at Grampa. "Psychologically, I am a girl."

"I sent you a copy of her doctor's letter," Karen interjected. "It's in your file."

"I read it; however, I didn't need to. Once I saw Savannah's photos, I could tell." Stein smiled at Savannah. "I can tell a pretty girl when I see one. There's just a little problem that keeps popping up."

"After the first surgery, you'll be well on your way. It'll only get big if you make it."

"Once you fill out in front, you'll be a very sexy girl. Are you excited about wearing a training bra?"

Coming from Savannah, it was a less-than-enthusiastic response. Karen glanced at Frank, not validating, displaying disbelief. He was curious, not as surprised as she was.

"Dr. Stein, our underwear collection is called TOMBOY WONDER." Karen noted his displeasure at her cutting in; it was hard to miss. "The product line doesn't include training bras. Tomboys are more interested in flattening; we make Lycra halter-tops for that. Perhaps a booster-bra would be a good addition for kids like Savannah."

"We'll fix that when you're 13." Stein winked. "Lots of natal girls have significant breast tissue at ten years old; however, I like my transgender-girls to take their time."

"My friend, Mickey, you did her operation; she has boobs and she's not even 11."

"Since Mickey's mom referred me to you, I expect you know she's a special case. Mickey started estrogen early for other reasons. Everything I've seen so far says you'll be on the slow track."

"Exactly. I need to know what is going through your head." Stein sipped iced tea. "The more open and honest you are about really private things, the easier it is for me to see if transitioning is right for you."

"We're going to have a test, Savannah." He sipped again, letting his words sink in. "The most private thing any boy or girl can do is masturbate. I want you to tell me how you do it."

"The tip, the glans as we doctors call it, corresponds to a girl's clitoris, did you know that?"

Stein smiled slightly. "Is there anywhere else you touch when you want to feel good."

Savannah glanced at Frank, not Mom. "Sometimes, I rub behind; inside, you know, where it feels weird."

"I know exactly." Stein leaned in and confided, "There's no need to be embarrassed. Most of my patients insert. So, you masturbate only by squeezing on the tip, right?"

Frank was certain his face was bright red. He watched flies on the glass, anything but look at Savannah. She nodded nervously.

"Now, I'm going to ask a very personal question. I don't want you getting all embarrassed."

"It's okay. I know it's difficult to say outright. I'm going to say some possibilities. When I say the right one, you nod. Okay?"

"Whatever you do, don't get embarrassed. Ready?" Stein nodded reassuringly. "Do you think about girls your age?"

"What if they're older? Like teenagers?" He smiled at her second twitch. "I doubt we're talking about an Oedipus complex, which leaves us with…" He winked. "I'll say it so you won't have to, okay. Do you like boys?"

"They're friends; I understand. How about a teenage boy?" He hesitated when Savannah shrugged. "Sometimes a young girl thinks about men, oftentimes a certain man in her life… Perhaps?"

"Good enough." Stein rubbed his chin, glancing at Frank. "You're almost nine and a half," he continued. Now, he sounded serious, his gaze fixed on Savannah. "That's very young for a decision affecting the rest of your life."

Visibly anxious, yet right off the bat, Savannah made good eye contact. "I want to transition more than anything, Sir."

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't." Stein leaned forward. "My question is, are you ready to start the process?"

"Older than me." Savannah giggled, glanced at Grampa, gave a nervous little shrug, and said, "I don't want to go through puberty, Dr. Stein."

"Uh uh." Savannah managed a weak smile. "I guess I'm used to doctors looking at me down there."

"Well, you have two people here who love you very much. I'm sure they've seen you naked before, so they know things are kind of messed up."

"If you want you can just open the front of your robe. However, given what's at stake, Savannah, I want you to be really brave, and do something for me."

"I'd like you to stand up and show us what doesn't belong on your body. You don't have to look at it, just point," Stein added reassuringly.

Sucking in both cheeks, and glancing between Karen and her grandfather, Savannah stood, unknotted the cords on the hospital gown, allowed the sides to apart, and pointed.

Stein reached across the bench, a lone finger stroking Savannah's bare thigh. "You're very beautiful. It would be a pity to waste what Nature has provided so generously."

Of course, unwanted boyhood wasn't what Dr. Stein meant. Savannah was without flaw, Not even a freckle dared to spoil perfection.

For a moment or two, Frank feasted his eyes on Savannah's nearly nude body. He quickly looked away, focusing on window spots until the urge to peek took over.

Still immature, Savannah was as much girl as boy, except for down there. What nature provided in the boyhood department was adequate, not overly generous. An inch and a bit (3 cm) in repose, it hadn't grown much, if at all, since toddlerhood.

It was then, with Savannah standing up, still pointing, exposed for the world to admire, that Stein finally turned his eagle eyes on Karen.

"This is as good a time as any. I need both parents to consent to Savannah having the initial operation."

He glanced at the open file, flipped to the next page, and looked directly at Frank. The last time he'd seen saw her naked, he hated the thought, maybe worst thing that could happen.

"Good enough." Stein hesitated as if Frank should pay particular attention. "Savannah's very worried about starting puberty. You attended her last examination, Mr. Martin. Is everything about the same?"

Forced to look again, a tremble in Frank's heart produced a heated flush and a sudden surge of blood. He leaned forward, inspecting Savannah's gorgeous body. A perfect little penis confronted him. Still limp, Savannah's boyhood was circumcised more than halfway down, a third of the length being pink inner skin preceding the glans. Cut so tightly, the tiny helmet was very exposed, nothing like his acorn-ringed glans.

"I think his… The balls are slightly bigger," Frank got out, on the edge of mumbling.

"They were one milliliter in December," Stein read from his notes. "Savannah, I'm going to examine the parts that don't belong on your body. Some of my patients look at their cellphones to take their minds off it. If you like, you can, too."

He reached out. Right in front of Frank, he fondled Savannah's little pink scrotum. Savannah didn't seem to care, even with both testicles caught between the doctor's thumb and first two fingers.

"Two milliliters on the right. The left is slightly smaller," Stein remarked offhandedly. "Savannah is still prepubescent, what we doctors call Tanner Stage One. However, for a natal boy, the first outward sign of approaching puberty is a slight increase in the size of his testicles."

"Getting ready to start is more accurate. Technically, a boy needs four milliliters to start puberty. I'll check today's bloodwork with her previous hormone levels to be certain. With your permission, I'd like to examine her further. It can be rather invasive."

Frank was about to say 'so is lopping off his genitals,' until Karen glared at him

"You have my permission to do whatever is necessary to stop her from maturing, Dr. Stein," Karen said, her eyes unwavering. "Including an orchiectomy."

Stein twitched. "According to the latest research, puberty blockers are the preferred treatment…"

"I don't want shots; not until I'm older, and then I don't want big boobs," Savannah interrupted.

The look on Stein's face was worth every second of the 12-hour drive from Elgin.

"Other than stopping puberty, we think blockers make transition riskier, Dr. Stein," Karen explained quietly.

"I'm also of the mind that removing a child's gonads is preferable," Stein allowed. "However, it's a big step, and irreversible, so we need to be absolutely certain."

All this time, he fondled Savannah's superfluous genitalia. His fingers invaded everywhere, prodding into scrotum, ascertaining internal structures, feeling around the penis, examining the shaft skin for elasticity. Fortunately, Savannah's penis stayed limp.

Stein looked up, seeming pleased. "Don't worry! By the time you're ready to start dating, you'll have the right body."

"From what we've read, there may be neurological development issues if blockers are used long term," Karen continued.

"Also, true. While the rest of the body keeps growing, certain parts don't grow. When the times comes for her to fully transition, there's less to work with."

"Sooner is better," Savannah said with an uneasy giggle and a quick glance at Mom. "I'll be all healed up when I go back to school, right Mom?"

Dr. Stein indicated for Savannah to sit on the bench while he turned pages in the file. "I see you've been examined by my ex-colleagues in Chicago. I can imagine how that went. Boston and Philadelphia, too? They do cutting-edge work with adolescents."

Savannah's head dropped at hearing 'Chicago.' Karen never talked about what the doctor said to her in private, only that it wasn't good.

"Are you saying Savannah should wait six more years, plus skin grafts, to have a gender identity with a marginal sex life?"

As soon as Frank finished, he asked himself whether he'd really said it. Dr. Stein stopped making notes in the file and turned his gaze on him. So did Karen. Only Savannah's head stayed down.

Unable to remain neutral, Frank grasped at straws. "Transitioning either way, at any age, the surgical outcomes mostly concern physical appearance, not performance."

"To a transgender child, aesthetics are crucial, Mr. Martin. It's appearing to be the wrong gender that bothers my clients most of all," Stein declared. "It becomes critical in certain cases. In Chicago, I attended several natal boys not much older than Savannah, who'd cut themselves. A friend's son tied fishing line around his private parts."

Karen blanched. Savannah blinked, determined lips pressed tightly together. Frank's stomach turned.

"Self-immolation is not common; however, the possibility is always there. With kids communicating on Internet, it's becoming problematic. It's the only justification for early transition accepted by the medical profession, and the courts."

Stein broke the silence. "Savannah, I want you to lie back and bring your knees up. I want to show you what surgery involves. Then, you can tell me if it's right for you."

Savannah scooted to the center of the bench, assuming a laid-back position, feet lifted up and placed near her bottom, a position all too familiar for a transgender child. Stein took a black Sharpie marker from his shirt pocket and leaned forward.

"As you know, Savannah, to transgender successfully we need to eliminate gonadal function prior to puberty. Do you understand what this means for you?"

"Ungendered is a good way of putting it. For the next six years, you'll be in transition. With your clothes on, everyone will think you're a girl. Undressed, you'll still look like a boy." He nodded down. "If it's done with hormone blockers…"

"I understand. There's an alternative, as I'm sure you know. For a natal male, the testicles are removed by bilateral orchiectomy with a single mid-line incision. You'll be medically castrated."

"The incision is closed with micro-sutures and Cyanoacrylate, surgical glue, so there's almost no scar. Later, your scrotum is converted into labia, which we call 'Stage Two.' However, most of my patients opt for vulva conversion of the scrotum in the initial operation."

"She's taking hormones to develop breasts and a female body type. Her penis will remain intact until Stage Four."

He drew a U-shaped line beginning near the junction of Savannah's perineum and thigh, to the underside of her penis, and ending on the opposite side. The 'U' included all of Savannah's scrotum.

"The scrotum is retracted to expose the testicles. A simple orchiectomy costs $2,000. It's included in the deposit you paid."

Stein looked down his nose. "I'm sure a vet charges a lot less. Our Stage One is a subcapsular orchiectomy, which is considerably more difficult. Some doctors will do a radical orchiectomy, removing the entire testicular structure though the inguinal canals."

He took a page from the file; a copy of Plate 1144 from Gray's Anatomy displaying the male genitalia in detail.

"It's a little old-fashioned, however, it serves the purpose. Plus no one can accuse me of providing pornography to a minor."

"I incise the parietal layer of the tunica vaginalis to expose the inner testicle. I peel away the epididymis, here and excise the testicular gland, leaving functional cremaster muscles. Along with the spermatic cords, they provide fleshy tissue for the labia. I could create the shape and texture with silicone implants, but without any sensitivity. Leaving it intact is worth the extra effort, and the cost."

Scared stiff, Frank reacted. "I didn't realize he'd have micro surgery to become a she. No wonder it costs so much."

Without showing any emotion, Stein looked at him. "You ever asked yourself why Savannah wants to be a girl, Mr. Martin?"

Frank tried to shrug it off. Stein was a urologist/physician, not a psychiatrist.

"Despite what you think, gender dysphoria is not a superficial mental disorder. It is a human anomaly with profound neurological differences behind it. Living in the wrong body causes extreme anxiety and social isolation. The good news is that so far Savannah has escaped the loneliness and harassment most T-G kids go through."

"I don't see the need for surgery when blockers can slow everything down," Frank injected.

"Puberty is only part of the problem, Mr. Martin. Her natal parts contradict her self-image. That's why 95 percent of my gonad-removal patients also have a vulva conversion," Stein said flatly.

"So, he's some kind of gender hybrid; neither boy nor girl at age nine. I keep asking myself why. Why not in a few years?"

"She, Dad. She despises her private parts. A vulva is a big step in addressing that."

Stein frowned. "Mr. Martin, if we're only concerned with the permanent loss of testicular function, it can be done by injection. There's some swelling immediately afterwards and a little discomfort, but that's all."

"Subcapsular orchiectomy removes the actual testicles; an injection does not. Savannah's fully aware that boys have testicles and girls do not. Even though injected testes are about half-to-two-thirds smaller, negative body image issues remain. Believe me when I say castration is essential for Savannah's mental well-being; now, or six years from now."

"I offer vulva conversion with castration for a reason," Stein continued. "Whether from an orchiectomy or injections, the scrotum eventually shrinks and flattens."

Stein closed his eyes momentarily. "Her body image is the issue, Mr. Martin, not your perception of what she should, or shouldn't look like. By using the currently available skin and the orchiectomy remnants, I can fabricate a very attractive vulva."

"And it's functional, too," Stein said. "Because the scrotum is developmentally homologous to the labia, it's ideal. The smooth skin and fatty tissue feel the same. The testicular remnants and scrotal skin make most of the outer labia, while the dartos fascia, that's muscular tissue under the skin, makes excellent labia minora. It's also very sensitive, so it'll be a continuing source of pleasure for her."

"So, $2,000 for no balls, $5,000 for parts left over, or $15,000; after which my grandson's scrotum becomes labia, which supposedly feels good."

"Stage Two works around it, Mr. Martin. If you opt for vulva conversion, secondary incisions are made here, and here, to complete the pudendal cleft."

"Using the excess scrotal skin, I extend the labia and create a small clitoral hood above the penis. Essentially, her entire external vulva is fabricated. It'll be quite sensitive, more than enough to make a young lady happy."

"Leaving Savannah's penis until Stage Four looks a little strange until you get used to it. However, at this point in her life, its role is minor. She just needs to be careful who sees her."

"Gender conformance is the issue." Stein regarded Savannah. "If she opts for injections or a simple orchiectomy, the scrotum will shrink."

"It's possible it will be small enough. However, her vulva will be minimal as a result."

"If for any reason she elects to remain male, there's usually sufficient skin for restorative surgery and testicular implants."

"All my patients tell me they're happier afterwards," Stein chuckled. "The frequency diminishes after orchiectomy, especially spontaneous erections."

"The sensitivity remains. The penis will still respond to physical stimulation. If it happens, it's best to ignore it."

Stein took a breath. "In Stage Four, the penis is removed and the urethra is relocated. The penile sheath creates her vagina. I use the glans to make her clitoris. So around 16, her masturbation becomes even more enjoyable."

"And if she has a sex partner before that, their pleasure comes from what, exactly?" Frank began, ready to go again.

"Until her vagina is functional, I recommend she focuses on her partner's body. If he desires access to her privates, I advise fondling and intercrural rubbing on her labia, or the scrotum if it's still intact."

"How long is Stage One recovery, Doctor?" Karen asked, anything to get off the topic.

"It isn't major surgery like Stage Four. A basic orchiectomy requires a day in bed. She'll need to be careful for a few days."

"I recommend a week in bed, and another week taking it easy. After two months, you can't tell there was an operation."

"She'll be sore for a few hours afterwards; nothing a kid's aspirin can't take care of. The same when the testes are swollen. There'll be almost no change in her normal activity."

"It's a crazy world when I can do the surgery, yet it's illegal for me to advise you." Stein had a nervous tic, enough to make his head shake. "Just between us, okay? Stage one, light play is fine. Once the sutures come out, back to normal."

"The stitches will be gone by the third week. After a month, if she needs to, she can masturbate by rubbing her labia. She should apply an antibacterial ointment beforehand."

"When she's ready, if her boyfriend wants penetrative intercourse, oral sex is the recommended way to go."

He lost it. "What about Stage Four, Doctor? There's a world of difference between pussy and penis skin turned inside out."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Martin. Savannah's sexual fulfillment, and her partner's, is a matter of great concern to me, and I'm sure to you and Karen, as well."

"Unfortunately, there are several problems with fabricating a working vagina, not the least being a lack of natural lubrication. As young as she is, the Cowper's Gland will never develop so there's no preseminal fluid." Stein cleared his throat. "Also a natal male has poor muscle control in the genital region compared to a female."

"As you're well aware, without testosterone, Savannah's penis won't develop. At 16, it won't be significantly larger than it is now. Without skin grafts, her vagina will be rather small. That's the tradeoff for terminating puberty before it starts."

"It would be longer if Savannah hadn't been circumcised. The high and tight style makes it worse. With regular stretching, her vagina will be big enough to insert a finger, definitely not a mature penis."

Stein gave Savannah a reassuring smile. "Personally, I'd recommend leaving her penis intact. I know that's not what you want to hear. Still, it's not the end of the world."

"Your rectum can provide a satisfying alternative. However, there's no guarantee."

"Most gender-change doctors won't tell you; in terms of sexual satisfaction, it's far better if she's gay," Stein said seriously.

"I'm surprised. She knows, but you don't know." Dr. Stein smiled at Savannah and took a breath. "Anal sex is satisfying, extremely satisfying with practice."

"Even now, Savannah's prostate gland, while a long way from maturity, is very sensitive." Stein hesitated. "I'm a little worried this conversation is confusing Savannah."

"Trust me, she knows almost everything there is to know about anal sex, Doctor," Karen interjected.

"I'd still like to go over the basics." Stein lifted another page from his file, holding it so Savannah could see. "This represents a boy a few years older than you, assuming everything stays as it is right now."

"A boy's penis and testicles grow bigger once he starts puberty," Stein pointed out.

Savannah exhaled. "It's why having the operation as soon as possible is so important."

"You'd like a boy to fall in love with you, though, wouldn't you? Maybe marry him, when you're older, of course."

"Well, the basic idea is right." Stein smiled encouragingly. "It's important you understand what's involved in transitioning sexually. Is it okay if we talk about it?"

"I don't know how much you've told your daughter. There's a big difference between theory and practice when it comes to anal intercourse, and orgasms, too, for that matter."

Karen promptly nodded. Stein looked to Savannah, who wasn't about to say anything. Even pointing at the picture was embarrassing.

"A lot of my patients are already having anally induced orgasms before they see me," he confided.

"She's a very lucky girl in that respect. Would you like to have one? Just to see what it's like."

Frank exhaled. "Do you really have to do this? Can't we just assume it feels good, or whatever, and move on?"

"The ball's in your court, Mr. Martin, whether you like it or not. I require both parents to agree to anything involving the child."

Frank almost said no. Only Savannah's desperate look stopped him. "Please," he said simply.

Stein stood. "Savannah, if you want to do this, you'll need to remove the gown and get on the bench. You'll probably want to be facing the window so you don't get embarrassed."

He walked to his desk, took something from the drawer, pulled on a pair of blue neoprene gloves, and returned. Savannah was already naked.

She got into position, long golden curls flopping on the padded bench. Stein sat on the edge of his chair, each hand cupping a pale little buttock, both thumbs pressing into Savannah's crack.

Stein seemed distracted as he squeezed a long bead of glistening KY lubricant along his first finger and smeared it over thin, elastic neoprene. Then, with first and middle fingers side by side, he squeezed out a big glob across both fingertips. With his other hand, prizing Savannah's plump little buttocks apart, he deposited the shiny blob directly on target.

Stein gave a funny little giggle, his fingers rubbing ever so slightly. When Frank finally glanced up, Karen was staring, watching the doctor push KY jelly into Savannah. It didn't seem to bother either of them, not at all. Now, that was creepy.

With his fingers apart, he began to massage Savannah's little anus, stretching the rim one way, and then the other. He wasn't trying to penetrate, yet any way that Frank looked at it, the doctor was molesting his grandchild.

"Nice and flexible," Stein murmured. He glanced up abruptly, immediately aware of Frank's unwavering gaze. "You can stay or leave, Mr. Martin. It's entirely up to you."

Frank nodded, reluctantly telling himself that if Savannah didn't mind, why should he. He would've intervened otherwise.

"Her opening's very small; inside will be too, I expect." Stein wriggled his finger to demonstrate. "The good news is flexibility is as important as size at her age."

"At her age, three centimeters dilation is adequate for sex play. That's an inch and a quarter, more than enough for fingers to explore. Of course, the average adult penis is thicker, however foreplay will stretch it."

"Four centimeters is typical when they're sexually active. With four, there's room to move around, really give the rectum a workout," Stein said, suddenly very unprofessional. "Right now, it's a major stretch to get near two centimeters. She's got a long way to go."

To prove it, he widened the gap, making the skin taut. Skin ribbons replaced pucker until Frank saw crimson. There was a dark void farther inside Savannah.

"Savannah, I'm going to insert my finger into your bottom. You'll feel it enter your anus. Right away, I want you to take a deep breath and relax. Don't panic if you feel a little strange. Just relax. Don't squeeze and it'll slide right up. If you try really hard, you can control the muscles inside you."

"That's my fingertip. It's barely going in. I want you to focus on the sensation and try to relax."

Frank placed his hand on top of Savannah's hand, his thumb stroking gently, his little finger playing tag with the delicate wrist bracelet.

"I'm going to move my finger around. I want you to squeeze on it and move your bottom around to make it to feel good. Yes, like that."

From where Frank sat, all he could see was Stein's wrist rotating, his fist pressed into Savannah's crack. No doubt, his finger was torqueing inside Savannah. Every few seconds Savannah whimpered softly, pushing back, little hips wriggling constantly. One thing was certain; she was utterly content.

Stein had a self-assured smile. "She's more than sensitive enough. With care and practice, she'll have anal orgasms."

"It's a good start, Karen. The more important issue is whether she's anally receptive."

"Being penetrated requires not only being big enough; she needs a strong desire to have her partner inside her. Not everyone enjoys it." Stein chuckled. "Some transgendered girls resist anal sex, or tolerate it. Still, I'm always surprised how many think it's the best thing ever invented."

He patted Savannah's shoulder with his free hand, in no hurry to pull out his finger. "I know. She calls it 'fireworks going off.'"

The same was true for Savannah, who seemed incapable of not twitching erratically. Occasionally, something would make her shudder. The dazed look on her face bothered Frank until he realized. It was bliss, plain and simple.

From that simple act of pleasuring, it struck Frank Martin that Dr. Stein was actually very supportive, a far cry from the kind of fake sympathy he'd witnessed from other doctors. It was more than merely reassuring a young patient, more than understanding the 'problem', far more than compassion. Dr. Albert Stein cared, really cared about Savannah's happiness.

Karen posed the question Frank wanted to ask, but dared not for fear of the answer.

"She's naturally submissive, so the psychological barrier isn't there. Other than that, we won't know until it actually happens." However, Stein glanced at Frank as if he already knew. "I suspect in Savannah's case, it'll depend on who does it."

Stein wriggled his finger, pushing in all the way. Savannah twitched and appeared to push back. Stein nipped the other glove with his teeth, and ripped it off with a snap.

"After reading her essay, I'm certain her sexual orientation will be to older males."

Taken aback, Frank gaped as Stein reached underneath Savannah, grasping shameful boyhood. Highly aroused, it was a stubby bone sheathed in tightly stretched skin.

"Now, now, Savannah. I want you to relax. It's not unusual, Mr. Martin. An older partner complicates her situation. It doesn't change it," Stein added remotely.

Stein also frowned at him, now fondly stroking Savannah's back with his other hand, trailing fingertips down to the start of her rump.

"You want to know what I think? Savannah is a great kid who's a little mixed up," Frank challenged. He had to resist, for both their sakes.

"It takes more than modeling unisex clothes to mean she's queer for men, Karen."

Stein began poking around inside Savannah, exciting something because she suddenly shuddered and gasped.

"The word is gay, Dad. If you must know, the doctor in Chicago gave her some kind of psych test. He's 100-percent certain she's gay."

"An essay and a test; that's proof, right there!" Frank grumped, hoping Savannah would poop on the doctor.

Karen rolled her eyes. "Are you that blind? She's dressed to the nines whenever you come to visit."

Perhaps Savannah could see something funny about the situation, even if her grandfather couldn't. Still on her hands and knees, with Stein's index finger jammed up her ass, she giggled strangely.

Savannah was sneaking peeks at her grandfather, not even a little bit embarrassed. Frank didn't know what to say. The very thing that he'd been trying to avoid was now out in the open; however, Karen seemed totally unaware, or didn't care.

Stein deftly extracted his slippery finger, yanked off his neoprene glove, and twisted it into a misshapen ball.

"The good news is she's very responsive to stimulation. I could feel her straining down, the usual trembles, a couple of initial spasms. Those are lead-up signs. I'm certain she'd orgasm if I kept on." He hesitated, a quick glance at Frank. "She's also not as tight as I expected; which leads me to the next question. Does Savannah have a boyfriend?"

"He means someone older than you, Silly. A lot older than Raoul," she added, anticipating.

"This is not about prying into her private life; however, with precocious gender dysphoria, anal sex often precipitates identity issues."

Dr. Stein glanced at Savannah. She abruptly shook her head. Frank kept his head down, afraid he'd blush if he as much as breathed.

Stein rubbed his forehead. "I apologize, but I have to ask. I never undertake transitioning unless I'm absolutely certain the patient will lead a full and satisfying sexual life afterwards."

Finally, Frank looked Stein in the eye. "What exactly, are you looking for with Savannah?"

"I need to know the operation is right for her, Mr. Martin. That means she's had anal sex often enough to be fully orgasmic, climaxing often and without difficulty."

"I should think the how is obvious." Stein paused. "Unless she's already sexually active, it'll take time. The more preparation the better; then, some practice to develop skill. After that…"

"I never said any of this. There's a reason why they say three times proves it. Half a dozen would be reassuring, plus it shows her partner's commitment."

"She'll need an understanding partner to get to where she needs to be. Maybe there's a gay man in the family. If not, perhaps you have a close friend who is. It won't be easy; most gay men won't touch kids."

"Karen, it's better if I don't know who, or what happens beyond this point. What you and Savannah do when you leave here is not my business. However, I will say my gardener has a thing for boys, mostly maricóns from the beaches. He may have the patience and care to work with her until the pain goes away."

"I agree. Far better, you find someone you can trust, a business associate who knows and understands, perhaps?"

"I understand." She took a deep breath. "Where does this leave Savannah's operation, Dr. Stein?"

"She's as stable as any child her age. However, because of her age, I also have reservations. The good news is the right experience will take care of it. Getting it is entirely up to you. Her T-G Kit will have what she needs to start preparing. The stretching process is key."

"Actually, T-G stands for transgender girl, like you. While there are lots of tomboys, we don't see many transgender boys. They use a T-B Kit." Stein turned to Karen. "Patience is key. Even if she starts today, it might take two weeks before she's ready. Once she is, the rest can occur fairly quickly. A day or two at most."

"Most of my young patients are in the same situation. It's one of the reasons why we have an app for both iPhone and Android devices."

"And so do I," Stein said jovially. "Just download the app from our website and start using it. It's like an owner's manual; plus you can text other kids who are like you. It also allows us to follow your progress."

"The best thing you can do to help Savannah is support her, Mr. Martin." Stein regarded him with eyes narrowed. "It's important to follow the directions closely. Very closely."

"Once she's had the necessary experience, we can proceed with the orchiectomy, with or without a vulva conversion. I know you're all disappointed. I'm sorry."

"Given the circumstances, 20 days is a very tight schedule. More likely, it'll be a few months before I see her again. If you like, I can provide a GnRH-analogue to suppress puberty."

"In that case, she can use a nasal spray. I have samples so there's no charge. One squirt twice a day will stop things from progressing. Still, email me right away if you notice her testes getting bigger."

Who would've thought June 4, 2018, would be such a long day? Time to take a break! Get some popcorn! Whack the weenie! We will return toJune 4th shortly. But first, Savannah needs a barf.

< < < Mommy, can Grampa barf me?> > >

It had been a very long day for Frank Martin; an hour's drive from his ranch to Tucson, two hours in the terminal, an eight-hour flight to JFK, New York via Atlanta with a three-hour time difference, and a hectic taxi ride into Manhattan. He finally called Karen on his cellphone and arranged to meet her at the corner of 8th Avenue and 38th Street – on his last visit, he'd gotten lost trying to find her building.

Of course, he knew things would be hectic – he was in New York for Spring Fashion Week. He even had a front-row seat for Kids Rock, next to Eric Perlmann. It was Karen's first professional showing, the first critical evaluation of market potential for her Savannah Collection. She didn't know of any designers who named an entire collection after a model.

That afternoon, and into the evening, while Karen made final alterations on Savannah's outfits, Frank entertained Savannah with dominoes, tall tales, and grandpa-pony rides. Savannah was out of school until Thursday, scheduled to model five different outfits in front of hundreds of buyers and industry leaders. Between try-ons, Savannah wore a flamboyant strawberry-camouflaged jumpsuit, easy on, easy off.

Savannah was still wearing the jumpsuit when Karen called 'bath time.'

"Mommy, can Grampa barf me?"

Not wanting to disappoint Savannah, Frank Martin glanced at Karen. He barely shook his head, yet he hoped she would notice. Not that he didn't enjoy bath time; it was at the top of his favorite things to do; however, he was exhausted.

Karen merely inclined her head, a kind of 'please yourself, but you'll disappoint her' look.

"How about you 'barf' yourself tonight, and I 'barf' you tomorrow night?" Frank suggested.

After getting up at 5:00 am, the last thing he wanted was to play bath games. As much as he loved Savannah, a cold beer sounded better.

Savannah glared, hand on hip, as petulant as any kid spoiled rotten. "Now, Grampa! Teddy D. Bear wants you to barf him."

Karen raised an eyebrow.

Frank chuckled. "I think the teddy bear might need tickling." He growled and advanced toward Savannah, who promptly backed up to Mom.

Tired from weeks of getting ready for the show, and several days of very little sleep, Karen finally intervened.

"Please, Dad. A few minutes in the tub, that's all. She's going to my hairdresser tomorrow morning, so just soap, rinse, and dry off. I'll run downstairs and pick up dinner."

Dinner was already ordered; Chinese take-out in little cardboard boxes from Chef Fu on the opposite corner – they were the only vegetarian-friendly restaurant within walking distance.

"Okay, Teddy D. Bear. Barf time. Let's go."

It was a ploy. Frank scooped up Savannah, smooched her forehead, and play-whacked her butt before putting her down again.

Savannah grabbed his hand. "Can we play Rubber Ducky, too, Grampa?"

Frank allowed Savannah to drag him down five feet of hallway. One bedroom, one bathroom, and not much else; for $4,000 per month the apartment was tiny. He turned on the tap, adjusted the temperature, and half-filled the tub while Savannah located bath toys. He was certain he could smell General Tso's chicken and fried chili beef. When he turned around to see if Karen was back, he heard a thump in the bedroom. He went to investigate.

Savannah was standing on the bed in front of the mirror, the strawberry-camouflaged jumpsuit and pastel-purple bikini briefs pitched on the pillows.

"What do you think you're doing?" Frank muttered, suddenly very conscious that Savannah didn't have any clothes on.

Just a thin creamy cord around Savannah's middle, pulled down so low it seemed caught on little bare butt. From behind, perfect pale globes stole Frank's breath. The cord blended in so well that he had to look twice to see the cord actually dipped into her butt-crack. It made his heart rate jump a notch.

"Mommy likes me to undress in the bedroom so I don't get my clothes get wet," Savannah explained, innocently wriggling a very slender pelvis.

Frank wasn't about to say what he was thinking.

Savannah was way too young to be doing a striptease, because that's what it looked like as she pirouetted on tangled bedsheets. She stopped in a Fashion Brat pose, hands on hips, left leg cranked, right leg stretched out, hips slanted seductively.

Presented like that, Frank gaped from the doorway. An awful moment later, he realized there was nothing down there. Everything gone. Shock, panic, anger exploded.

"What the fuck!" It was fortuitous that Frank didn't shout.

"You said a bad word, Grampa."

Trembling, not daring to ask, unable to breathe, Frank crossed the bedroom. His only thought was 'oh my God! Karen's crazy.'

Even though Karen had mentioned 'sex change' not once, but several times on his last visit, insanity was the only explanation. Not logical, not normal, yet 'everything gone' was in the realm of possibility because of Karen's conviction; Savannah knew what was best for Savannah.

He slumped on the unmade bed, gulping back bile.

"Jesus! How could she?" With tears in his eyes and shaking his head, he made himself look at what was no longer there.

Savannah wasn't completely naked. There was something almost undetectable from where he sat at the end of the bed. It wasn't a bikini, or a G-string. It was cream-colored, like flesh; skintight because it flattened everything. It almost hid what made Savannah a boy.

"That's new," Frank finally got out.

"Mommy made it 'specially for the show," Savannah said proudly. "It's a girl-thong, so I look right."

"Right," Frank murmured, leaning closer. "You really look like a girl," came out in a moment of honesty.

"I am a girl, Grampa. I got a boy thing by mistake."

Up close, Frank could just make out the shape of Savannah's 'boy-thing' under a small concave-tapering triangle. A very-compressed penis pointed down, longer and thinner than normal. The glans was low-down between Savannah's slender thighs. He could just see the pinkish tip sticking out of a tiny elastic hole, so Savannah could pee sitting down.

"Will you take it off, Grampa?"

Frank wasn't sure where or how to begin; all he knew was he needed to remove it if he wanted to get his 'boy' back. When he tugged on the waist cord, it seemed too tight to pull off. He checked both front and back; there was no clasp or drawstring to mar the sleek formfitting appearance.

Savannah giggled at Grampa's confusion and took over, both little thumbs squeezing between bare skin and cord, peeling it down over plump little buttocks. Once the back was down far enough to relieve the tension, Savannah did the same on the front, stopping only to pull the end of her penis out of the pee-hole.

"There's my boy," Frank murmured, staring at ruddy immature genitals.

He pulled the tiny girl-thong all the way to Savannah's feet. It was tiny, as light as the proverbial feather, elastic where it needed to be, unyielding where it covered 'boy-things.'

Within seconds, Savannah was off the bed and doing a birthday-suit fashion show in front of the bay window. Always striking; in fact, gorgeous. Not like some kids who walked the fashion show runways. The current trend in child models was politically correct 'ordinary'; overweight, grungy mouse hair, insipid complexions, misaligned teeth, boring eyes.

Frank stared for a minute, maybe longer, maybe much longer. It struck him that nature had finally achieved perfection.

"You're a special teddy bear, very special," he whispered, mostly to himself.

"I still shouldn't have a penis, Grampa."

Frank snapped out of it. "Huh?"

"I should have a vagina like Mommy, only nature made a mistake and gave me a penis."

"I think you have a very nice penis."

"It's busted, but; see, Grampa."

It was hard to ignore two precious very-stiff inches (5 cm), the almost-average erection for a seven-year-old, yet on Savannah's little body it looked generous.

"It looks like it works just fine."

"It's all swelled up."

"The last time I gave you a bath, it got hard, remember? It's normal, Honey."

Frank feasted on the little bare body, telling himself he should keep his opinions to himself. It certainly wasn't what he'd agreed to with Karen. He'd promised to ignore, if he couldn't support her.

"I don't want a penis."

"I have a penis, Sanny, a fairly big one, actually," Frank announced proudly before he realized he sounded like some kind of subway pedophile.

"Well, duh. You're all growed up, Grampa."

"Maybe you should wait until you grow a bit more?"

"Mickey's not growed up."

"Mickey?"

After visiting Disneyworld for Savannah's sixth birthday, Frank still expected something about a mouse, or even a duck. However, this 'Mickey' was coming up on ten. She used the same gender-neutral bathroom at school as Savannah.

"This summer, she went on a plane to get her vagina."

"How do you know?" Frank asked, telling himself it was mostly to divert Savannah from giving a bare-butt fashion show to 39th Street.

"Because I saw it."

Savannah turned away from the window and jabbed her thumb into her puffy little scrotum.

"I hate this. I want it to go away so I can be a normal girl."

"Um, Sanny, I understand, really I do; only I don't know what to tell you. You make an awesome boy. However, you can't just switch from being a boy to a girl."

"Mommy says I can have a vagina when I'm older, if I wanna."

"Well, having a penis is pretty cool." Frank smirked. "You can pee standing up."

"Why would you wanna do that?"

Frank caught himself and stayed with the party line. "No reason." Curiosity got the better of him. "Does Mickey still have a penis?"

"Uh huh. Now, it's flat underneath."

"Flat how!"

"She has a vulva like Mommy, only tiny." Arms folded, Savannah stared at Grampa. "I'm not going to tell you anymore unless you barf me, Grampa."

I'm glad you made it back! NOW, BACK TO JUNE 4th. Sadly, while you were wanking, the appointment continued, blood tests mostly. After saying goodbye to Dr. Stein, they picked up Savannah's T-G Kit, paid the bill, and headed out the door.

< < < Savannah is still nine years, five months, and seven days old > > >

The walk from the clinic back to the Jeep took forever. No one wanted to get in the car and drive off. Instead, Savannah, Mom, and Grampa wandered through the garden. Frank detoured off the main path, and stopped to watch the gardener and his young assistant pruning stunted grape vines. The assistant, a boy about 12, picked up, and did minor repairs on the two-wire trellis. Like the gardener, he was typical of the region, stocky, unappealing features, black shiny hair, and olive skin. He looked up and leered at Savannah, keeping his back to the gardener.

Fit to be tied; he hadn't said a word since leaving the doctor's office. Seeing the gardener's boy smirk knowingly at Savannah was the last straw. If that wasn't enough, the boy said something in Spanish, not under his breath, loud enough to be heard. It was obvious he knew what went on in the clinic.

"They'd be better off digging weeds," Karen muttered, picking her way through a wildflower garden.

Frustrated, Savannah sat on a low wall, iPhone out, picking letters with a single finger in slow motion, kicking her sneakers together. Frank wandered over. She looked up and went back to typing. He sat on the wall beside her and put his arm around her.

Karen came over, took her hand, and tugged to get her up and walking. They made slow progress toward the Jeep.

"Why'd Grampa have to go and ruin everything?" Savannah wasn't about to talk to him, maybe never again.

"Savy, Sweetie, Grampa didn't ruin anything. He's very worried about you, so he asked questions, that's all."

Savannah gave her mother a grim look, ignoring him on her other side. "It was going great until he made Dr. Stein mad."

"If I was out of line, it was only because I love you," Frank said. "It needed to be said. There's too much at stake."

Karen waited until she calmed down. "Savannah, he wants you to be happy; we both do. Looking right is very important; however, at your age, you don't realize other things can be just as important."

As much as Frank wanted to hear about Mickey, he picked up the pace. He needed to let off steam before he exploded. Hearing the Mexican kid call Savannah 'el chico femenino' (female boy) was the last straw.

Karen didn't expect that. After a few moments, she shook her head. "Savy, all I know is her mom told me her brother is gay."

There were tears in Savannah's eyes the whole way back to the car. After slamming the car door, she stretched out on the back seat, pulled the alpaca blanket over herself and sulked, completely oblivious to the temperature. It was hot enough to broil rib-eye steaks; too hot to play games on her iPhone.

Frank cranked the engine, lowered the car windows, and adjusted the air vents for maximum flow until the air-conditioning caught up.

"You picked up a nice bag and some nasal spray for two grand, though," Frank said.

Frank shoved the bag from the console back between the front seats, where Savannah could reach it.

The bag was Stein's T-G Kit, a parting gift packed full of his so-called 'essentials for transitioning.' It was Mexican art turned into craft, a combination backpack and mini-duffel, natural embossed cowhide with colorful geometric embroidery and a plaited drawstring with crimson tassels on the ends. It was the sort of bag fashionista Hispanic women and gay boys carried. Savannah adored it the moment she saw it. Now, she dared not touch it.

Karen called 'seat belt.' The brat in the back mumbled 'on,' stretched her legs, yawned, and defiantly folded her arms. She looked out the window one last time as the Jeep pulled away from Dr. Stein's clinic.

Savannah and Mom sank into a funk before Frank turned onto the road. With the car windows closed and the A/C at full bore, it was almost bearable except for the moody silence. They skipped Topolobampo; no one wanted to stay at the marina hotel.

Frank settled in for a long drive through the night. No one said a word the entire way back to Los Mochis; then, no more than monosyllables until they came to El Carizo. Frank pointed out Mango Land. It seemed like six days, not six hours since they'd stopped there. Karen peered over her seat back to see if Savannah was awake.

"Is she awake?" Frank asked, dreading the conversation he'd have to have with Savannah.

"Down for the count. You're usually full of good advice, Dad," she said quietly. "I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts."

"I think he has Sanny's best interests at heart. If you exclude cutting off the little brat's balls."

"Dad." She smiled and shook her head. "A long time ago I realized it wasn't that big a loss."

"I worry about it when she gets down in the dumps about it. A couple of times I didn't go to work because I was afraid she'll skip school."

"Thirty-five thousand dollars, every year until she's 16. That's a quarter of a million dollars, Dad."

With nothing to say, Frank shut up. Another ten miles of silence passed until he started to think about stopping for food.

"Get him laid, a-s-a-p." He saw her scowl in his peripheral vision. "The good news is we don't have to worry about her having a baby, just chronic constipation."

She quickly looked over her seat again. Frank adjusted the rear vision mirror. Dead to the world, Savannah was fair game.

"Midtown Montessori goes to grade six. Somehow, I don't think Dr. Stein has a 12-year-old in mind."

"I don't know. Some 12-year-old boys can be well-endowed. Not huge, but big enough. You'd have to supervise, Karen. Make sure Johnny's part a goes in Savannah's part b."

"Savannah's friends are all gay, Dad. I'm pretty sure they know where things go."

"Including?" Frank jerked his thumb over his shoulder, primarily to cover his tracks.

"She was interested in the mechanics; make that very interested." Karen hesitated. "We need to find someone older."

"That 'we' would be you. No way am I finding someone to take my nine-year-old grandchild's virginity."

"Not funny. Ask Bruce to do it," Frank suggested, part joking, mostly sniping. "You have until June 24th. With advance notice, he can probably work it into his schedule."

"Is it? He saw Savannah naked last Thursday and didn't seem to have a problem with it."

Karen simmered. "It wasn't like that, Dad. We needed to switch clothes in a hurry. He had only a few minutes of light left."

"It was too good to miss. You had to be there, Dad. Savannah was beautiful, truly gorgeous."

It wasn't just the usual moisturizer, foundation, blush, and eye shadow. Karen had gone the extra distance to beautify what was already gorgeous.

"Bruce wanted her more coquettish. I used lipstick to emphasize her lips. She looked right, innocent and impassioned, Dad."

"She looked like a hussy. I would've stopped it, had I known it was going to happen."

Karen took one look at him and exhaled loudly. "El Groucho's worried about a few harmless photos. Yes, she's nude, but you can't see anything."

"Why not Bruce?" Frank asked testily, even though he knew the answer. "He's young, good looking, and gay as a goose."

"He's the wrong type, Dad. André Gide said there are three, pederasts, sodomites, and inverts. Savannah's an invert."

"Bruce is a sodomite. That leaves the pederast to take care of Sanny," she finished.

"You think Randal likes effeminate boys?" Frank heard her inhale. "Transgendered, is that better?"

"Randal has AIDS?" It explained why Randal was racing through life trying to find himself.

"Bruce says he's promiscuous. He's also indiscreet about it. Even if he always uses a condom, he's the last person I want in bed with my kid. He's also a size queen, if you haven't noticed."

"He's probably too busy making money; but if he can fit it in…" Frank let it hang for a few seconds. "He's Jewish, so he'll be circumcised, but on the down side, he's hairy."

"Eric collects photos," Karen said, no longer trying to sound offhand. "He's always wanted shots of Savannah bare, however, that's as far as it goes; trust me."

"There you go; he's a pedophile. Creepy, but the next best thing to a pederast. He can take Savannah to San Francisco, better yet Key West. I think doing it in style is important for the first time."

"It'll be a great career move," Frank powered on. "Think about it. If it works out in Key West, you and Savannah can move into his penthouse. Who's to know?"

"If you don't want to move in, you can send Savannah to his place for the weekend. Hanky panky on Friday and Saturday so the poor kid has Sunday to recover."

Karen ignored him. "The other possibility is Raoul Ramírez. The TOMBOYpost model," she added in case Frank had forgotten.

"I'd rather see her with a 13-year-old Cuban maricón than Perlmann," Karen said icily.

The sheer absurdity of the situation finally caught up with them. They laughed until a sleepy little voice from the back seat asked, 'What's up with you guys?'

"He not's very manly." Savannah hesitated. "If it meant I would have the operation, I guess."

"I won't hear of anything so stupid," Frank exploded. "No one you've mentioned could possibly give Savannah anything that's more than physical satisfaction, if that."

Frank took his eyes off the road long enough to look in the rear vision mirror. Savannah wiped away tears, and then sniffled.

"Personally, I think he's way too young to make the decision. However, I also see how determined he is, you both are."

"You want my opinion? Raoul will be lucky to get it up long enough to get it in. Perlmann will get it done. He'll fuck Savannah in the butt until he, she, orgasms, but that's all. You need someone who cares enough about him to make love to him."

"You're worried about Randal not being discreet; how about patient and careful enough not to hurt him? This needs painstaking care, and lots of love. No one loves him like I do."

"Let me finish, please. This isn't how it's supposed to be. You'll probably hate me, yet it needs to be said. I really do love him, Karen. I love him enough to make love to him. So there, goddamm it!"

"I know it's not supposed to be like this, not with my own grandkid. I can't help it."

"I already know, Dad! She loves you the same way, only you've been too bind to see it, Dad. It's why she cuddles with you." Her voice cracked. "She's always kissing on you. At home, it's always Grampa this and Grampa that. It's been obvious for a long time," she added, much louder.

"Your only alternative is Stein's gardener," Frank joked. "Savannah could lose his virginity and learn Spanish."

Instead of smiling, Karen grasped Frank's arm. "I'll think about it on one condition, Dad. From now on it's she; not he. And if I do agree, you never ever treat her as a boy."

They stopped for dinner at Navojoa, Sonora, a little seafood restaurant around the corner from the main street, Calle General Pesqueira. Fast service, not much in salad, but fantastic shrimp dishes. It was taverna-style with a brick-paved floor, painted metal roof, and clunky seats made out of logs. After a prolonged bathroom trip for Savannah and Mom, they were back at the Jeep at ten minutes of nine.

"We could get a room here," Frank suggested, looking further up the street. There were several neon 'hotel' signs.

With a strange smile at Savannah, Karen snatched the car keys from his hand. She was seated in the driver's seat before Frank realized he was being hugged from behind, two slender arms wrapped very tightly around his grilled-shrimp-filled belly.

Savannah released him, beaming up, her eyes big and bright, wide-awake and ready to play.

Savannah grinned under the streetlights, took Frank's hand, and pulled him to the rear door.

With no warning, she stepped closer, now squeezing Frank's hand, their bodies so close that he worried someone would see them.

"Really good, or just okay good?" he whispered back, never more aware of her warm little body wriggling against him.

Said like that, who could say no? Frank got in the car. Right away, Savannah cuddled up beside him, alpaca blanket over both of them. He settled back as Karen pulled onto the street, heading north, not caring that hotels with vacancy signs passed by. Soon, the road was dead straight. It went on for mile after mile.

Frank snapped back to consciousness when Savannah's little hand cupped his balls. He put his hand on top of hers, getting no reaction.

Suddenly, little fingers began rhythmically digging into the crotch of his jeans. A resolute little thumb investigated what was what, initially rubbing, then with thumbnail scratching until she was certain what was under the denim. What seemed like a few seconds raced by as Savannah considered her next move. She started again, exchanging a hot little handful for her thumb and index finger, pinching, kneading, and outright squishing the glans, Savannah-style masturbating of the most sensitive part of her grampa's penis.

In just a few seconds, Frank was beyond stopping. Not ready to encourage her, he closed his eyes, moved his hand to her upper thigh, and allowed it to happen. He took deep long breaths, nuzzling long curly hair, drunk on lavender-fresh kid-scent and two glasses of Corona Light.

Savannah stopped squishing when Frank's penis was rock hard. Somehow, she found enough room to jam her index finger under the glans. Still separated by denim and silky shorts, she pushed down with her thumb, as if torturing his frenulum would stop the constant drool of preseminal fluid from seeping into his boxers.

Incestuous lust roared; 'no scruple clouded his pleasure and no remorse followed it.' Nothing could stop him, not even Karen slowing down to a crawl through a roadwork zone. He cautiously replaced his hand on Savannah's sweaty little hand. He felt her tremble against him, hot and excited.

"Teddy bear wants bare," Savannah murmured, the side of her face tucked into Frank's arm, hot moist lips against his chest.

Little by little, Frank guided her fingers to unclasp his cowboy belt buckle. In the darkness, Savannah's head skewed around and she grinned up at him, just enough light inside the car to enjoy her long hair cascading over his middle. The last thing Frank expected to see was Savannah licking her luscious bee-stung lips with the tip of her oh-so-sexy tongue, just like a little Mexican whore getting ready to suck.

After a minute of trying to unfasten the copper button on her grandfather's jeans, Savannah flicked his fingers impatiently. Apparently, he had to do it. However, Savannah opened the zipper all by herself, ever so carefully inching it down, while Frank entertained himself by caressing her hair. He stopped when hot little fingers crept onto his boxers, exploring faux-silk, finding damp spots. She looked up again, smirking, not needing to ask if it was pee.

Shortly, those same determined little fingers invaded Frank's boxers, squirming through the fly, making a space to play. Satisfied, she squeezed up against him, tugging his jeans and boxers out of the way, anxious to explore bare skin without clothing in the way. Those four little fingers and thumb were like curious mice, never still. All too soon, her thumb and index finger settled over his glans, resuming torment with every tenuous touch, sending tingles racing down Frank's very-stiff throbbing cock.

"Icky stuff," Savannah whispered, not ready to admit she loved playing with the slippery stuff that oozed out.

Again and again, the tip of her littlest finger toyed with Frank's meatus. If it was dry, her other fingers took over, squishing his swollen glans, extracting beads of fluid, which she then rubbed around and around until slippery turned sticky. Long minutes at a time, no frantic rush to finish, infinite delight verging on irritation. With Savannah, it paid to be patient, very patient.

Frank was about to doze off when Savannah changed the rules. Her hand took hold of his and pushed it down to her middle. If that wasn't clear enough, she patted his hand to show he had her permission.

"Finally, I get to play with my teddy bear," he whispered, now lovingly cupping the little bulge.

His hand didn't stay long, just enough to feel a stiff stubby penis, and playfully squeeze both little peanuts. By moving his hand slightly higher, he slipped his fingers between her slender bare belly and loose TOMBOY raNGe jeans. Bikini briefs, he simply poked down and out of the way.

With his thumb squashing the plump little glans against the side of his index finger, he worked from the top down, squeezing as hard as he could. It wasn't the first time he worried that he'd burst a blood vessel. The important thing was giving Savannah what she wanted more than anything else. He felt her quiver against him, her thighs twitching, jaws clamping together. Forcing the blood out had to hurt like the dickens. However, nine-year-old girls didn't have erections.

She must've heard Savannah's whimper – her gender identity came with pain, not ecstasy.

"I've been thinking about what to do, Dad. Your solution is really the only one. You and Savannah need to spend time together," she said very quietly.

Satisfied until the next unwanted erection presented itself, Savannah grasped Frank's penis about halfway down, slowly sliding up and down. A half-dozen strokes later, her thumb began gently caressing the exposed knob. After a few moments, she squeezed the glans again, now scraping with her thumbnail, smearing his juice onto the palm of her hand.

"I have no idea what to do," Frank muttered, not regretting his offer, just very embarrassed.

Hidden under the alpaca blanket, Savannah finally nudged his hand away from her now-very-limp penis. Too much pressure, Frank presumed, yet he soon realized why. She was actually holding onto boyhood, smearing his juice on her 'boy-thing.' That was a first!

"For one thing, I know she's safe with you. You'll be caring and compassionate at the most important time of her life. Any way you look at it, it's win-win."

Suddenly, Frank wasn't sure where he was going with it. If he didn't do it, there'd be no operation. Maybe, he should backtrack a bit and work up to 'no', or say 'no' outright and be done with it. All Savannah had to do was give the slightest sign, or say the wrong word. Even a teensy rumor, and their lives were ruined.

Fortunately, Karen didn't allow him to finish. "You'll do both of us a big favor, Dad. Except for a photo shoot with Raoul, and a fashion show in Los Angeles, Savannah can spend June with you. Dr. Stein can do the operation on schedule."

She smiled, on the verge of laughing. "I don't want to know what happens; just make it happen as soon as possible."

"July 5th onwards is packed. She has the Home on the raNGe Extravaganza in Denver, the Roundup Show in Albuquerque, a photo shoot with Raoul in Naples, Florida; and Eric wants both of them in New York for a preview of TOMBOY Rock."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, you're wasting valuable time, Dad."

Before Frank could say a word, Savannah giggled. "Grampa, stop talking and tickle Teddy."

Frank took the dangling worm like a foolhardy bass. "Exactly what do you have in mind?"

By then, they were nearing the outskirts of Ciudad Obregón, a gritty desert city of 400,000. It wasn't romantic, definitely not the place Frank would choose to make love to anybody for the first time, especially Savannah.

Whether playing on her iPhone or playing with her grampa, Savannah stayed clothed all the way through Ciudad Obregón. As tempting as it was with a motherly carte blanche, stripping her naked, even under a blanket, with her mom only a few feet away, bothered Frank far more than he ever expected.

Just north of Ciudad Obregón, on the way to the ocean-side town of Guaymas, Sonora, Frank Martin confiscated Savannah's iPhone. After she stopped complaining, he introduced her to a different kind of cuddling. Two hours of gentle smooching and snuggling, hugging and whispering, playful caresses, stroking hair, and tickling bare skin. Frank added an occasional wet kiss to show how much he loved her. Not French, it was too soon to swap spit with Karen sitting in the driver's seat. For the same reason, it was also too soon to openly fondle private parts.

"You two are very quiet back there," Karen said after turning off Mexican radio, an endless Latino fiesta.

"We're taking it a step at a time," Frank said, feeling awkward. "I do have a question, though."

There was risk even if Savannah never told anyone; even if only Frank and Karen knew what was up, someone might still notice. It wasn't just teachers and doctors trained to spot sex – abuse victims. There were too many busybodies trying to run other peoples' lives, do-gooders on constant lookout, people in search of fame, who wanted to expose pedophiles on Youtube videos…

"I know I promised 'she' not 'he,' he continued. "But when it's right in front of my face, I just can't ignore it."

What more could she say? Feel free to play with Savannah's boy-bits, but pretend they didn't exist.

"How often should I check the oil?" Frank very nearly laughed; imagining using a dipstick in Savannah's cute little butt. Crazy!

"If you asked what kind of grease you should use, I could tell you. After being around Bruce and Eric, I knew more about being gay than most gay students at SCAD," she admitted.

< < < It's right up inside me, Grampa > > >

The New Year's Eve' forecast was even better than Frank Martin expected. The next four days would be sunny, a high of 67^oF [19⁰C], and a low of 33^oF[0.5⁰C], not exactly balmy, but typical for southern Arizona in early January. It was warm enough to camp out in Coronado National Forest, warm enough for Savannah to learn how to ride cross-country, and maybe learn a few other things along the way. Just above freezing was too cold for most dangerous critters to be roaming, including illegals, who preferred to hike their sorry asses over the border in summer. Frank still packed his Remington pump-action shotgun and a box of 12-gauge buckshot. Anything could happen on a three-day trail ride.

Four saddlebags carried the other necessities, a two-man bivouac tent, a double sleeping bag, air mattress, and food and water for five days; plus a few luxuries like scented body wipes to compensate for not having showers.

With the sun up for three hours, and both his Sperry Palamino Quarter and Savannah's Welsh Palomino, Sandy Girl, saddled and waiting in the corral, Frank was ready to head out. Newly minted nine-year-old Savannah, on the other hand, was doing what Savannah did best, putting on a fashion show for her grampa.

Frank watched her all the way from the house, walking with the sophisticated self-assurance of a $1,000 per hour fashion model on the runway.

"Hard to believe you're nine," he mused aloud for the umpteenth time in three days.

Almost overnight, the bright and talented kid had become a natural head-turner. She was a YouTube celebrity, too; 93,000 views of the videotape of her wacky TOMBOY birthday party.

"So goddamn pretty."

That was the worst part of gender dysphoria for Frank Martin. Precocious little Savannah was pretty, pretty like a girl should be, with long curly hair reaching to the middle of her back. It ended tantalizingly close to what had to be the cutest butt in the county, or maybe Arizona, maybe the whole darn country.

Savannah strolled through the open corral gate, beaming at him. She stopped a few yards away, so focused that the entire world could wait. When she had his attention truly rapt, she pivoted to show her pony-riding attire.

"You look great, Sanny. Only, you really can't ride dressed like that."

"Why not, Grampa?"

"You could wear Gangsta clothes, I suppose. Only I know they're really expensive, and you look like you're from Chicago during Prohibition. You'll scare the prairie dogs half to death."

"What's Prohibition?"

"It doesn't matter. The cactus will rip 'em to shreds. You'll be better off in blue jeans."

"I hate blue jeans! They make me itch."

There was another reason why Savannah chose Gangsta. Karen's unisex 1920s theme went extreme with flared pinstriped pants and a glittery mid-thigh flapper. She exuded sexy with every flouncy, bouncy step, although her grandfather would never admit it except in a whisper to the fresh morning air.

A year earlier, Frank got the shock of his life after seeing the hot-of-the-presses TOMBOY pre catalog photos. Savannah graced the front cover. No flapper, no undershirt, just pinstriped pants with bright red braces. His shocking conclusion, his only grandchild was extremely desirable, whether boy or girl. And now, he had the same unsettling feeling; spending just a few minutes in bed with Savannah would be worth the world ending in a cataclysmic explosion.

Frank stumbled on. "What about the riding pants I bought you?"

"They make my thighs look flabby, Grampa."

Rather than explain that loose pants made riding more comfortable, he took the easy way out.

"Once we get into Coronado, no one's going to see you, Sanny."

"You'll see me, Grampa!"

Frank groaned aloud, tired of being frustrated at every step by a barely nine-year-old fashion brat.

"I saw you stark naked a hundred times last year, kid. With that kind of exposure, clothes don't matter one iota."

"What's an iota?"

"Damn, Savannah. Just put on the fricking riding pants."

"I know what fricking really means, Grampa." Savannah erupted in giggles. She whispered, "Fucking."

He pointed and used his sternest voice. "You. House. Change. NOW!"

He chuckled to himself as Savannah scampered.

"Find an old T-shirt in my drawer," he called after her. "You can use it as a nightshirt."

<<>>

Frank's plan was to stay on the back roads until he was certain Savannah could handle Sandy Girl. Unfortunately, the roads were open to all vehicles, which means an SUV or trailbike could come screaming around the corner without warning. Night was a few hours away when they finally left the gravel behind and headed across the grasslands. He intended to stop at Kaia's Grove. It sounded romantic, just a bunch of trees in the middle of the prairie. Instead, they made such good progress, they ended up camping in well-protected Deadwood Gulch.

With the horses unsaddled and grazing, their tent set up, firewood collected, and canned chicken and dried-tomato spaghetti consumed, Frank and Savannah stretched out beside the fire, looking up at a vast star-filled sky. After a few minutes of pestering, he showed Savannah how to shuffle a deck, how to deal five-card hands for straight poker, the essential first step for strip poker.

"I'll teach you the rules as we go."

"I need to go pee before we start, okay Grampa?"

"Oops, I forgot to bring toilet paper." Frank pointed into the darkness. "Use grass. It ought to be too cold for rattlesnakes."

Savannah muttered something about using body wipes. She got up, and cautiously stepped across crackly dry grass, certain one of the sticks on the ground was a rattlesnake. With one eye on her, just in case a critter ventured out in the night chill, Frank sipped from his hipflask, savoring Jack Daniels' Tennessee Rye.

In the dim light from the fire, he watched Savannah unbutton, unzip, and push down her riding pants. She squatted the same way she did to poop, knees wide apart, balancing on her toes. It would've been amusing but for one little problem; she kept reaching underneath to position her 'boy-thing'.

He was enjoying his third swig, and the lingering grainy smell when Savannah yelped.

"Grampa!"

Frank grabbed his LED tactical flashlight and completed the ten-yard dash in under two seconds. By the time he reached Savannah, she was standing, clutching riding pants, and not at all happy. One sniff was enough to realize the riding pants were soaked with pee.

"What happened?"

"A snake bit my boy-thing." Savannah pointed at the ground.

He checked, sweeping the flashlight around, just dead branches and twigs. "Never heard of a rattler doing that. They generally head for cover when you piss on 'em."

"Not funny, Grampa."

"Do I need to check the 'boy-thing,' just in case?"

He flashed the right on Savannah's crotch, her creamy girl-thong blending in so well she might've been naked.

"Stop it, Grampa!"

There was no sign of her 'boy-thing.' Usually, she poked the glans through the slit underneath when she wanted to pee.

He couldn't help smiling. "Maybe the snake bit it off."

"Maybe it wasn't a fucking snake!"

"Keep it up Potty Mouth and you'll get a mouth rinse, with soap." He squeezed Savannah's hand. "Let's get you cleaned up and into bed."

He stripped her in front of the fire, boots, socks, riding pants, pastel-purple panties, and the down-insulated vest that Savannah had put on when it started to get cold. She shivered even as he wrapped his arms around her, hugging tightly.

"Grampa, I'm sorry about using the bad word."

"You know why I don't want you saying it? Having sex, making love to someone is a good thing. That word makes it bad, something to be ashamed of."

"I only said it the one time. Some kids say it all the time."

"Once is not okay. If you're angry, say something else."

She smirked. "You say 'fricking.' Is that better?"

He growled.

"Mom says 'eff' sometimes. Fricking snake. Effing snake! Which is better, you think?"

He shook his head, giving up. With no water to spare for washing clothes, he spread the damp stuff around the fire.

Savannah caught on immediately. "No way am I wearing them tomorrow, Grampa."

"At least they'll be dry. You should've been standing up!"

"Little girls do *not* stand up to pee."

"Little boys don't squat, and they don't piss all over themselves."

Savannah gave him a terrified look. "I hate you!"

She bolted into the tent. He could hear her bawling. He felt awful. He needed to apologize, say and do whatever it took to calm her down, yet the whole situation was crazy. Worse, Savannah would call Mom as soon as her iPhone had service.

Frank groaned, thinking sooner is better. He approached the tent quietly. Bawling had already switched to sniffling.

"I think I handled that rather well, don't you?"

Sniffling stopped. "I don't really hate you, Grampa."

"Even if you did, I still love you. May I come in?"

"Not yet. I don't have anything on."

He could hear Savannah scuffling about.

"Kinda cold out here, Sanny."

"Okay. You can come in, if you behave."

Frank squatted, crawled through the narrow gap, and zipped the flap behind him. It was too dark to see more than shadow. Naked, Savannah huddled in a corner, goose flesh arms wrapped around bare legs.

"Where's your T-shirt?"

Savannah looked up, withdrawn and grumpy. It was a bad combination. "I fricking got pee all over it."

"Sometimes, it's okay to say 'fuck' when really bad things happen. Now, I think about it, being attacked by a rattlesnake qualifies for a fuck, don't you Honey?"

Savannah giggled and nodded. "You handled it good, Grampa."

"Just don't tell Mommy, okay?"

"There's bunches of stuff I don't tell Mommy."

Frank grinned in the darkness. "You better get in the sleeping bag before you freeze."

He felt around the floor of the tent, finally putting his hand on Savannah's oversized T-shirt. There was a small damp patch near the hem, nothing to worry about. He draped it over his shotgun scabbard, standing guard over the saddlebags.

When he turned around, Savannah was inside the sleeping bag, one bare arm and a head showing.

"Is there room in there for me?"

"Uh huh. I thought we were going to play strip poker before bedtime?"

"I left the cards outside. Besides, you're already naked. Is there another game you want to play?"

Savannah smiled. Out of sight, inside the sleeping bag, her other hand was busy, her little fingers squeezing a very tiny, very firm nipple. It made her quiver, the same as when Mickey did it.

She made him wait, pretending to think about it so he thought it wasn't her first choice. "Tickle Teddy D. Bear."

"We didn't bring Teddy D. Bear."

"You'll have to pretend I'm a teddy bear, Grampa." Savannah pointed at her tummy as if she expected him to start there.

For a moment, Frank considered getting into the sleeping bag with her. Then, he had a better idea, and far more exciting.

"How about I wipe you off first so you smell fresh and clean?"

"All over?"

Savannah's tone bothered him. Anxious or hopeful, he couldn't decide.

"If you want. You decide where to stop."

He'd put six travel packs of body wipes in one of Savannah's saddlebags, figuring she'd most likely use all but a few of them – she was fastidious about wiping her hands and face. Natural Aloe left her skin silky smooth and moist, essential for an aspiring fashion model.

With his LED flashlight switched on, he rummaged through three saddlebags to find two of the packs already opened, about normal for a finicky nine-year-old.

Savannah lay face-up with the sleeping bag unzipped down to her bellybutton. With the flashlight clipped to the tent, Frank started with the nearest bare arm, cleaning each finger before wiping up to the shoulder. He dried goose-flesh skin with his cowboy kerchief.

"You getting cold?"

"Kinda. Can you hurry, Grampa?"

He replaced the sleeping bag and Savannah lifted her other arm. After he finished, she sat up so he could do her face and back.

"You smell really nice," Frank murmured, his hands hot like his face.

"The wipes are scented, Grampa."

Frank kissed her forehead, nose, and both cheeks, and guided her to lay back so he could wipe her front. Warm LED light revealed every contour, every rib indentation, every one of nature's flawless achievements, except the one he really wanted to see.

"Time for a fresh wipe," he muttered.

He tossed the used one toward the saddlebags. He carefully wiped Savannah's elegant neck, relocating her choker, extending cleanliness out to her shoulders before hurriedly working lower. He swiped both pinprick nipples, hating what lay in store when she started taking estrogen. As soon as her chest was dried, he hurriedly pulled up the sleeping bag and tucked it around one side of her. Armpits were anything but perfunctory.

"Tickles, Grampa," Savannah murmured, one hand tugging the wipe across to where she wanted.

As much as the thought of breasts depressed him, his thumb had a mind of its own. He stroked Savannah's flattened flesh, almost no muscle, circling around the tiny papilla until it firmed.

"If this feels good, lower down will feel even better," Grampa whispered.

Savannah was face-up, not at all embarrassed when he opened a gap in the sleeping bag. Her thighs and belly got wiped twice, both times to the start of her crotch.

"Let's take off your girl-thong."

"Let's not! My boy-thing doesn't need cleaning. That's why it got circumcised."

Frank choked, which was better than saying that was where the smelly pee came from in the first place.

With the sleeping bag more or less back in place, he reached down and wiped legs and feet, eliciting giggles when he tugged on her toes.

"The only thing left to clean is your cute little butt. You can do it, or I can. Your choice!" he teased, getting out a fresh wipe.

She met his eyes, frowning. Taking the wipe and doing it herself would've been normal for a nine-year-old, not Savannah. Instead of rolling onto her front, she hiked up her legs, knees bumping her shoulders, sleeping bag wide apart, exposing herself, grinning from between her feet.

"Good choice," Frank murmured. The enormity of it left utter disbelief.

Presented shamelessly like that, at first glance, there was nothing under her skin-toned thong. It covered everything 'boy,' leaving a slight drawn-out bump, certainly not a little girl's puffy 'camel-toe.' Through a tiny slit, he could just make out the ruddy tip of a circumcised penis. It had to be uncomfortable.

Frank scoured both buttocks, leaving the center untouched. However, as soon as he stopped wiping butt cheeks, Savannah rolled back, lifting her butt and most of her back completely off the sleeping bag. Her intention would've been obvious to a halfwit; however, by then, Frank wasn't certain of anything.

"Are you sure, Sanny?" he whispered timidly.

Savannah regarded him with nine-year-old coolness.

Confused, yet tempted like never before, Frank picked at the stretchy waist cord where it disappeared between her buttocks. With a finger underneath, he levered the cord away. He dabbed the wipe several times on what was surely the smallest roseate pucker he'd ever seen.

Savannah inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled. Quickly, he turned over the wipe, and dabbed again.

"All clean," he announced. He had a growing sense that his enjoyment would be short-lived, as long as it took to cover her with the sleeping bag.

"Now, you can tickle me, Grampa."

She could only mean there, where Frank stared.

"Do Rubber Ducky, Grampa."

Savannah and déjà vu went hand in hand. "We didn't bring Rubber Ducky."

"With your finger, Silly."

"You're gonna get cold."

"So stop wasting time."

Frank touched with his extended index finger, ever so lightly. Savannah still gasped, twitching down there as if his finger had actually gone inside.

"Sorry, Sanny. I didn't mean to…" he muttered, his finger scarcely touching the tiny anus.

"It's okay, Grampa. You didn't hurt me."

He rubbed gently, caressing crinkles and firing up nerves. Savannah smiled up at him, tiny toes wriggling, curling over as he circled lovingly.

"Feels funny, Grampa. It's not tingly like Rubber Ducky.

"I think it needs to be slippery to feel nice."

His hand shook as he lifted it to his mouth. He drooled hot slimy spit on his index finger, and quickly repositioned it in Savannah's narrow crack. The added slipperiness was life changing for both of them. Savannah's heat seemed to flow up his finger as soon as he touched the opening. A tremble passed through his arm and into the rest of him. He stopped tickling and began rubbing, still very gently.

"If you want me to stop, say so," he murmured.

Savannah closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths. Eventually, she whispered, "Don't stop, Grampa."

"Your wish is my command, milady."

Savannah giggled. "Grampa slave game?"

It wasn't a game they played very often. Karen thought her daughter got her way too often as it was. Real Grampa Slave, when she told him exactly what to do, they played when she wasn't around.

"Up to you, Sanny. I don't want you catchin' a chill."

"Go in."

Frank wasn't sure he'd heard right. Rubbing with soap with an occasional quick prod in the bath was one thing; this was a game with an entirely different set of rules. He felt honored and more than a little embarrassed.

"Go in, slave." Insistent, now.

Frank pressed. Where they met was hot and tight, impossibly tight. Without forcing, it would be over before it got started, especially with the temperature dropping quickly. He could feel it seeping through the tent's thin nylon wall, desert chill settling in for a long dark night.

He rubbed gently, twisting his finger into the gap. It went on and on, always soothing and very restrained. He'd never been so patient. After a while, he stretched alongside her, sharing their warmth. Soft bare skin became warmer, even more intimate when he positioned slender legs over his hips. After making sure everything was under the sleeping bag, Savannah pulled herself closer with her heels until Frank put his left arm around her shoulders. He tucked the sleeping bag around her as much as possible, surely trying to hide what he was doing.

Savannah giggled. "More spit, slave."

"This is going to take a while. Just relax as much as you can."

However, he was quick to obey, slathering saliva over his finger before cautiously reinserting. Savannah's tight sphincter gripped, protecting until Frank switched to corkscrewing and wriggling. His determined thick finger began to burrow deeper.

Hearing no complaint, just attenuated sighs and an infrequent whimper, he pulled downward, sideward, upward, stretching in earnest. Instinctive and attentive, constantly massaging the sleek muscular canal, he alone caused the change, turning taut into something approaching elastic.

Like George W. Bush, he was ready to declare victory when Savannah's sphincter suddenly squeezed, exerting a surprising amount of pressure. A second squeeze followed, every bit as unwavering. Dozens of them followed, each one savagely clamping down on his finger as if trying to strangle it. It was frustrating for both of them

"Hurts, Grampa," Savannah whined.

"I'm sorry, Sanny. You want me to stop?"

"No!" Savannah mumbled something else. "Fucking hurts, Grampa."

Then, the Miracle of Deadwood Gulch happened. It was as if something broke inside Savannah, or simply gave up the fight and surrendered to Grampa. His finger slid in, past the second joint, all the way to the knuckle.

Inside Savannah was hot, and sleek, and slippery, and firm. It was hard to believe, yet simply by rotating his wrist, he found a lot more room than seemed possible inside such a small slender body. With nothing inside her except hot mushy tissue, there was plenty of room for his thick adult finger, all 3 ½ inches [8 cm] of it. It fit as if it belonged there, like a pubescent boy's penis.

Savannah gasped loudly on the second, or was it the 22nd rotation, not in pain, something else. Frightened half to death, Frank yanked back most of his finger.

"Don't !" Savannah grunted. "Please, Grampa; don't take him out."

Astounded, Frank emptied his mouth of saliva before easing his very slippery finger back inside Savannah's now-gaping anus. With a little pressure, his finger glided through the dilated sphincter, until his knuckle seated firmly in the crack.

"Jesus," he whispered, once again ascertaining how much room there was. It was almost as if nature designed a young rectum for intercourse. "Can you feel it?"

"It's right up inside me, Grampa."

Meek, no longer precocious, or demanding, Savannah seemed almost dreamy.

Frank went back and forth, just as his finger went back and forth. Caught between guilty pleasure and doing irreparable harm to a nine-year-old, he finally figured it out. Savannah was unable to stop shuddering whenever his finger pushed in all the way. However, it had to be just right; his finger needed to be crooked up. If the tip pressed into one spot, it made the shudders even stronger. He focused on that. So did Savannah.

The girl-thong tightened, Savannah's erect penis making itself known with a thicker, longer bump. It stretched the cloth, seeming desperate to escape. Frank tried to touch it.

"Don't!" Savannah knocked his hand away.

"You're beautiful, Sanny. So, so sexy," Frank crooned, telling himself it was only to make up for insulting her.

He strummed the little gland, barely two inches (5 cm) inside. Savannah trembled and tried to move with him, gasping for each erratic breath.

"More!"

More meant faster, deeper, harder. It didn't seem possible.

Already much looser, Frank began to think two fingers could fit, and in a shocking realization, it struck him that something much bigger could fit, if he was patient enough. He pushed that thought deep down, like his finger hidden inside his grandchild.

Savannah grew hotter, sweaty and naked under the sleeping bag.

"You want me to stop?"

Savannah glared at him.

He kept on, the finger vibrating, stabbing, stirring up rectal juices for the very first time. All of a sudden, Savannah tensed, deliberately. He could feel muscles squeezing, straining down, then relaxing. A minute later, it happened again. The third time, Savannah strained, breathing deep for as long as the spasm lasted.

"Grampa," she whispered. "I feel shaky, really shaky."

It was scary, watching a nine-year-old kid discover ecstasy. Switching back and forth from dreamy to frantic, disbelieving that anything could feel like that.

After the fifth or sixth paroxysm, Savannah gazed at Grampa, all but biting the tip off her tongue.

"How's my teddy bear doing?" Frank whispered.

Savannah didn't answer. She strained down yet again.

"You really like this, don't you?"

Too embarrassed, Savannah looked the other way, stayed looking the other way for several long minutes. Aware he was going too far, too quickly, Frank tried to slow down.

Savannah was having none of it. "Don't stop!"

A few more deep finger thrusts and a burst of raw excitement contorted both face and body. Yet another paroxysm of pleasure blasted through her, like fireworks going off. If affected Frank, too. He quickened the pace. Suddenly, he was the one thrusting in, and Savannah was thrusting back, both of them determined to reach some kind of pinnacle that always seemed just out reach.

"Had enough, yet?" Frank was increasingly worried.

Savannah's little sphincter offered no resistance at all. None.

"No!" Savannah cried, shoving herself down as hard as she could.

So close to the end, her heart raced, completely carried away by overpowering sensations that only got stronger. Squeezing down with every muscle inside her, using her last bit of strength, Savannah's first anal orgasm was inevitable, frenzied, and frightening. Her little body contorted before shuddering violently.

Perhaps the experience was even more overwhelming for Frank. Savannah momentarily blacked out as her little unwanted penis clicked frantically and tried its very best to spit boy-juice.

Then, silence, except for Savannah's labored breathing, an occasional whimper, and the plaintive howls of coyotes far in the distance.

Frank leaned over, brushing stray curls. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

Ashamed, he used another wipe to clean up the mess, mostly his saliva, just a little slimy stuff from inside her. He straightened Savannah's legs, disgusted with himself, worried that entire experience was overwhelming for a brand-new nine-year-old, that he'd destroyed the wonderful closeness they shared.

"I couldn't stop myself. It won't happen again, I promise."

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and eight days old > > >

Around midnight, halfway back to the border, they stopped at a tourist resort on the other side of Guaymas to stretch their legs. After parking the Jeep under sodium-yellow streetlights, they walked on deserted San Carlos beach. Safe between Frank and Karen, Savannah carried on like a kid at the fairground, trying to get their feet wet when waves washed over the sand.

Sooner, not later, Frank intended to bring up what had to happen before June 24th. It was a huge step, a life-changing event for all of them; however, with Savannah having so much fun clowning around, he didn't want to talk about it. Instead, he let himself be dragged along.

"You'll be sound asleep as soon as we get back in the car," Karen observed when Savannah started to lag behind.

Savannah tugged at Frank's hand to slow him down, and released her mom's hand. "You go ahead, Mom. I want to talk to Grampa about something."

Karen got the message. She gave Frank a curious, if somewhat bemused look, and held out her hand. Without saying a word, Savannah dug in her jeans pocket, retrieved her iPhone, entered her password and handed it over. With the iPhone secure in her handbag, Karen headed toward the park and sodium streetlights.

Still hand-in-hand, Savannah dragged Frank even closer to the water. As soon as she was sure her mom couldn't see them, she stepped in front of him, gazing up, slender arms clasped around his middle.

Frank shrugged, one arm wrapped around her back, his hand behind her head, fingers entwined with curls. His other hand was back on her butt, work-roughened fingers jammed under the waist of her jeans, a lone finger playing with the start of her crack. He should've been ashamed; he wasn't.

"I've been thinking about it ever since we left Dr. Stein 's clinic," she whispered, pressing into Frank's warmth.

Savannah jumped back, grinning, thinking she was safe. Barely out of reach, Frank took a step, grabbed her hand, and yanked, spinning her around so her back was to him. With an arm under her belly, he hoisted her up, feet off the ground, arms dangling down. With his free hand, he tugged at the seat of her jeans.

Savannah struggled. "Don't you dare, Grampa! Let me go! Please, no butt tickling, Grampa."

Frank's index finger hooked raNGe jeans, yanking down far enough to expose butt crack, snagging her bikini briefs before jerking up. As wedgies went, it was massive, the kind that made boys shriek and beg for mercy. Then, he put her down again.

Savannah jerked away, scowling and complaining he'd mistreated her. When that didn't work she pretended permanent injury. It was all in play. As soon as she grinned, Frank put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

"I know what you want to do with my butt!" She rearranged her little bikini undies and jeans so they sat right.

"We'll get through this, Sanny." Frank leaned down and smooched the top of her head.

Despite years of misgivings, and endless disputes with Karen, there was no doubt in Frank's mind. Savannah would be happier afterwards.

"I know you do, Sanny. I love you so much, it's hard for me to get used to the idea, that's all."

It was gloomy to think about, not just the finality of a bilateral orchiectomy, its consequences. Then, the 'vulva conversion;' it was drastic, unnatural even.

As bad as Stein's Stage One was, Stage Four really depressed him. Maudlin, yet well-meaning, Frank crossed his heart.

Hand in hand again, they walked back to the car. Karen was back in the driver's seat, engine and A/C running. She had Savannah's iPhone out of her handbag and Stein's T-G Kit in her lap, peering inside the duffel bag.

She muttered to herself, tapping the lit-up screen impatiently. "Yes, I'll accept full responsibility. Yes, I'll keep all information confidential. Yes, I understand there's a risk with transgender kids. Yes, I'll…"

She stopped when Savannah and Frank resumed their places on the rear seat; Savannah curled up, sneakers kicked off, her head resting in his lap.

"Mom!" Savannah growled frustration. "If you must know, it's kids from school, that's all!"

"I'll drive to Hermosillo. Dad, you start getting her ready, assuming you still want to take her the rest of the way."

Frank had no idea what Karen was talking about until he saw what she'd placed on the center console. Blood rushed to his face, and elsewhere.

"Dad, this is important. 'Patients, parents, and partners are strongly advised to follow closely all T-G app and kit instructions without exception,'" she read from the iPhone. "I'm checking it as read, okay?"

Frank relocated Savannah's head from his crotch to his thigh. "Rather bossy, don't you think?"

She adjusted the air-conditioning so cold air wasn't blowing on her face, and picked up where she'd left off.

"Yes, I'm aware that the Stein Center for Gender Research has access to all information in this account." She turned in her seat. "Dad, by the way, her T-G account is 'savannahm', one word, no caps. The password is 'grampa#1', since you'll mostly be using it."

"'Given that two heads are usually better than one, we strongly recommend both parents are present during introductory sessions. One parent should assist the T-G throughout her dilation.'"

"Remember what Dr. Stein said? You have to stretch your body so a penis can fit inside it. That's dilation. The sooner you start, the sooner your body is ready for sex, Savy. "

"Well, I can't do it, and drive, too. I'll help by reading the instructions. It says, 'From beginning to end, a successful transition depends on building acceptance. Both parents must be sensitive and concerned. Trust and openness are key elements.'"

"They say it's best to do dilation in front of the TV, laying in the parents' bed, or in the T-G's bedroom," Karen paraphrased. "I guess they mean it should be done at bedtime," she added.

Savannah pinched his side. He whacked her butt. Hardly oblivious to shrill giggles and squeals, but in too a good mood to intervene, Karen continued to read.

"There are more boxes to check off, Dad. She's supposed to have a bowel movement first."

"Even if we had enough water, what would we do at 60 miles an hour; hang her out the window?"

With the overhead light turned off, Frank unfastened Savannah's seatbelt. She popped the platinum-plated stud at the front of her TOMBOYpre raNGe jeans and opened the short zipper. She was so slender, she wriggled out of her jeans in a matter of seconds. Pastel-purple bikini briefs and white ankle socks joined the pile at her feet.

"'The T-G should lay on her side, facing away. Cover her with a blanket or sheet to lessen embarrassment'," Karen read from the driver's seat. "Dad, earlier it said never make an issue of the you-know."

Even with the light off, Frank had to look out the window, faking a final view of the star-studded sky and the beach disappearing in darkness. Seeing Savannah without her thong always aroused him. Knowing what was about to happen made him so excited that he actually trembled. It was all he could do to unknot Savannah's blouse. He pulled it off with a kind of lecherous delight.

Suddenly, she was naked and unabashed, except for her thighs pressed tightly together to hide her 'boy-thing.'

She turned onto her side and glared up at him. "Mom just said to put a blanket over me so I'm not embarrassed."

Frank quickly spread the blanket over both of them, leaving his right arm underneath so he could lovingly rub Savannah's warm smooth back.

Karen studied the iPhone. "I guess this is when we find out how serious you really are about transitioning, Savy."

She directed the screen light at the items on the center console. "They say to skip the first one unless she's under nine, or weighs 60 pounds or less."

"What's five inches?" Savannah demanded, her voice muffled somewhat by the seat back in front of her face.

"They call this a D-2. " Karen held up the second smallest one, sealed in a plastic bag.

Savannah's head swiveled, wide-eyed as her Mom ripped open the bag. It was as thick as Frank's index finger. No sharp edges and very smooth; his next thought was it looked like a toddler's bath toy, shaped and sized for a small hand to grasp. It even had a ring in one end to hold on to.

"Dilator, there's another word you don't hear very often. Most ranchers call it a dildo, and a fairly skinny one at that," Frank guffawed. "If you ask me, Sanny should start with the next size up or we'll be here until Christmas."

"There's no need to be obscene, Dad." Still, Karen couldn't help smiling as she switched on the headlights.

To Savannah's eyes, D-2 was tiny compared to her grandfather's whopper. Without the familiar helmet-shaped head, it was toy-like. However, being slightly curved and flesh-colored helped make the connection.

She reached back to hand him the dilator and a tube, after checking to make sure it was the correct one.

"Okay, smarty pants, you read it." Karen reached back again, this time to hand the iPhone to Savannah. "No texting your friends, though. The app has top priority."

Frank patted Savannah's butt, scrunching her sideways. "There's no way I can get her seatbelt on tight. You need to drive very carefully."

Karen put the Jeep in gear, and pulled away from the curb. It took less than a minute for Savannah to scroll adroitly through several pages.

"I'm to use their EMIL for the first three days. After that, if it's going inside me for more than an hour, you use EMIL, otherwise you use water-based lube. In a pinch, you can switch to petroleum jelly."

"EMIL, Grampa! There's no 'e' on the end. It stands for Extended Medicated Internal Lubricant."

However, Grampa didn't care about an 'e' on the end, or 'lime' backwards. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on Savannah, and on the road. Both were essential. Savannah deserved his utmost attention – Mexican drivers were dangerous in daylight, lethal at night. He went back and forth, glancing up and down.

"There's more, Mom. For sessions less than ten minutes, they recommend hand lotion and saliva; so I get used to them. I can get by with baby oil in a pinch. Here's a list of things I shouldn't use. No shampoo or conditioner, no cooking oils, nothing with soap in it, no greasy stuff except Vaseline. It lasts longer, only it's not all that good for me."

Karen wasn't in the mood for his jokes, or his lack of knowledge. "It'll work if it's all you've got, Dad. Whatever goes inside her should be water soluble."

"Silicone is the best, only Savannah won't be using it except to find out what it'll feel like once she's sexually active! You follow the T-G app. It's not an option, Dad."

"You're supposed to record the date and time, ease of insertion, how long each episode lasts, the type of stimulation, and my response," Savannah added from the back seat.

Frank frowned, resenting the loss of privacy. Instead of declaring open opposition, he examined the D-2. Tapered to the tip, and flexible like silicone rubber, the dilator was so bendy he wasn't sure he'd be able to get it through Savannah's tight anus. And if he was successful, he'd have to hold onto the ring on the end.

"'The optimal response is a sudden discharge of accumulated sexual excitement, generated internally, with erratic muscular contractions in the pelvic region, and increased pressure in the bowels,'" he read. "Um, I think it means you have an orgasm, Sanny."

"So, you check the box if I come," Savannah snickered. "Why don't they just say so?"

Karen intervened. "Savy, having a come is different. There's more about it in the introduction. Go back a few pages where it talks about a boy's body. With anal sex, you'll have build-up spasms that get stronger. Your anal orgasm will be extra intense. It doesn't happen every time."

Karen gave an exasperated sigh. "Somewhere it says that having one every four tries is good."

"'One in four constitutes a fully functional anal response,' Mom," Savannah read, not at all anxious.

"I'll be aiming for every other one." Frank came dangerously close to laughing. "Seriously, I'll give it my best shot."

Savannah was ready to move on. "Grampa, next, it says 'Beginning at the narrow end, thoroughly cover a third of the Dilator with E-M-I-L.'"

"Grampa! You need to use enough for it to go inside me. Not too much or it gets messy."

"Makes sense that only the top part is slippery so I can hold on to it," Frank mused. Why did a nine-year-old know that, and not him?

He uncapped the tube, squeezed a bead of glossy white jelly onto his finger, and smeared it over the upper third. He smiled at the fresh citrus scent, and held his finger for Savannah to smell.

Savannah scrolled down. "It says, 'Always insert slowly, paying strict attention to the T-G's needs.' You have to listen to me and do what I say, Grampa."

Karen risked glancing away from the road. "Give it a shot, Dad. Just do it very slowly. Savannah, you're to stay calm and try to relax back there."

"Too high, Grampa." Savannah placed the iPhone behind her butt so Grampa could see what he was doing.

Frank gently rubbed the slippery tip into Savannah's little anus, around and around. He could feel her baulking at every slight inward movement, twitching, holding her breath, trying very hard to relax. He leaned very close to her ear and whispered so softly that Savannah almost didn't hear him.

"You know how to do this, Baby. Relax and push out. It's just like letting in my finger."

When she glanced into the rear vision mirror, Frank scowled back. "The brat doesn't have a seatbelt, remember!"

The iPhone screen put out enough light to see Savannah's face. Not smiling, but not crying either. Tears and smiles would come later; now she was mostly concentrating on relaxing.

He didn't need to look down. He could feel a kind of stubborn resistance at the other end of the Dilator, where the tip was already stretching the sphincter muscle. Getting it ready to accept something pushing through the wrong way. Just a few more seconds if Savannah didn't start fighting it.

"Nearly there. Sanny, if you relax your cute little butt, I'll jab it right up there. On three. One. Two…"

Savannah burst into giggles. "It says to wriggle it until the tip goes in easily. Then, keep wriggling and the rest slides in, Grampa."

Karen scowled. "Just remember, if you hurt her, Dad, I'll come after you with a carving knife."

Savannah gasped as something gave way, flinching as added width arrived in a rush.

"There you go. I'd say three minutes for insertion. You think you can beat that next time, sexy girl?" Frank said to take her mind off it.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly withdrew the device until Savannah whimpered, tightening instinctively, instantly regretting it. With only the tip filling her anus, he twisted the device, wriggling it into the pucker, forcing expansion.

"Dad, I read something about if it stings, we're to use an analgesic cream, before and after. Maybe you better pass the phone back to me."

Reluctantly, he took the iPhone from Savannah's hand, leaned forward, and placed it in hers.

"Watch the road. You might slow down, too. No cars, but there are animals out at night."

He prodded cautiously, sensing a slight change. Still twisting and wriggling, he pressed harder. Not a lot, just enough to breach the anus and advance to the sphincter. A little more pressure, another careful, very slow twist, and he felt it break through the muscle.

Already, it was at the middle. It went in so easily that he fretted about it escaping.

"Let me check." Karen held the phone up, watching the road and scrolling pages back and forth with her thumb.

"All well and good, but I don't want you getting hurt because it goes in too far."

Frank didn't point out that she forbid him from using his cellphone while Savannah was in the car. He watched the road ahead, too. At least with no other cars, the headlights could stay on high beam.

"Dad, it says all of it goes in, only it might take some time. Thirty or forty minutes sometimes."

"How long is the darned thing supposed to say inside her?" He didn't want to appear too eager.

Karen scrolled through the instructions for 'Insertion,' 'Duration', and 'Retrieval', twice to make sure she got it right.

"Dad, the first time is from four to six hours, overnight is better. It's not like a normal dildo. You push it in until it disappears inside her. It's designed to stay inside her until she poops it out. That's why it's so bendy, so it can move around inside her. It dilates and strengthens the muscles."

"Don't blame me if we have to make an emergency trip to Tucson General to get it out."

"I guess that's why they say to follow closely all instructions without exception."

Around 2:00 am, an hour south of Hermosillo, Karen pulled off the road and turned around. She blinked, yawned, and rotated tired shoulders.

Even though Savannah had been sound asleep since leaving Guaymas, Frank still held her hand, maintaining the required 'close physical and emotional connection between parent and T-G throughout.' 'Insertion,' 'Duration,' and 'Retrieval' even had separate check-off boxes.

He yawned and looked down, not seeing more than shadows in the dark, lovingly stroking long curls, his fingertips traversing the baby-smooth skin of her forehead.

He suppressed a chuckle. "I can feel a bump below her bellybutton. I reckon that's it."

"They say it takes a week. Even 24 hours a day like they recommend, I don't think it's going to make much difference, Dad. It's not that big."

"It's not the size, but what you do with it," Frank jested. "How's the driving going?"

"I'm good. There's only one car on the entire road beside us. It's behind us, been there forever."

He looked behind. The car was so far back he couldn't see headlights, just a glow. He unfastened his seat belt and very carefully lifted Savannah's head from his lap. He shifted sideways, carefully repositioning her, a little 61-pound fetus, asleep and safe with a five-inch [13 cm] silicone dilator buried somewhere inside her.

"It's strange how things change," Karen said quietly. "There was a time when I would've given anything to be a boy."

Frank nodded. He'd arrived at that conclusion so long ago he'd almost forgotten about it. It started at Savannah's age, two years before Karen reached puberty, when she was in grade school. She was the only tomboy in her class, always awkward among other girls. By age 12, she was an accomplished artist, always drawing fashion-clothes.

"I grew out of it," Karen said. "It's different for Savannah. We didn't have a choice when I was a kid."

The night air was unmoving, still warm. Karen stopped, inhaling deeply, mediciny-smelling Ragweed. In two more months, she'd be sneezing.

Frank said what he'd wanted to say for a very long time. "Your mom wasn't around enough to guide you."

Karen sighed. "You don't get it, do you Dad? I wanted to be close to you, like she is. It's not about having the right role model."

"Still, it might be different if Savannah's dad was around." Frank immediately regretted saying it.

"She has you instead." As always, calm and thoughtful; yet she sounded frustrated. "You never cuddled me like you cuddle Savannah; why is that?"

Frank offered a feeble shrug. Not a dozen yards away, an animal was creeping among the grass, spotty clumps of it just beyond the gravel road edge.

"A lot of kids have crushes on their fathers," Karen went on. "I'm not the only girl who got wet because of it."

Frank gaped at desert grass and held his breath, hoping it wasn't true, knowing there was more.

"She's brought us close together," he allowed, trying to assemble sleep-deprived fragments that resisted normal logic.

"There's a reason why you think Savannah's special. It's not because she cute and cuddly," Karen added, never more obscure.

She turned away, walking slowly toward the Jeep, its rear lights like brilliant beacons in the night. No sign of the car behind them; maybe it pulled over, or turned off.

"When I knew I was having a boy, I worried about it so much, I nearly had an abortion."

It was his turn in the driver's seat. He adjusted the seat position, rear-vision and side mirrors, and the a/c outlet – cold air blowing on his face would keep him awake. As soon as Karen buckled up, and rearranged Savannah, he pulled slowly onto the blacktop, avoiding the worst of the inevitable lurch. Highway 15 headed to Hermosillo, Sierra Libre looming on the right.

Frank drove three miles, three long minutes, before he looked into the rear-vision mirror. Karen had Savannah's iPhone out, its light enough to see Savannah's glistening golden-brown hair, the side of her face. She was striking even asleep, delicate eyelids closed, Cupid-bow lips slightly apart, kissable any time, any place.

"It's only one bar." She snickered, stroking Savannah's hair with her other hand. "Tomorrow morning, when you take out the dilator, she gets coated with analgesic, inside and ouside."

Frank grunted a response. "I'll have a lot to do after being away for three days."

"Okay, I'll take it out this time, but only because I have to show her how to douche." Karen yawned and rubbed her eyes before returning to the iPhone.

"It says here that the Kit has five dilators. 'Dilator one is 4 inches by 1/2 in.'" [10cm x 1 cm]

"That's why we skipped it, Dad," she said, unamused. "'Dilator two is 5 by 3/4 in.'"[12.5x2 cm]

"Dad, please! The app says we're supposed to review them so we understand what's ahead. 'Dilator three is 6 by 1 in.' [15x2.5 cm] Like one of those Italian sausages you like for breakfast."

"Spicy, but it'll get her attention. I bet she'll enjoy it as much as I do!" On a roll, he added, "Ooh, Grampa, stop trying to eat it and go in and out."

Karen chuckled. "Okay, that's funny. Next is Dilator number four. All 7 by 1-1/2 inches (18 cm x 4 cm) of it.'"

"That'll take some getting used to. We'll do it in front of the TV to take her mind off it."

Spotting a deer up ahead, Frank lifted his foot off the accelerator. The deer was suicidal, he was certain of it. He touched the brake pedal an instant before the deer bolted across the road.

"I don't want to be around when she uses the last one," Karen said, completely unaware as she delved deep into the T-G Kit to find it at the very bottom. "Dilator five is 7-1/2 by 2 inches (19 cm x 5 cm). I can't imagine what it feels like.''

"It says to work up to it, Dad. Don't even try it for a week, and then you're supposed to use analgesic cream before and after every insertion. There's some kind of pattern to follow. It looks to me, while she's still loose, you insert the next size up. All the way in for an hour, and then you replace it with a previous one. Sort of stretch and relax. It's hard to follow."

She rummaged through the T-K Kit until she found the next size up. She leaned between the seats, holding it and the iPhone up so he could see. It was identical to the D-2, just bigger all around.

Karen smirked behind her hand, smelling the D-3, and enjoying it. It was like Frank's new Jeep, fresh, hygienic, intoxicating. She sat back, contemplating exquisite form, her thumb stroking the sleek smooth dilator. It felt like the iPhone, every bit as good as it looked, very reassuring, so organic it was almost human.

"I assume you're talking about the photography guys?" When Karen didn't answer, he added, "They used sex toys, huh?"

"Most gays do." Karen hesitated, thinking back. "Of course, if it's small enough, there's no way of telling."

"Who'd know Savannah had a dilator in her rectum?" Frank posed. "In a day or two, she'll probably forget it's there."

It only made sense. Curled up on the ear seat and sound asleep, she was obviously not hurting.

"The app says she should move around with it inside her. Nothing too strenuous."

He glanced into the rear vision mirror and caught a hint of a smile. Even at the best of times, basketball with Savannah was never enough to break a sweat.

"There were always sex toys lying around the apartment, more after Savannah was born. I think that bothered me even more than what they said."

She caressed Savannah's face, outlining delicate lips with a fingertip, soothing baby soft cheeks, tracing eyebrows.

"They were my only friends in college who weren't fake artsy types, Dad. They helped me so much; getting me to think about something besides you and Mom splitting up; finding me modeling work; lending me money when I needed it."

Frank blamed himself; not for the divorce, although he was also at fault. His life went from tolerable to outright wretched, four years of desert solitude until Savannah came along.

"I suggested having their baby." Karen said it so quietly that he nearly missed it.

"You picked names out of a hat or chose straws?" Not expecting an answer, yet he always suspected.

She laughed strangely. "If you must know, we got high one night and they jacked off into a shot glass. We mixed it up and I took it into my bedroom."

"Conceived from a shot glass, you serious?" Frank muttered, certain his hearing was bad from using his chainsaw without ear muffs.

She fondled Savannah's small ear, toying with her lobe, a tiny gold ball on a stud instead of a hoop.

Finally, she said, "The only problem was I didn't realize how much they wanted a little boy. Or why."

He had an unsettling sense that she headed down a road with a precipice lying in wait at the end. There was a road in Utah like that. Dead straight blacktop for mile after mile, stultifying signs advising caution ahead; and suddenly, there was no road, just a precipice, gravel, and hair-raising zigzags for thousands of feet to the bottom.

"I was in week 18 when it started. They got excited because you could finally see a penis on the ultrasound. They were always talking about the size of it. It was funny the first time Eric said it was big enough to be circumcised. However, he said it so often, it seemed it was all that interested him. I starting thinking I'd made a huge mistake."

"You wanted to end it?" He couldn't bring himself to say 'abort it,' not when 'it' was his Savannah.

"They talked me out of it." She wiped a tear from her eye, and gazed down at Savannah. "I'm glad, now. They were right all along," she added with a sigh.

"Isn't it obvious?" She lowered her voice. "After he was born, the doctor had to circumcise him just right. You've seen it stiff often enough, Dad; I'm sure you noticed it's really tight?"

"Bruce said, 'Gay boys' dicks have got to be sexy.' There was other stuff, too. They always joked about Savannah being gay. Eric even put a butt plug in the crib! When I came home from school one afternoon, there was a dildo buzzing over his bassinette. That's when it finally hit home."

< < <… My thing is itchy > > >

Stark naked, with Teddy D. Bear in hand, Savannah dashed from the bedroom into the dining/living room, coming to an abrupt halt in front of Frank and Karen, both completely oblivious because Hillary Clinton was discussing Syria on CNN News.

"I'm ready for barf time," she proclaimed, finger at the ready. "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe; I choose… Grampa!"

Frank heaved a bogus drawn-out sigh. "You always choose me."

Savannah giggled, tugging his hand impatiently. "Because I wub you and you wub me back."

"What she needs is for you to rub her back," Karen snickered, looking her over. "Where's your girl-thong, Savy?"

"I took it off because my thing is itchy."

Freed from 12 hours of imprisonment, Savannah's penis and testicles were right in front of Frank's face. Circumcised unlike her best friend, Mickey Sanderson, Savannah's 'boy-thing' seemed even smaller.

The last time Frank saw Mickey's penis, the kids were splashing in the bathtub. Savannah was envious of her friend's little nubbin. With her foreskin, it already resembled an over-sized clitoris. Frank wasn't interested beyond mere curiosity; well, maybe a little. Savannah, on the other hand, had a very exposed glans. As far as Frank was concerned, it was sexy, something a boy should be proud of.

"Someone needs a spanked bottom," Frank pretended to grumble, not about to admit that 'barf time' made his visit to New York worth every cent of the airfare. Savannah was his reason for living.

Savannah yanked at his arm, trying to drag him from the couch. "Bubble barf, Grampa!"

"How about you get in the barf, so you don't get cold, and…"

Savannah stuck Teddy D. Bear in his face, muffling everything else. Teddy smelled like Savannah, not sweat or musk, a pheromone of a juvenile type, untainted and sweet, like baby powder. It came from Savannah's long curly hair, silky soft skin, and hairless crotch. Each whiff was a silent chemical signal that Frank inhaled deeply, relished, and immediately needed more of it.

"Sanny, I'll be in as soon as this is over," he finally mumbled. Someone had to play Devil's advocate, and show restraint.

"Grampa, you promised you'd play with Teddy every night."

Frank pushed himself up using the armrest. Savannah pulled his other arm impatiently, dragging him down the hall.

Karen called, "Have fun, you two. And close the door so I can hear Hillary."

As soon as he closed the bathroom door, Frank whispered, "Fuck Hillary."

Savannah's eyes went wide. Frank put his finger to his lips, yet another secret between them. Savannah nodded gleefully, handing over Teddy D. Bear for safekeeping.

A righteous non-interventionist, not ultra-Conservative, Frank placed Teddy on the vanity.

Savannah tossed rubber ducks, one at a time, into the tub, chortling a gender-inverted version of Ernie.

"Wubber ducky, you're the one,

You make barf time wots of fun

Wubber ducky, I'm awfully fond of you…"

Frank laughed, scooped Savannah up, and blew raspberries on bare belly. Then, the tickling started, not gentle bedtime tingling tickles, rough grampa tickles that made a kid beg, wriggle, and giggle uncontrollably. Supposedly, Savannah hated them. When little feet finally hit the tiles, Savannah hopped into the tub, sitting down so fast that water splashed onto the floor.

Frank mopped it up with a hand towel, wrung out the excess water into the toilet, and draped it over the cistern. When he turned around, he smiled to himself. Stretched out in white foamy bubbles, only Savannah's nose, toes, and very stiff penis were visible. Long seconds passed before the rest rose to the surface, spluttering and rubbing eyes.

The plastic bath steps that Savannah used to reach the vanity, he repositioned beside the middle of the tub for the view, and easy access. He sat down, winking attentively.

One yellow rubber duck was already aground on a barely submerged tummy. Two more rubber ducks navigated between slender legs, just below the water.

Grampa pointed at the unwanted erection. "That where the rubber ducks dock?"

Savannah made a face.

"Don't tell Mommy, okay. It's a cock dock," he whispered.

"Grampa!" Obviously, it wasn't the first time. "You used the boy 'c' word!"

After a few moments, a little soapy hand beckoned. Frank leaned down. Savannah leaned up.

"There's a girl 'c' word, too, Grampa."

After a shy, yet precocious smirk, a little finger poked at the general location. It wasn't a word that Karen would ever use.

"You hear that on Sesame Street?"

Savannah snorted giggles.

"I think the boy 'c' word is nicer," Frank said.

"Grampa, why does a boy 'c' word stand up?"

"You mean like this little guy?" Frank gave the little erection a playful flip. "It makes him easier to play with. If you rub him, I bet he'll feel really nice, kinda hot and tingly."

Savannah grasped, little thumb massaging loose prepuce on the tip. It was very un-girl-like, but Frank didn't say so.

After a minute, he murmured, "Rub up and down, Sanny."

"This is how Mickey does it, Grampa."

For a moment, Frank came close to saying Mickey didn't have much of a penis to begin with. Instead, he watched Savannah pinch harder and harder as the pleasure began to increase, little ribbed soapy chest rising and falling, eventually, the narrow pelvis lifting up, thighs and back muscles straining as much to get out of the water and stay slippery as from ecstatic tension, little belly muscles taut as a bongo drum.

He picked up the bubble-bath bottle, squirted slimy suds on Savannah's genitals. With another squirt on his hands, he lathered little feet and slender legs, steadily working his way higher. After a while, Savannah's penis was quite pink. He ogled, enough that the memory would stay forever.

Almost right away, Savannah's masturbation switched to high-speed pinching, concentrating on the very exposed bulb, treating it like a plump little clitoris, determinedly avoiding the rest of the shaft. Innocent blue eyes became mere slits, panicky shudders scarcely restrained, nostrils flaring with each erratic frantic breath.

When Frank reached sleek inner thighs, the little boy-cock was inflamed, the bulging glans more purple than pink. For a few moments, he fondled the taut little ball sac, two fingers extending down the smooth soft perineum. Finally, a fingertip strayed onto kid anus. Frank tickled ever so lightly.

Savannah's knees, already well out of the water, braced the sides of the tub. If not granting access, at least expressing a desire to explore farther. There was so much slippery soap, all it took was a slight increase in pressure.

Frank stopped at the first joint, anxious to go deeper, yet needing permission.

"Can Rubber Ducky put his beak in your cute little butthole?" he whispered.

"Of course, Silly."

It wasn't just rubber-duck beak that disappeared into Savannah's anus. Every time Frank squeezed the rubber duck, a little jet of water squirted out. Every playful poke, another squeeze, another tablespoon of warm soapy bath water injected into Savannah's small rectum. After ten minutes of Rubber Ducky, Savannah needed to sit on the toilet.

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and nine days old > > >

It was after 8:00 am when Frank Martin interrupted his morning chores for a cup of coffee. Back at the ranch house, he tiptoed into Savannah's bedroom. She was in bed, curled up and reading. She turned over, sleepy and face down, tangled in lavender sheets, surrounded by desert-patterned wallpaper and nine-years of plush toys. With no effort at all, he retrieved the D-2 dilator, lubricated the next size up, and inserted it. The bigger dilator went in easily, too easily.

He worried about hurting her during the remaining two hours of his morning chores.

With his morning chores done, Frank enjoyed a slow walk from the stables back to the house. As much as the water trough, the Mexican Blue Oaks behind the corral brought birds by the hundreds, which was far from beneficial with a vineyard nearby. That morning, a pair of Northern Cardinals perched on the top rail, pecking at each other. Cardinals were usually long gone by early June. If they ate a few grapes, so what?

Sometime earlier, Karen had parked her red rental Ford Escape by the front porch, where two suitcases and a laptop bag waited. He lugged the biggest and heaviest suitcase to the SUV, opened the rear hatch and laid it down. She was waiting on the porch when he came back to the steps.

"It's such a nice morning, it's a pity you have to leave," he remarked, looking around.

"I'd love to stay longer, Dad; however, I've got to get back to New York. Eric wants to see my ROCK sketches."

"She was running around in panties for an hour, helping me pack. She made another pot of coffee," she added before he could ask.

"I already texted Dr. Stein. He had me take it out and check. Apparently, a little soreness is normal with the D-3. The analgesic cream will take care of the worst of it. She should get used to it by tomorrow. If not, he'll prescribe hydrocortisone acetate suppositories."

"If only I knew what it meant," Frank quipped. "Use the T-G app to figure it out, right?"

"It's self-explanatory, Dad. It's almost ten o'clock, Dad. She's just finishing up her second hour with the D-3. Next is playtime for an hour."

"It's on the app, Dad. You play with her butt. Foreplay and repeated penetration to get her ready for intercourse."

"I was embarrassed when Stein send me a video link. I got over it. You might not want to watch it. Then again, you might. You're supposed to use all of the dilators, and your fingers."

Frank swallowed, gaping at her 'self-explanatory' page, pink and purple in one-hour chunks. Even with the worst of last season's flu, he wasn't as hot, or as hoarse.

He wanted to say more, but there was something going on in his belly, not a sick feeling, anxious. He couldn't stop thinking he wouldn't be up to the task. "And then what?"

When Karen just smiled, he said with a kind of sadistic relief, "After playtime, I see she goes back on the D-1 for four hours."

"After she douches, she'll need to relax, Dad. Plus, it gives her sphincter time to close up. Then, there's a six-hour pattern. She has an hour less of D-2, and an hour more of D-3." She found Friday's schedule and showed him. "D-2 replaces D-1, and you start inserting D-4."

"It's less intense. Very gentle stimulation, responsive to her emotional needs, not yours. On the app, they call it a 'love orgasm.' She needs to associate anal sex with love." She hesitated. "I want you to be very clear about the difference, Dad."

"I'll watch the video so I know what not to do, okay?" Frank managed a feeble smile as heat rushed to his face. "Tonight will be about love, I promise.'

Satisfied she was making some headway, Karen confided, "You were right to say what you did at the clinic, Dad. I know what Stein said, but it's not worth the doing, if she only looks like a girl."

Frank stared at the page, his thoughts like a mouse plague, frantically running in different directions. The most helter-skelter of all was that someone would make a video about a transgender child having anal orgasms, and then put it on a website.

"Stein makes it sound as if appearance and feeling good are the most important things," he murmured, now flushed down to his shirt collar. He forced a deep breath. "I want her to be happy, Karen; deep-down, so it makes up for what she won't have as a woman."

He didn't ask about 10:00 pm thru midnight; either no dilator, or the D-1 until 4:00 am, barely enough for Savannah to feel it. Apparently, Stein cared enough about his patients to make sure they had a good night's sleep.

Frank smiled. "For once, I'd call her screaming at the top of her lungs a very timely interruption. And to think she was whiny two hours ago."

"Dad, I'm teasing. God only knows, you tease us all the time. I need to get on the road, and you need to start playtime."

Savannah flung open the front door. Back to her normal full-of-life self, grinning with bright golden curls bouncing. Hot-pink Candy Yum-yum lipstick, iridescent dark-blue eyeshadow, mascara two shades darker, gorgeous. However, Frank gaped at her pastel-purple panties. Nothing else!

With the ever-present iPhone in hand, Savannah pirouetted, fashion superstar blatantly showing off.

"Better stop staring before you embarrass yourself, Dad," Karen teased. "Hug, Brat."

Frank still ogled. Without nothing to keep Savannah's 'boy-thing' in place, it stood up, making a noticeable dent in the silky bikini. It was thick at the base, and tiny at the tip, like a railroad spike, only shorter. Though he'd never admit it, he loved seeing it unwavering and proud; it was Savannah's makeup he wasn't sure about.

Unaware, Savannah bear-hugged Mom, murmuring endearments, giving lots of goodbye kisses, not wet-smooching like she did with him.

When they parted, she sucked on her bottom lip, tears streaking cheeks. "I wish you could stay, Mommy."

"You'll survive! It's only 17 days until I'm back. If you do what we talked about, the next day we leave for the clinic."

Karen found a tissue in her handbag and carefully dabbed Savannah's tear-streaked face. She stepped back, a final dab and she was satisfied. Not about to embarrass Savannah before she left, she wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Savannah took selfies, mom and daughter posing together.

Having somehow managed to avert his gaze, Frank envied their loving embrace. A mother's caresses were perfectly acceptable in public. A father doing the same thing, Heaven forbid! If a grandfather did it, he'd be arrested and charged with child abuse.

Karen lifted her chin with her finger, eyes meeting like mother and daughter. "Remember what I said about overdoing it, Savy."

Karen hesitated, her still arm around Savannah's bare shoulders. Waiting for as long as possible for a final hug, hoping Savannah's 'boy-thing' would subside. Another Savannah selfie. A sideways glance at Frank.

Surely, Karen could see that leaving Savannah with him wasn't smart. She was browner than her last session in front of Bruce's camera, not even a week ago. She was more graceful, too, preening and very aware of her sensuous nine-year-old body.

"June 20th. You have a three-day leeway, if we leave on the 23rd," Karen explained.

"Listen Kemo-Savy, getting it done is not what I'm worried about. Dad, I'm depending on you. Don't let me down."

They watched her drive down the road, a faint dusty haze lingering even when her little red SUV was out of sight. Except for the power poles, it could've been a century earlier, when Cimarron was a tiny part of a vast cattle ranch. Now, displaced yuppie mini-mansions, hobby ranches by the score, and vineyards littered the sprawling valley.

Frank jerked back to reality, not at all certain when they'd started holding hands. There were two selfies in there somewhere, too. The first selfie for 'Mom', they were waving goodbye; Savannah's smooth lustrous skin, skillfully applied makeup enhancing her natural beauty, Frank's leathery face grimy from shoveling dung in the barn. In the other selfie, their faces were just inches apart; they might've been going to kiss.

"It was only two months ago, Sanny," he blurted out after what seemed like ages.

Stunned by brazenness, Frank leaned against the handrail. He stretched, looking over Cimarron Ranch. In his will, all of it went to Savannah. She was the only person he would ever truly love; her mother said as much. It was logical, too, when one of the three horses grazing in the east paddock was officially hers. Every holiday, she helped him tend the grape vines stretching across the next low hill. In late fall, she picked up the acorns from Quercus Arizonica, (Arizona white oak), 50 feet tall, marching beside the road. Grate cattle food during the winter, and well-earned pocket money for her.

"Playtime's whatever you want. It's just you and me until the weekend, kid," he mused. He kissed his finger and rubbed Savannah's forehead, affectionate, not intimate.

He'd give Manuel two days off after he'd worked so hard the previous week, doing his chores, and Frank's, and cleaning out the barn. With a Mexican family of seven lined up for fertilizing the vines, there'd be no one else around until late on Friday, and more likely the weekend.

"How about you fetch me a cup of coffee, pardner?" She was through the front door before he added, "Better bring Emile and his Dilator gang, too."

He carried his favorite rocking chair from the sunset side of the wraparound porch to the cool side, partly hidden by yucca plants, yet commanding a view down the road, just in case someone decided to visit. There was a 'Private Property' sign on the mechanically closed front gate, and the mail lady knew to call him in advance; however, tourists seemed to think that every vineyard in Elgin was open to visitors.

He squinted to focus. Karen was long gone, probably doing sixty-plus on Route 83, the scenic road to Tucson through the Santa Rita foothills. Besides, her Escape was red. The car parked by his mailbox was a little black two-door sedan, not the mail lady's white Ford pickup. It was probably a tourist looking for an address, or someone dropping off flyers, yet another yard sale, or an invitation to the opening of a new vineyard.

Her tone was enough for Frank to hurry to the front door. He opened it to find her frowning, arms full with her iPhone, a towel, a box of wet wipes, two jars, a bottle of baby oil, a tube of KY… He swiftly extracted a precarious coffee cup and four dilators from under one arm a moment before everything would've crashed to the ground.

"You think you have enough stuff?" He closed the door behind her to keep out the flies.

Grampa remembered just fine. He smiled and led the way to the rocking chair, put his coffee mug and three dilators on an antique oak milking stool he'd salvaged from the barn, and sat down.

"Ah reckon eet's time to lose them-there panties, kid," he said in his mock-gruff cowboy' voice.

Savannah sashayed, fluttering eyelashes and tiny pink tongue playing with her lips as she peeled off her favorite undies, pale pastel-purple bikini slithering down slender legs. She stepped closer to the rocking chair, giggling, suddenly very self-conscious.

"Be careful what you wish for." It was out before he realized. "If we ignore it, it'll go away."

She gave a petulant sigh and plopped onto his lap. She fired up her iPhone while he rearranged her, bare slender thighs spread wide apart, draped over his jeans-covered thighs, suntanned legs dangling down. Instead of exposing a hairless little camel-toe pussy, a proud boyhood jutted up.

"Before you start texting your friends, Sanny, I want you to close your eyes and concentrate."

"For a start, I want you to tell me how to make you feel really good," Frank whispered in her ear.

With saliva covering his right index finger, he reached under her, avoiding 'boy-thing' and balls, lightly caressing back to her anus. Finding a small round hump wasn't unexpected; it only made sense that the D-3 he'd inserted two hours earlier was still inside her.

He fingered the end of the ring, fascinated that it barely protruded into her anus. It meant the rest of the dilator was plugging her rectum, stretching her sphincter, expanding her anus, tantalizing her every move. He got hot just thinking about it.

Frank watched the screen over her head, lips and nose burrowing into golden curls, wondering how her small hand could hold the iPhone and scroll through selfies at the same time. Endless snapshots of Savannah, Mom, and Grampa. She'd also taken a photo of herself on the Jeep's rear seat, head screwed around, watching his hand holding the D-2, the fingers of his other hand spreading her pale little buttocks, the tip already inserted into her tightly stretched anus.

Frank could see little balls tucked between slender thighs. To take his mind off it, he circled ever so gently around the little silicone hump. He began to tease what was left of Savannah's pucker. His fingertip was like a feather going around and around, until it started to dry. Shamelessly thrilled, he added more spit and quickly resumed, switching to sliding up and down the tight little butt-crack, tapping on the ring with every pass.

She nodded, not eager, not reluctant, just ready to try something different while she emailed select photos, mostly to her mom.

Carefully, Frank squeezed his little finger into smooth soft buttock, pressing into the loosened rim of her anus until he could fit his fingertip under the ring. With gentle tugs, he began to ease out rest of the ring.

He could tell she wasn't ready to give it up, not with the thickest part of the dilator locked in her sphincter.

He sounded like Coach Karen, iPhone in hand, converting Stein's jargon into kid-appropriate instructions for retrieving a dilator.

Savannah looked up at him, making her vampire-princess face. "It's easier squatting, Grampa."

Even squatting, he'd had to assist her; five times already, enough to know what to expect; however, each time still seemed like the first. Only a single time with D-3, so far. It was wider, needing a firmer pull to break loose from her sphincter's grasp.

Savannah nodded. A steady downward tug, a firm push, a gasp, and D-3 emerged, shiny-wet pastel pink.

"Keep going," Frank whispered, inserting his little finger all the way through the ring.

With the widest part of the dilator though her sphincter, he was all about keeping it from falling on the porch deck. White streaks of lubricant where it tapered; nothing else after Karen introduced her to douching after retrieval.

The dilator was hot and slippery. He put it on the stool with the others. Savannah was back on her iPhone, scrolling slowly, searching for something among the T-G app instructions covering the screen.

"Uh uh. Just feels big like before." She had a smug smile. Before he could ask… "Mommy said to ask if you want to watch Sam's video."

On the 5-1/2 inch (14 cm) glorious technicolor high-res screen, it took away his breath. Samantha was a hairless preteen, her partner/boyfriend Hispanic, mid-20s. Both naked, both obviously accustomed to being naked in front of a video camera.

Savannah turned up the volume. Embarrassed, Frank made her turn it off. He could feel her thigh muscles, gluteous muscles, belly muscles tightening as she squirmed in his lap, sexually aroused by the scene unfolding on her iPhone, at the same time trying to adjust to the empty feeling inside her.

Savannah radiated heat with each pint-sized quiver of excitement. Frank felt sweaty, each touch of Savannah's smooth skin searing his fingertips. Filling his lungs took concentration away from the screen. He expected the man's erect penis to slide into Samantha's slimy hole; it didn't. Instead, it was a massive D-5 dilator. Surprisingly, Samantha's 'boy-thing' was the reverse of Savannah's stubbornly erect 'boy-thing, pitiful really.

Unable to resist, Frank felt underneath. Nature was trying to tighten up what felt like a gaping hole, clutching, pinching against his intrusive fingertip. Surely, Savannah's little hole was as slimy as what was now in vivid close-up on her iPhone. Impossible that a little body could stretch that big, that something as large as a D-5 could slide back and forth.

"Seeing it makes you feel tingly inside, doesn't it?" he murmured in Savannah's ear.

He was about to try for a fingertip when nature achieved success in a rush, Savannah's little ass-pussy closing up like a clamshell. He quickly added saliva to his left index finger, circling again, doing his to convince the little anus to loosen up.

"That's enough video, Sanny," he said firmly, drawing the line at the child's frantic pelvic thrusts.

"Maybe." It was beyond his wildest fantasy. He almost said 'next time.' Maybe the day after…

He brought his right index finger to his mouth. Sheer disbelief that he was tasting ass-pussy. Salivating shamelessly. Inhaling deeply. There was even more aware of the musky scent than the previous times he'd touched her there. The smell was nothing like his ex-wife's vagina. It always reminded him of going into a Mexican fish market, sun blazing down on the metal deck roof, flies everywhere.

He switched fingers and Savannah's breathing slowed, submitting to his loving, very deliberate rubbing, prodding into the sensitive aperture. Already far more elastic than it was a day ago. Fond memories from the return trip; he had to convince himself it was only two days ago.

With every careful prod, Savannah's pleasure slowly intensified, steadily growing stronger. Anyone could see it. Legs twitchy, little hands making fists, little fingers rasping his hairy arms, urging him on, too aroused to even look at her iPhone.

"It's good, huh Sanny?" He kissed her ear, nuzzling around her neck, daring himself to suck hard enough to leave a hickey.

Frank pushed, still very cautious, yet feeling the tiny anus accept his fingertip without a struggle. He wriggled his finger, still pushing in, pulling out, massaging. It was enough to make her twitch, gasp, hold her breath. It wasn't because she was so small, or his finger was so large; it was because he was doing it!

He twisted his finger, very aware of the surprisingly strong muscle just inside. Not grasping, not yielding either. He carefully withdrew his finger, his left index finger loaded and ready with saliva. Slippery, it slid in, back out, and in again. No wincing, yet there was noticeable tension in Savannah's lower abdomen. She might've been straining down, even though his finger wasn't in far enough. Wriggling her pelvis like the preteen on her iPhone, elasticity compensating, deliberately relaxing, opening up for him, dilating just right.

Karen said to ask about feelings, get her vocalizing sensations so he knew what to do for her to enjoy it. No shame, no guilt, no embarrassment, if they were open talking about it.

Frank's other index finger took over, switching seamlessly on the outstroke. She giggled nervously as it penetrated still deeper. Suddenly, her sphincter offered no resistance at all.

However, Savannah was back on her iPhone again, some kind of multiplayer Hollywood star game.

After watching only a minute of video, he intended to go the rest of the way slowly, delaying the inevitable penetration in favour of careful stretching. Levering from side to side and up and down, twisting his finger through the muscle. With only a few wavering spasms, it seemed to be working.

"Do that more," Savannah murmured, her arms pressed into her tummy, hunched forward, looking down at her iPhone, occasionally peeking where his hand disappeared under her rump.

"I don't want it on my iPhone. Use Vaseline, Grampa," she said with nine-year-old stubbornness.

Meekly, he snapped the lid off the jar and scooped up a lump. He deposited it right on top of the puckered depression. It was greasy, not nearly as slippery as EMIL. Still, it beat his saliva hands down. Circling again, he pushed the glob inside her anus, strangely aware that it made a huge difference. His finger sunk in to the second joint. Almost two inches (5 cm). Halfway.

"I want you to squeeze on my finger, Sanny. As tight as you can. That's good. Can you go any tighter?"

Savannah abandoned her game, something about Kim Kardashian, gritted her teeth, clenched her eyes, and did her best to bite off his finger.

Frank pushed again. His finger reached deeper into the void, hot, sleek, slick. It was surprisingly slimy when he rotated his wrist. He went in and out, meeting little resistance, yet watching her face, just in case. Twisting, too, deliberately loosening her up, though not nearly enough, definitely not big enough to reinsert D-4.

He held D-3 by its ring. She dipped three little fingers into the Vaseline jar, collecting enough for all five dilatators. She slathered it over the middle-sized one as it swung to and fro.

"If you're worried about getting your iPhone greasy, you can wipe it off on my T-shirt, Sanny."

Morning playtime wasn't for him to satisfy his debauched desires; however, years of one-sided lust demanded otherwise.

She turned half-around, looking up at him, not frowning, not perturbed, almost curious, as if she expected him to say it, seeming unaware that he'd positioned the tip of D-3 against her anus, ready to push it in.

"I promise it'll feel really good if you rub yours the same way you rub mine," he confided.

Her gaze was as relentless as her iPhone was useless, clutched against her tummy so he couldn't see what was on it, her greasy hand precariously close to the much-despised little lever between her thighs.

At the same time, the indefatigable dilator was slowly going in, the inward pressure from his thumb not much at all. He expected resistance, even a struggle, just a muffled sigh. He wondered what was going through her mind. Surely, she could feel it, relentlessly expanding inside her. Unstoppable, inescapable dilation, stretching her anus and sphincter, the silicone shaft slowly filling her rectum.

Anything to distract her, anything to convince himself he hadn't breeched his agreement with Karen. In those few unsettling seconds before she looked at her iPhone again, he had a strange sense that she wanted to ask him to rub it.

Savannah barely nodded, peering at the screen, trying to read a text message that only just arrived.

He stroked her thigh, clumsily working toward her 'boy-thing', his right hand finishing the insertion. With his index finger looped through the ring, it was impossible for it to go any farther, but it must have. Or something happened inside her, because she let out a very long groan.

Savannah shuddered, squirming in his lap. Her sphincter grabbed the dilator and tried to pull it inside. Instead, Frank yanked back. Not all the way out, close to it. A moment later, he rammed it back, not too hard, just right.

Instinct took over. In and out pumping, fucking her with a metronome rhythm that was slow at first, gradually picking up speed as the muscle weakened. He rubbed the little lever, too. More like vibrating, gripping it between his thumb and index finger, his wrist jerking rapidly.

< < < Does fucking hurt, Grampa? > > >

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 12 days old > > >

Frank Martin had been up since 3:50 am. Saturday's Dilation Schedule called for retrieval of D-2 and insertion of D-3 at 4:00 am. It slid right in, and Savannah went back to sleep, which was exactly what was supposed to happen. By 4:10 am, he was on his way to the barn, figuring with slightly less than four hours, he'd get his regular chores done before they left for Tucson, right before breakfast, 8:00 am.

He'd just started mucking out the stables when he heard the barn door hinges squeak. For an awful moment, as he straightened up, he thought another goddamn illegal alien. June was prime border-crossing season. The last thing he expected was Savannah, wearing her lavender-purple-camouflage TOMBOYpre Wonder jumpsuit.

It didn't help that it was still dark outside, just the faintest glimmer of light in the sky over Elgin.

He held it away from his ear, expecting a tirade about Thursday's playtime. Not that he didn't deserve it, masturbating her 'boy-thing, while plunging D-3 back and forth like the piston in an old-fashioned Glava well-water pump.

"I just had the creepiest phone call, Dad. Some man asked if I knew where Savannah was. Of course, I hung up immediately, and called her. I figured you'd be out doing chores."

His sense of relief came and went, leaving behind an audible sigh of disbelief. "Did you get a phone number?"

Frank didn't hesitate; he was a bull in a china shop when it concerned Savannah's safety.

"Dad, think about it. With all the fuss nowadays about missing kids and sex trafficking, do you really want cops at the ranch, maybe someone from CPS asking her questions?"

Karen thought for a few moments. "'Do you know where your kid is, right now?' Now I think about it, Dad, it might've been a computer voice. No accent, and it was flat, no intonation at all. Of course, I immediately thought she'd been kidnapped."

"I could round up a hundred grand in a week, not that she's worth it. When you think about it, it's not really threatening," Frank added, unconvinced yet needing to reassure her. "Maybe someone thought they saw her someplace and wanted to let you know."

She thought about it some more. "It's crazy, Dad! You know, it could be a wrong number. Or a prank call. It was so unexpected, I panicked. You think I jumped to the wrong conclusion?"

"It's likely. I mean if he knows your number, he'd know Savannah's name. Still, it pays to be careful."

"For starters, call your phone company and see if they can track the number. Meanwhile, I won't let her out of my sight. She's way safer on the ranch with me than in New York."

"It depends on what 'safe' is." Karen's guarded tone surprised him. "Dad, she told me about last night."

Frank frowned at Savannah, mock-serious. Friday night playtime set the standard as far as he was concerned. Afterwards, she slept in his bed.

"All over, I'm told," Karen added, deliberately vague because anything else would be too darned emotional for 7:20 am in New York.

"All over, and twice on the ticklish bits," Frank confirmed, winking right at her.

Savannah, the recipient of her first around-the-world voyage, grinned like a pussy with cream. He left no part of her without a wet kiss, ears, fingers, under arms, ten little toes, all the while twiddling a succession of toys in her butt-twat. The 'boy-thing,' he mostly managed to avoid.

He was certain now was the time if she was going to bring up Thursday's playtime.

"Someone has to." He chuckled, still insecure yet relieved. "Did she tell you she talked me into going to Tucson? We're staying overnight so iBrat can shop."

'Pack' was an easily concealed Colt Defender. It usually lived in his nightstand drawer, loaded and waiting for unwanted visitors during the night.

"Just remember, Karen, if you call on this phone, you might need to take a number," he joked to turn down the heat.

Savannah rolled her eyes, tangled bed-hair framing a striking if peevish face. Maybe she was cold, or she just wanted to go back to bed.

"If you have to, confiscate it. The TOMBOY website will survive without her," Karen chuckled. "I better go. I'm meeting Eric at Paris Baguette. Take care of my iBrat, Dad."

With Savannah's iPhone a silent aide-mémoire of Friday night, Frank held out his arms. She regarded him shyly, fully aware of what was in store.

It smelled of horses and hay, oil from Frank's John Deere front loader, and fermenting pomace (grape pressings) headed for liqueur and grapeseed oil factories.

He felt completely inept. "Overalls aren't the best attire for romance, are they?"

The first two things he did every day, make a thermos of coffee and put on sandstone-brown Carhartt bib overalls. Doing chores wasn't a fashion show.

Only an hour earlier, watching him put on his overalls took her mind off the dilator jammed inside her. Like her lavender-camouflage jumpsuit, there was nothing underneath. With only the bedroom lampshade, bare and not all that hairy, his 'big ole penis' dangling; it made her feel funny down there. The same happened when waking up again, her iPhone beeping insistently, immediately thinking about what happened in Grampa's bed the night before.

She smirked her way out of it, preteen precocity implying what she wanted to say, but couldn't. Not yet.

Unconvinced, he handed over her iPhone, thinking he ought to warn her to keep off the Internet. She'd had that lecture from Mom any number of times. With nothing to add, he picked up a rake.

Mock grumbling, propping the rake against the stall door, swigging from his coffee thermos, taking her little kid hand in his paw, they headed out the squeaky barn door. They were past the corral before Savannah had enough courage to bring it up.

She giggled, shook, and then nodded her head. She thrived on sending mixed messages.

Unable to stop himself when she finally turned over, he'd licked out her boy-pussy, very relaxed and minus a dilator. It was virgin anilingus for her, and for him, too. Bizarre, certainly, yet entirely natural, slobbering spit all over her little butt cheeks, scouring her crack, sticking his 'big ole tongue' into her very spongy hole. Not once or twice, ten minutes of serious rimming.

"Going to be dawn soon, Sanny," he muttered, casting his gaze toward Mexican Blue Oaks. "Keep an eye out for rattlesnakes."

"Any Sidewinders about, they'll come out when they smell you." He inhaled near her tousled hair. "Nothing excites 'em like orange-blossom shampoo."

Savannah yanked his hand. "Sweaty grandpas bring out Western Diamondbacks, so you better be careful."

Like the night before, he led her every step of the way, though not like an innocent lamb to slaughter. Savannah knew, or surmised what was in store. Sitting next to her grampa on a Home Depot picnic table, with enough of a rise to give a view of Cochise County unimpeded by yuppie mansions, Apache Peak far in the distance. It was still too dark to see more than house lights and occasional streetlights.

Still holding his hand, iPhone temporarily laid down on the table, Savannah was trying hard not to yawn.

In those last few minutes of anticipation, Frank Martin felt 50 and very alive, not 60 and weary from getting up before dawn. She snuggled closer, pressing up against weathered cotton duck, feeling his warmth. Suddenly, 40 and horny, his work-hardened hand stroked silky curls, clawing through bed tangles.

With no warning at all, she scooted around, leaned up, and smooched on his neck. He wrapped his arm around her, keeping her there, inhaling juvenile scents.

He sighed, seduced by little wet lips, and what could only be her tongue licking, leaving a pathway of spit on his shoulder up to the overalls' bib.

His hand strayed, or followed his will, sneaking onto her front, pawing her slender abdomen through warm, soft, brushed cotton/poly, wondering what Karen would say when she learned he was off schedule. At 5:15 am, Savannah was supposed to be sleeping while the D-3 dilator dilated her ass, not having unscheduled playtime on a picnic table.

He plucked at the first Velcro tab, slipping his thumb inside her onesie-jumpsuit, tickling soft smooth skin as he parted successive tabs, opening the front from chest to crotch. She quivered, as he did, when his hand reached inside.

Caressing her small, hot body, massaging firm juvenile muscle, pinching skin ripples, grasping bare flesh. The utter urgency of Frank Martin's lust was astounding, arousing both of them.

"Grampa?" Savannah tugged on his shoulder. "Grampa, you gotta turn more. I can't reach."

Unsure, never so sure about anything, confused because everything was happening so quickly, unable to stop his hand from roaming. No tits, just pinprick nipples. Gorgeous soft belly. Sticking his finger into her Pillsbury-Doughboy bellybutton, getting a giggling Hoo-Hoo every time. Feeling her little body squirming, trembling, trying her best to get him to do what she wanted.

"Sanny. Sanny.. Sanny… I love you. " Whispering it, yet wanting to shout, tell the whole goddamn county he was in love with Savannah.

More than anything, he wanted to bury his cock in her boy-pussy. Instead, he lifted her up, dumped her into his lap, hugging her tighter, harder than ever before. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck. Rubbing faces, his unshaved cow leather, like 60-grit sandpaper. Her face was chamois soft and smooth, so smooth. Breathing the same air. He saw her tongue poking out, wanton and wanting. Her eyes closed a moment before their lips met.

Frank Martin never kissed his wife like a lover. Wet and urgent, pressing lips, feeding on each other, swabbing her mouth, sucking her tongue until she was breathless – she was still only nine years old. They parted just enough to gasp and murmur what they didn't dare say the night before.

Holding her tightly, Frank resumed pawing, tweaking tiny nipples into pebbles until she was ready to kiss again. He slid his hand around and down, grasping, fondling anything he found inside her jumpsuit, lifting her up to get at her round little bottom, increasing her urgency ten-fold by rubbing, squeezing, clutching cheeks.

Savannah kissed, oblivious to spit and teeth, and coarse skin, scarcely aware that Grampa grasped her 'boy-thing.' She was panting, shaking, burning up, when they parted. He held her, a love-child secure in his lap, nuzzling her face, finger and thumb masturbating her glans, pinching, rolling, squishing the tiny red ball mercilessly. She peaked in a frazzle, whimpering softly; and then peaked again before she made him stop.

They watched the golden glow appear, Apache Peak in silhouette. The sun rose over the horizon, and darkness fled. He kept her warm until it was light enough to see their way back to the house without stumbling. Savannah always worried about rattlesnakes.

Frank took Route 83 north, grasslands ending in mountains far in the distance – they called it the Sonoita Mountain View Highway for a reason. Soon, the scrubby trees of Coronado National Forest took over and serious cattle grazing ended.

"Hey, I need to talk to the hot little kisser from Cimarron Ranch. That would be you!"

"We're coming up to a border checkpoint. They know me; however, there's always a chance the guard pulls us over. Otherwise, it looks like discrimination. If he does, I don't want you squirming."

She'd been squirming and complaining when he inserted D-4. No wonder, with two handfuls of silicone crammed into her butt, it completely filled her rectum. According to the T-G app, the dilator was flexible enough to make the turn into her colon. Mostly, it encouraged internal organs to rearrange. Sitting on it was actually helping her body adjust.

Frank didn't believe that for a second. She'd vacillated between happy and mopey since watching the sunrise.

She held up her iPhone for him to see. It was too far away for him to read. Besides, reading at 65 mph [105 km/h] was goddamn dangerous. However, he nodded as if he had read it. She typed, little fingers dancing on the screen.

"I told him we're about to go through a border thing, only the guards know you so it's not a problem."

"Other than being gay for as long as he can remember?" Savannah hesitated. "He's got kind of a boyfriend problem. He says he's a bottom."

Frank nodded understandingly, even though he didn't understand. All of Savannah's friends were gay boys, which meant romantic messes, emotional nuances, angst, bullying, inferiority; endless problems.

A few hundred yards ahead, orange and white construction barrels and witches' cones lined the side of the road. The checkpoint might've been unattended except for two white DHS SUVs parked between a scrappy metal shed, a trailer, and what resembled a roadside produce stand.

"Most kids know about butt sex at my age, Grampa." She hesitated, scrolling back through texts, unaware that they were slowing down. "He's looking for someone to top him."

Savannah had plenty of them; her Montessori school, fans of her YouTube videos, through the TOMBOY website, and most recently, the T-G app, which had 'T-G Friends' for the kids to support each other.

He wasn't serious, but if he had to give up someone, it would be Raoul, not Tim. Tim was from her school. He also lived on 39th Street, the next block over. He liked Tim. He was funny and smart, although dark straight hair and green eyes made him look 'emo.' He wanted to be an engineer like his mom, the kind of boy who'd make a good partner for Savannah when he was older.

At the very last moment, a man in an olive-green uniform with a bright yellow shoulder patch stepped from behind the checkpoint stand and signaled to stop.

He put on his hazard lights, pulled to the side, and lowered his window as the duty officer approached. Dark skinned Hispanic with a Marine-style buzz, the worst kind because they were biased and trying to prove they weren't.

"Frank Martin, Elgin resident going to Tucson, Officer." He held up his driver's license. On previous stops, it was more than enough for a wave through.

The border patrol agent strolled around the car, checking the rear tag and registration expiration, peering through the windows. He stopped at the driver's window, leaning down to inspect the proffered ID.

"I asked if she was your daughter, Sir." His tone sharpened. "We're on the lookout for child-trafficking as much as undocumented aliens."

About then, the patrol agent spotted TOMBOYpre Rage shorts. He gaped, and gaped, and gaped.

Awkwardly, the patrol agent stepped back, still gaping. He waved to Savannah through the windscreen. Frank accelerated back to 60, his relief real.

"Grampa, I didn't!" Realizing, Savannah ceased chewing on her bottom lip and grinned. "You did, though."

"He didn't look like a pedo." Savannah shook her head, already back to scrolling through texts on her iPhone. "Wayne wants an older boyfriend, Grampa."

"A lot older than Raoul." She stopped scrolling. "If you really want to know, here's what he texted last night. 'I want him to be like my dad.'"

Adult attraction was unlikely, not impossible with Internet-savy kids, yet Frank found it hard to believe.

She held up her iPhone again. "He doesn't know any. He says his teachers are all straight. He wants to meet someone nice. Not like guys who hang out at malls or laser tag places."

Once on I-10, the mile markers flashed past quickly. The desert turned to industry, silos and food-processing plants mostly. Warehouses, sports complexes, and Costco preceded downtown Tucson, everything spread out like cowboys still drove herds of cattle through the middle of town, yet still a blur of mid- and low-rise buildings. Savannah had seen it often enough to be totally bored. She texted, smashed her iPhone in new and exciting ways, and showed Frank photos of Karen's latest mockups for TOMBOY Rock.

Savannah oozed pride – Karen incorporated her idea for combining synthetic boa, both faux snake-skin and featherless, a kind of souped-up Hispanic Mardi Gras meets grunge look.

It was worth a giggle. Instead, Savannah texted his 'alien' comment back to Mom.

"She said, 'Beware the rattlesnake in the ass.' She thinks it's funny or she would'a wrote 'grass.'"

"Anything your mom designs is uber sexy." He paused for effect. "Like Range; it's off the chart when someone who's as sexy as you wears the jeans."

Frank grinned, hoping to get back in her good books. She frowned and scrolled through more photos before peeking sideways and grinning back at him.

He checked the rear vision mirror before he ventured into the slow lane. A black two-door sedan, some kind of cheap Chrysler, still honked its horn from behind. He took the next exit, merged with North Freeway and turned right onto Route 77. He turned left at Evergreen Cemetery, still on Route 77, yet a little surprised to see the black sedan right behind him.

They were passing Tucson Mall, right before Rillito River, when Savannah texted again.

Suddenly, pieces plopped into place, along with feeling he was quite frankly, 'fucked.'

Frank inhaled. "By any chance, did you arrange to meet him at Tohono Chul Park?"

"Um…" Savannah shrugged, doing a poor job concealing anxiety. "I thought maybe you could talk to him. He's so lonely."

"I'm sure he is," he snapped. "Sanny, Honey, you can't go around trying to set up gay boys with men." He rubbed his forehead, his anger slowly subsiding. "When, exactly, is this meeting."

"There isn't a time, Grampa. I didn't know when we'd get here. You said we might go to the mall first. Wayne said he'd be here all day. He keeps texting to ask where I am."

"Text him back and say… Hell, I don't know. You changed your mind. Better yet, don't answer any more messages from him. No matter what he says!"

Instead of taking the next turn left onto West Ina Road, and right into Tohono Chul Park, Frank continued on. At the last minute, he made a tight right onto a service road, back onto Route 77, but going in the opposite direction. At the last moment, he veered into the Red Roof Inn parking area. He stopped under a palm tree, struggling to find the right words.

"Do NOT ever, repeat EVER, text anyone any personal information! Don't email anyone without asking me or your Mom first. No sending photos we haven't approved."

Seeing her dismal face, protruding bottom lip, watering eyes, constant sniffles, and hunched up against the car door; Frank wanted to cry, too.

He had a reservation at historic Arizona Inn, one of the nicest hotels in the state with a fabulous old-fashioned dining room. At one fifth of the June Summer-Special price, and right around the corner from Tohono Chul Park, he figured the Red Roof Inn was the last place anyone would look. With a whole day left to play, he canceled the Arizona reservation and booked and paid for a Red-Roof room before heading off to Saguaro National Park.

Room 209 was clean by Frank's domestic standard; beds made with boot camp precision, hotel literature arranged on the desk, coffee maker set up with utensils and fixings in plastic bags. The carpet might've been vacuumed recently, or not. However, it was the smell, fresh, but not fresh, as if someone had sprayed scented disinfectant to block cigarette or pet odors. The Arizona inn, it most definitely was not.

Frank left their suitcase opposite the bathroom door, dropped the swipe card on the table beside the mini-fridge.

He kicked off his shoes, and made a beeline for the bed closest to the window and air-conditioning.

He picked up the TV remote, pressing 'power' until the TV responded. Saturday, June 9th, Colorado Rockies vs. Arizona Diamondbacks at Coors Field, Denver. Nearly 6:00 pm, the game was 45 minutes in.

Instead of her usual modus operandi of cuddling with him, Savannah flopped onto the other bed, not even a glance at her iPhone.

"The kiss monster is beat." She sighed, too. "The kiss monster is also way off schedule."

'Kiss monster' started in Saguaro National Park. They were off the well-beaten Picture Rocks Wash path, making out like horny teenagers when they realized a Gila Monster was watching them. Savannah promptly took a photo with her iPhone, the only venomous lizard in the US, just a few yards away. Then, they skedaddled to find somewhere less inhabited.

"If you don't count watching the sunrise, yeah, we missed morning playtime." Frank slapped his forehead. "Don't tell me it's been in you all this time?"

From 8:00 am to 6:00 pm, ten long hours, most of it spent hiking medium-difficulty trails, and not a single complaint, except when he replaced her D-3 with the massive D-4. The next size up always hurt when it first went in.

"Your job is to put it in, and take it out, on schedule! Not lay on the bed and watch some stupid baseball game."

He scrambled off the bed, an insensible asshole, caring more about baseball than the kid he loved. He stood, gazing down at her, feeling terribly shamed, completely at a loss for what to do next.

She wasn't about to let him off easily. "You were mad, Grampa! Really, really mad! When you finally started being nice to me again, it wasn't hurting."

"I can't believe it doesn't hurt something awful all the time," he muttered. "We'd best get those pants off you so I can take a look at my kiss monster's cute little butt."

Savannah regarded him, blinking, more sniffling in the offing. "Kiss monster is gone forever if you're going to be mad at me."

"Never ever again, I promise; assuming you don't do something really stupid like get pregnant: or do tequila shots while you're driving; or send texts to strangers."

She wasn't in the mood for teasing. "I didn't realize I was doing something wrong by texting him, Grampa. He's only eleven. He sent me a photo."

Before Grampa could say 'fuck me,' she had it on her iPhone, held out for him to see..

The kid in the photo looked about eleven, mousey type with insensible eyes, straight brown hair, and skinny as a pitchfork.

"Maybe you didn't do anything wrong, Sanny. It's possible I jumped to conclusions."

He wasn't about to say what he was thinking. If the kid lived in Phoenix, he'd eat his Stetson. The boy was as pale as a Siberian winter; and the rug hanging on the wall behind him was some kind of Persian thing, not Navajo.

"I should, just in case." He hesitated to bring it up again. "What if he's the person who called your mom and asked if she knew where you were?"

"You'll just make her worry, Grampa. There's no way Wayne would know to call her."

She took his hand and drew him down. He sat on the side of her bed, leaning over her, unfastening buttons, each with a little Rage logo. He opened the front of her shorts. She lifted up, and he tugged them down to her feet, pulling off her red-white-and-blue design-your-own Nike Air Max sneakers in the process. He grinned, gazing at slender bare legs, brown where the sun reached, like creamy ivory elsewhere.

Licking his lips with unabashed anticipation, he plucked the waist cord of her all-but-invisible girl-thong. She lifted up again. He dragged it over her butt a little at a time; it was easier after that.

After what happened at dawn, he made a point of not looking. The last thing he wanted was Savannah calling her mom, saying that Grampa played with her 'boy-thing' until she orgasmed; three little dry shudders the first time; he'd counted them, disbelieving he'd caused them. The second time, he was too excited to be sure.

She averted her eyes, too, acting as if her 'boy-thing' didn't exist. It still got hard.

"I wub you, too, Grampa. I sorry I screwed up," she said in her bashful baby voice, which only made it cuter.

Finally, she peeked, instinct, or perhaps she could feel it throbbing. It looked stiff enough to poke out an eye, chip ice from the freezer in Frank's barn, or steal someone's virginity.

The whiny voice was completely normal – he'd heard it often. "I can't help it."

Grampa promptly covered her crotch with his hand, fingers squishing into silky-soft scrotum, cradling both tiny testicles. Just two more weeks and they'd be gone forever. It wasn't fair, yet he'd never say that.

He could feel her 'boy-thing' pulsing under his palm, hard and hot. Nearly big enough to be noticed, circumcised tightly, too tightly, pink inner skin going farther than half way down. It was exotic compared to Mickey's penis, the last time he saw it.

Savannah giggled strangely, slender arms lifting up, locking around his neck, pulling him down. Rather than lie on top and worry about squashing her, Frank rolled her onto her side and lay behind her. One hand still clasped the offensive boy-parts, his other hand caressing, unbuttoning, and pushing up her Rage blouse. Unable to control himself, he roughed her up, urgently pinching nipples, more poking armpits than tickling, manipulating flat pectoral muscle, kneading bulging gluteus muscle, abrading baby-soft skin over sculpted abdominal muscle, all the while heightening the sensation by burying his nose in her hair. He seriously thought about leaving his mark on her neck.

Savannah's head twisted around, little tongue wetting her lips, puckering up so there was no question what she expected from him, even side on and awkward.

He smooched wetly, sucking on her tongue, grinding his erection against her bare little butt.

She wriggled back to encourage him, suddenly wanting what Wayne said he wanted. She settled for his tongue filling her mouth. When they separated, Frank was shaking as much as she was.

"Yeah, I do, but first you need to hop in the tub and wash off the desert, Sweetheart."

He sat up, stood up, scooped her up, and had hoisted her over his shoulder before she had time to say, 'I dare you.'

It was hardly the way to treat a nine-and-a-half-year-old girl. Savannah, the boy, wriggled and giggled, and pummeled Grampa's back all the way into the bathroom.

Frank eased her down in front of the commode. "Try to poop, Sanny. Maybe it'll come out by itself."

He turned on the bath taps, adjusted the water, and closed off the drain. When he turned around, Savannah was straining, one hand underneath to catch the dilator as it glided out.

Confused, even surprised, Savannah's hand reemerged from between her widespread thighs, pinching the slimy dilator by the end ring. She gasped as the enormity of it sank in.

"Well, yeah. Look at the size of the damned thing. You stay right where you are while I get your douche thingie out of my bag."

She'd pooped, wiped, and flushed before he got back. Her T-G app was resolute about regularly irrigating and rinsing, recommending a bulb syringe with lateral holes near the nozzle for proper cleansing.

While he undressed and brushed his teeth, he made her douche twice, the second time just for the heck of it.

She squeezed the bulb, squirting warm water into her rectum. "It's not like your semen's inside me," she complained.

Frank never expected something like that to come from *his* precocious precious nine-year-old, boy or girl. She looked up at him, smirking, fully aware. She slipped out of her Rage blouse as the last of the water trickled into the bowl. Still astounded, he gawked, gloriously, shamelessly naked but for white ankle socks.

At Savannah's insistence, he got into the tub first, sitting with his back away from the tap, watching her pull off socks. She stepped over the side, holding his hand, placing one foot either side of his knees. She squatted slowly, facing him, her eyes never leaving his middle.

It was like looking at D-5, slightly shorter, slightly thicker. And it had an enormous helmet on the end, not purple, not crimson, a color in the middle, pale like her favorite 'lavender.'

Frank smiled, sending reassurance, meeting her eyes when she finally glanced up. He nodded. Still not a word. Even though she'd often seen his penis erect before, this time was different.

He watched the rise and fall of her little ribbed chest with each short nervous breath, her head tilted slightly, fascinated blue eyes taking it in. He leaned back, knees wide apart, letting her get used to it again.

She smiled, clever Fashion-Brat mind churning, though still not ready to articulate juvenile lust. "Yeah, he's happy."

He took hold of her hands, wanting only for her to touch it for a second or two. At the last moment, he drew her down so she had no choice but to lay on top of him, her legs inside his.

As they touched, they seemed to merge. Never so warm and comfortable, and aware of what lay between them, Savannah settled down, tired muscles soaking, long curls brushing his chest, yielding to his embrace, breathing when he breathed.

With her head on his chest, his thick hard penis squashed into her belly, corresponding smaller parts jammed against his groin. She smiled to herself, never so happy, or peaceful, constantly thinking how lucky she was. A long minute passed before she tickled her teddy bear, fingering stubble-rough chin, tracing his jaw, and down his neck. She lifted up enough to run her fingers across his lightly furred chest, plucking playfully at the hair under his arms.

His hands relocated from her back, reaching way down to her butt, cupping each small cheek, pressing their fronts together. In a giggling rush, everything changed. His fingers delved into her crack, splitting her wide, a finger from each hand exploring her opening, both fingertips sneaking inside, tugging playfully. Her anus, already flexible, stretched even wider.

The temptation to penetrate overwhelmed him, the desire to possess so demanding that no man could resist. With a foot, he nudged off the tap. Innocence, virginity, childhood, none of it mattered. He lifted her by her hips, just enough to relocate his penis from under her belly to between her thighs, hoping it would be enough to quell lust.

Savannah was outright content, wanting no more, and no less, than to lay on top of him forever and let him do whatever he wanted. She certainly didn't expect him to start soaping her up with a tiny bar of Ivory motel soap. But it felt *so* good, his big strong hands sliding up and down her slippery body, from hips to shoulders, and back again.

Without understanding why, she clamped her slender thighs on his massive erection, tightening the muscles inside her lower abdomen as well. She trembled, the lingering sensation of feeling empty replaced by joyful awareness.

Instinct made his hands slide lower, a soapy hand cupping each little buttock, thumbs massaging the rounded cheeks, fingers dipping into the gap, widening, tantalizing before retreating.

With his fingertips tickling her tailbone Frank whispered in her ear. "You comfortable?"

At nine years old, she knew what she wanted, not how to get it. However, instinct took control, slow deep breaths, clamping and relaxing her sphincter muscle, her little 'boy-thing' stiff and pulsing, otherwise useless.

Grampa hugged and kissed the top of her head until she pushed on his shoulders, straightening her arms and lifting up. At arms' length, she gazed down, long curls framing her face, bright eyes searching his eyes for a sign, uncertain, afraid to ask, yet wanting the exact same thing as her gay friends.

He smiled back at her, his erect penis throbbing between her thighs, his swollen glans hovering over her rump, oozing fluid. Over her shoulder, he watched a dribble leak out. He smeared on her buttocks with his thumb, mixing it into the soap foam, slimy like semen.

Did it matter if penetration happened seven days early, when she was already seven years ahead of most kids?

Without a word, he repositioned them, scooting lower in the tub, with his knees bent, hoisting her higher, slippery as a seal, cradling her head on his shoulder, her thighs pulled up like a dissected frog, outside his thighs for maximum access.

Three thick adult fingers rubbed lovingly in her butt crack. The hole was spongy soft, soapy, and so large he was sure all three fingers would fit in at the same time.

About then, he remembered the T-G app was adamant about not using soap as a lubricant. So close, yet he did the right thing, splashing bath water over her butt, rinsing away foam. Guiltily, he caressed her back, tickling sleek flanks and bare little buttocks, making her giggle.

It wouldn't take much, a slight push and all three fingertips would breach her anus. A little more pressure, and they'd slide through her sphincter, all the way in where it was hot and loose after ten hours of D-4.

All too well, he remembered Karen's determined voice, going on about staying on schedule, which meant no penetration until Savannah was done with D-5.

Smiling, Frank raised his hips, aligning before cautiously wedging the tip of his engorged penis in Savannah's opening.

"Ooooh. Is that him?" She could feel it burrowing, so big and slimy, soft, yet hard, not really pushing in.

"Do you like having him there, Sanny?" Frank pressed his glans into the hollow, filling it, leaking his gooey juice, smearing it all around the indentation.

"Your hot little pussy feels very nice, too," Frank crooned. "I'm guessing you don't want me to stop, huh?"

The little head shake was entirely in character, unforgettably obstinate now Savannah was finally on the way to getting what she wanted.

She wriggled against the swollen knob bulging into her tender anus, anal nerves and brain responding exactly as nature intended. All of her friends talked about butt fucking, and they all wanted to do it, yet nothing they said prepared her, certainly not for the deep-down urge to take him inside her.

He felt her responding, little spasms as she tightened and relaxed, surely inviting him in. It would never be easier, the muscle layers so weakened, the opening so dilated that a single slow thrust would finish the job. Get virginity over and done with so they could concentrate on making love.

Instead of pushing through her nibbling sphincter, he resorted to wobbling his glans in her anus, oozing copious preseminal fluid, far, far more than he ever produced by masturbating, even with photos of Savannah to help him.

He grinned at her, horny and ornery, still four years from being a teenager. "I will. In a minute, give or take."

Surely, 60 seconds would never be long enough. At 50 seconds, Grampa was struggling, straining to hold back the final outpouring, yet still wobbling his glans in the slimy depression. He gripped the stiff shaft, not needing to masturbate. Rubbing on Savannah was more than ample. Besides, it was technically inside her, if rim meeting rim was the standard to go by.

Frank didn't remember much from 18 years of marriage, only that he'd never been so excited with his wife. The thrill was intense, the realization making him nervous, extra careful. His erection was unbendable, weeping juice, throbbing mercilessly, desperate to plunge the rest of the way. Only his hand, wrapped around the engorged shaft, prevented further penetration.

The final five seconds was a lifetime, or a flash in the pan. His scrotum tightened, cremaster muscles contracting, drawing both testicles into a monkey-fist knot. His penis, already impossibly stiff, swelled and became even harder. With no way to escape the inescapable, his semen surged up his urethra. It had nowhere to go except inside Savannah. Spurt after glorious spurt erupted into her boy-pussy, filling her quaking rectum.

He groaned disbelief, wonder, exultation. So proud, still throbbing, dribbling, not enough pressure to do more than seep out where penis met anus, gasping, gazing up at her as the hot sloppy mess in her butt crack seared its message into both befuddled brains.

More than saying 'cum' for the first time, he'd never forget her voice, tinny and tiny, her vaguely bemused face, not worried, not questioning, accepting his semen was inside her.

"It's where it's supposed to be, Sanny," he muttered, humbled, each breath still an effort.

Yet, he couldn't stop thinking he'd should've pushed through, not merely left his calling card, but claimed her… him as his own. He felt behind her, his penis already sagging, slimy yet, snuggled securely against her 'boy-thing'. Her hole was gaping and loose around his two fingers. He puddled in the mushy aperture, teasing, tantalizing, fascinated as much by her acquiescence as by what he'd done, not only natural, but good, too.

"Mommy said it first. 'It's all over if either of us fuck up;' her exact words, Grampa."

"Well, both of us need to be really careful from now on. No more texting unless I approve."

He pressed deeper, slowing penetrating until both fingers wedged at the knuckles. Halfway in, halfway out, little buttocks clenching, relaxing. It was hot inside her, throbbing too. She shuddered, clamping or cramping. He eased back, took a much-needed breath and pressed in again. When she whimpered, he pulled out.

Grampa chuckled, only a left arm hug since his right hand was busy again, index finger fully inside, beyond her dilated sphincter, his knuckles jammed into her crack, feeling around for the heck of it.

He prodded the sleek rectal walls, mushy tissue enveloping, sucking and surging as his finger explored. He was sure she sighed, yet when he went back to same place it all felt the same.

"Dr. Stein talked about it. Your prostate; it makes you have orgasms back here."

"Duh! It's the best thing ever. My friends talk about finger fucking all the time."

Stunned, Frank withdrew his index finger until abnormally slack muscle encased the second joint. Then, hooking as much as best he could, mostly poking down toward Savannah's 'boy-thing', he twiddled, hoping he was in the right spot.

"I'll take your word for it." What else could he do; it sure as hell didn't feel any different.

She gasped again, grunted something incomprehensible, and wriggled against him. Suddenly, little hot hands were busy grasping whatever they could find, trembling against him.

Breathless, twitching, little spasms erupting from deep inside, Frank rubbed and poked, so far beyond twiddling he was certain he'd hurt, if not injure something inside her. Boy-boned again, too. Had it ever gone down?

She was shaking, panting and groans mixed in a cacophony of lust. He poked even harder, felt her straining back, shoving herself onto his finger.

Holding his breath, he strummed the spot that made her shudder. It was definitely firmer; there was a small bump under his fingertip. He pushed on it, massaged it, poked it. Finally, he jabbed his finger against it.

Without more warning that a plaintive whimper, Savannah lurched against him, writhing as if trying to get away from him, all but gnawing his shoulder as she peaked.

< < < What if Mommy saw us doing this? >>>>

"I called Mommy. She said I could sleep in your bed, Grampa." Eight-and-a-half-year-old Savannah pushed his shoulder for the third time. "Stop faking it!"

Frank snored loudly, closing his eyes to block out the light from her iPhone.

He was pooped after spending from dawn to dusk entertaining Savannah. Day Three of spring vacation began with a two-hour horse ride. Then, he drove 40 minutes to Tombstone for breakfast at Longhorn, not the chain restaurant, the family diner on the outskirts of town. The rest of the day was whirlwind, a ghost tour, a gunfight tour ending at the O.K. Corral, counting bullet holes at the Bird Cage The-ater (it had to be said just right), a stroll through the Boothill Graveyard, and a visit to the Good Enough silver mine. They detoured on the way back to Elgin to see historic Gleeson jail – he had a great photo of Savannah behind bars.

Part of him hoped she'd get the hint and go back to her bed; another part was ready to play until midnight. His only question was, what did Savannah have in mind?

He heard a muted giggle, the patter of bare feet on the wood-plank floor, the tap of her phone placed on his dresser, what sounded like the rustle of clothing coming off. She giggled all the way back to his bed, propped Teddy D. Bear on the nearest pillow, pushed back the covers, and hopped up beside him.

Not even 55 pounds (25 kg) of warm, bare, and silky soft kid snuggled into his side, smooching his shoulder, little fingers clutching his chest hair, slender arms squeezing him tightly, her own special thank you for a very fun day.

"I told Mommy what we did today," Savannah stated, not even close to being sleepy.

Karen was in Toronto, business, not pleasure.

"Not all of it, I hope."

"She said to tell you playing shootouts aren't a girl thing."

"Oh! I messed up again, huh?"

"She's going to have a little talk with you." Savannah was gleeful at the prospect of listening in once again. She confided, "I didn't tell her we had a barf together."

"Probably a wise move. I thought you liked playing shootouts."

"I do. That's why I didn't tell Mommy about the guns."

Instead of an expensive lunch, he bought Savannah not one, but two diecast-replica cowboy Colt 45s, pearl grips with holsters. Twenty shootouts later, the kid's draw was snappy, if a mite slower than Johnny Ringo's.

"Go to sleep," he whispered into the darkness.

Savannah climbed onto him, laying belly on belly, squirming skin on skin and breathing deeply. "We're both naked, Grampa."

"Your mom knows I don't wear pajamas; however, you're supposed to, when you're in my bed."

Frank fondled silly curls, brushing fingers down her back, tickling little ears, inhaling orange-blossom scent like a California orchard.

"Mommy won't know. Can we practice shooting cans tomorrow?"

Savannah's Benjamin air rifle was top-of-the-line, for a spoiled eight-an-a-half-year-old.

"After chores. Plus someone needs grooming."

'Grooming,' now there was a word with loaded meaning.

"When am I going to get a rifle of my own?"

"When you hit every can without reloading," Frank teased.

Even with a scope, it would be a while at 33 grampa-paces.

A few more deep breaths, a little squirm to get comfortable, and Savannah whispered. "You got a stiff, Grampa."

"So do you, Sanny."

Frank could feel it jabbing at his belly whenever Savannah moved.

She sulked for a minute before wriggling deliberately on Frank's huge hot penis. It throbbed, unable to get any more erect.

"You're making my tummy slimy."

"I can't help it. It's because you feel so nice, Sanny," Grampa whispered, afraid to interrupt the magic.

"How do I make it come out?"

"You just do," Grampa said. It took all his willpower not to grasp Savannah's little hips and start thrusting up to meet her. "The slimy stuff comes out when a man gets turned on."

He could almost hear kid-brain cogs churning, putting jigsaw pieces into order.

"Turned on is a special kind of excitement." He stroked Savannah's little bottom. "It's the same as feeling horny; when you want to do sexy stuff."

She giggled and wriggled on top of his belly, his erection drooling, rubbing it into the delicate whorls of her navel.

"You're turned on, huh, Grampa?" Little hands stroked inexpertly, mostly tickling his hairy chest. "Because I'm a girl, even if I don't have boobs, yet."

Frank tingled and exhaled, frustration barely checked. "Um, there's more to it than that; but yes, I'm turned on."

"Mommy said my boobs will start to grow once I have estrogen."

"They're fine the way they are."

"They're so tiny compared to Mom's nipples."

"What if I like little nipples?"

Delighted, Savannah lifted up, both slender arms stretched and straight, studying between them. It was too dark to see anything.

"It's really slick now, Grampa."

In mute disbelief, Frank Martin felt Savannah reach down and clutch his leaky penis. It was way too big for a kid's small hand, yet it felt so good that he gasped.

She giggled, pushing herself onto her haunches, squatting over his thighs, fingertips collecting her grandfather's excretion from the source, smearing it over her belly, rubbing it in like skin lotion. Frank groaned, reaching down, capturing both adult penis and juvenile penis in one hand. In a minute, he made both of them slimy, bringing man and 'boy-thing' together in a slippery, sticky, hot embrace.

"Grampa, you're making me feel funny."

"Uh huh. If you were a few years older, you'd be making slimy stuff, too."

"What if Mommy saw us doing this?"

"Shhhh. Lay down again, 'kay."

Frank's hands settled over little rubbery buttocks, thumbs caressing, fingers daring to penetrate the narrow crevice, slipping into moist warmth, a single fingertip seeking a little puckered opening.

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 13 days old > > >

Energizer bunny within moments of waking up, all of nine and a half years old, wriggling back to feel Grampa spooning, breathing steadily, reassuring. His hand was on her flank, caressing, hot and silky under the bedcovers, yawning, remembering, happy as a gamboling calf in clover.

"You're looking very happy this morning," he whispered, stroking defiant curls from her forehead.

She snuggled up to him, sleek and lithe as a Burmese cat, her taut little torso pressed into his big hairy belly. Still smirking, she craned her head back to see his face. When he smiled, she reached up and rubbed the tip of his nose. Sex kitten or playful puppy, licking her lips teasingly.

"Do you want to be my Grampa blankie?" she asked in a shivery life-changing whisper.

Suddenly shy, she clamped her lips shut, making a silly now-the-cat-is-out-of-the-bag face.

"Tell me or else." Another yawn escaped before he tickled her smooth warm flank, tempted, mere inches from torturing ribs.

No sooner than it was out, the urge rose up, stronger than ever, so easy now that Savannah knew what she wanted. Still, he wavered. He told himself the last thing she needed was for him to dominate her. He wasn't alpha-male, definitely no hardcore cowboy, not like most Arizona ranchers; however, his morning erection didn't help. It was ready to go into action.

"You know you want to, Grampa." Fingers crept down his belly and flipped at his erect penis. "The other thing getting squashed will be this bad boy."

Little fingers stroked lightly, grasping and squeezing until she realized what he wanted was teasing, right on the tip.

She rubbed her index finger in the glans groove, a lavender-glitter fingernail scraping nerves in abundance until he groaned. With his hand covering most of her butt and drawing them closer, it was obvious he'd staked his claim, why he held them together, keeping her scratching at his most sensitive place.

He closed his eyes, dreamily absorbing sensations down there. Most likely, Savannah knew what to do from her gay friends; he didn't care. A confident hand held his shaft, fingers busy fondling his swollen glans and frenulum, little finger poking at his meatus.

"I didn't think it was possible to feel like this at my age. You must think I'm a crazy old goat."

She looked at him side on, watching his chest rise and fall, oddly exhilarated, not from stroking, making him happy, wondering what came next. He squished a rubbery buttock, adult fingers sliding in the little furrow, digging in ever so slightly, finding the flexible pull-ring barely protruding. All around it was hot and moist, stretchy too. It was miraculous, as far as Grampa was concerned. He knew he should feel guilty; he didn't.

"Reckon I'm quotin' Shakespeare, my little chickadee." Gruff rancher voice made her smile. "What I'm trying to say is everything's changed now my cum is inside you."

Her smug expression and self-assurance surprised him. She needed him as much he needed her, not only to take charge of her sexual enlightenment, to guide her every movement. What happened was entirely up to him.

Less cautious than he'd been up to then, he manipulated the silicone protrusion, bumping, tugging, even twisting. He couldn't tell if it was D-3 or D-4. They'd been joking about trying the next size up during night-playtime. Both of them were half-asleep when he switched from two fingers to inserting the massive D-5; just 'the tip to see if it fit.' It fit, though not as easily as he'd hoped. She clung to him as more penetrated. Suddenly, she needed him to be so close that he completely enveloped her body. No grandpa hug was like that, so intense that she might become part of him.

Now, he rubbed around and around, trying to remember if he'd reinserted her D-3 before he fell asleep. Or D-4; it was awfully big, not the end of the world if it stayed in overnight. Heaven forbid, he'd leave in D-5. Karen would be furious if she found out he was ahead of schedule.

"Silly! I put it in instead of the third one. I had to poop really bad in the middle of the night. All your stuff came out; well, a lot of it did."

If it bothered her, there was no sign of it first thing in the morning. Her open acceptance fascinated him, her tender anus nibbling impulsively, even hungrily. It was so persistent he began to think it was trying to draw his finger inside. The opening was elastic, resilient, too; definitely not loose.

Somehow, Frank avoided smiling at nine-year-old syntax. "That last but's not necessary. And yes, it was nice last night, real nice."

He gave in and smiled, nuzzling her hair. Her soft sighs were even more reassuring, erratic and urgent, not whimpers. He enjoyed every eager murmur, as much as feeling the little hard penis jabbing at his crotch, his huge erection oozing slime all over her belly.

Lust engorged, throbbing urgently, wanting to fondle the junior version more than he could stand; only his promise to Karen kept him from grasping Savannah's boyhood, hot, squat unyielding.

Savannah was an energetic toddler, decidedly effeminate, not meek, anything but passive when it came to bath time. 'Teddy Boy' made him get in the tub so they could pretend their penises were rambunctious teddy bears who could talk to rubber ducks.

Not grumpy about it because she giggled, squirming against his erection, deliberately increasing the pressure. The app said a little tenderness around her anus was normal with D-4 and D-5; that's what the analgesic cream was for. It became uncomfortable only when she squeezed on it.

She was happy, relaxed, and holding his big hard penis, little thumb busily smearing preseminal fluid, not understanding why he brought up 'Teddy Boy' – she'd forgotten everything but the name.

Unable to stop himself, he allowed his hand to stray from her luscious little bottom, gliding reassuringly over her hip and firm lower belly. He encountered unyielding stiffness, his fingers extended and barely touching. Not a word, not even a breath. He encircled her 'boy thing,' fingertips fondling the precious cargo underneath.

He stroked as gently as he could with rough rancher hands, concentrating on tiny nine-and-a-half-year-old testicles, tight in a silky-soft scrotum. It was nothing like his, so delicate that it got him thinking what a terrible waste it would be to turn it into a 'vulva.' Nothing left to play with, just flabby mounds either side of her 'boy-thing,' until even that was turned inside out and stuffed inside her, out of sight, out of mind, pretending female.

His thumb and first finger replicated hers, squishing an exposed swollen tip, a perfect little helmet. Arousal was instantaneous, mere seconds. He felt the change, stiffening, jerking with each unconscious flexing of juvenile groin muscles. Some jolts were so strong he was certain Savannah was helping.

He titillated the miniature groove, exciting a quiver, his thumbnail scratching delicate frenulum, one foot clumsily pulling back the covers until they were exposed down there. Savannah made the obvious comparison, her tiny hand and his huge hairy penis, his big hand and her 'boy-thing.'

Not angry, not adamant, Fashion Brat asserting herself, very aware both man and boy versions were rigidly erect.

Uncertain of what was going through her head, he restrained himself. With a solitary finger pressing into a wrinkled little scrotum, he gawked at her bare belly, and lower, at a stiff short penis. Despite shimmering curly hair down her back, lipstick, and eyeshadow, that part of her was persistently 'boy.'

He hesitated to say what he was thinking. "If you want to, then yeah. Only you have to say what you want."

Stunned at precocious bluntness, somehow Frank avoided laughing. "I want my cum in your bum, too, only we'll probably miss breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"Remember what I said last night, Sanny? There's lots of things we can do besides squirt my cum in your rear."

He covered her boy-thing' with two fingers, a hint for her to pick up on, if she wanted. She tightened her grip on his penis, midway, almost too big to join fingers and thumb tip, nudging his chin with the top of her head, and burrowing in, Savannah-style snuggling.

Dreamily, Frank inhaled orange blossom shampoo – it always made his grandkid smell fresh and sweet, and outdoorsy. Karen would've said he was doting, again; however, he was glad he'd made the two-mile trip in the car to buy it. It was either that, with Sonoran-fare of cactus fries and menudo at Southwest Grill; or use motel shampoo and order a pizza. The little bottle in the bathroom had 'beach mist' scent on the label, whatever that was.

She giggled back at him, small and smooth, so warm and alive beside him. He stroked a sleek thigh.

Purposefully, he stroked her 'boy-thing,' scintillating and slow from hairless pubis to swollen helmet, very gently, as if the stubby hot organ was the most precious thing in the world. It was still unyielding.

"Because I want to love all of you." He sighed inwardly. "It won't look the same after the operation, but most of it will still be part of you. Same skin, same nerves, same feelings."

Of course, Savannah agreed only to please him. Most of all, he admired her pluck; accepting natal genitals as a source of pleasure was an enormous step for a transgender kid.

Frank sat up, leaning over her, poking out his tongue, waggling it teasingly until she poked out hers. He gob-smacked her with an unexpected sloppy mishmash of tongues and lips. Having initiated the promised sucking, licking, and kissing, he couldn't stop. It went on and on, from mouth to face, to her slender smooth neck, shoulders and chest. Bathed in saliva down to her tummy, he stopped barely inches away.

Savannah grinned, golden curls spread across the crisp motel pillow. He felt her trembling, arousal growing stronger the closer he came to his destination. Unable to leave her alone, his hand pawed her bottom, kneading gluteus muscle until he encountered resilient silicone bulging just beyond her anus. D-5 was golf-ball thick, embedded up to the end of the ring, deforming, stretching, rearranging internal organs. It was big enough to change her forever.

'Sore' was a reminder, a precursor of what would happen in a few days. Only giving his word to Karen stood in the way of it happening sooner.

"Mostly, feels really big." She wavered, contemplating, not undecided. "Grampa, I bet you could put him in me right now if you wanted."

Surprised, but not unexpected; he could tell a lot from Savannah's prurient voice. She'd always been ready for sex play, seeming preprogramed for anything involving genitalia, both his and hers.

He gave the ring a playful nudge, depressing it, almost completely inside until Savannah pushed it back. He pushed it inward, poking his fingertip into her anus.

Frank adopted the time-honoured position, his knees straddling her shoulders, hovering like a randy bull over a heifer in estrus, his right hand roaming her chest, pinching tiny nipples into pinpricks, sliding onto her taut little belly. More or less in position, he stopped to pay homage, leaning down so close to her 'boy-thing' he was certain he could feel it throbbing without making contact. With his mouth wide open, he took everything in.

He swivelled as far as he could to look back at her and still maintain contact, meeting startled eyes, mouth gaping, both little hands frantic, clutching his shoulder. Incredulous, a bit dubious, disconcerting, yet enjoying every moment.

Breathy voice. Despised 'boy-thing' bouncing off the roof of his mouth, tiny testicles trapped between his teeth and tongue, sucking her entire scrotum between his lips, a finger restraining the silicone plug jammed in her quaking hot rectum.

She gave a distracted nod, her inner muscles cramping, her entire body responding to the glowing throbs in her 'boy-thing.'

"Push down, Sweetie. We're going to take it out, not all the way, only a little. I want to try something."

Uncertain, yet following instinct, he slipped his index finger through the silicone ring as soon as it appeared. Very carefully, he rotated his hand, twisting the way the T-G app recommended to withdraw D-5. The widest half of the curved pink shaft slowly appeared. Stunned at how hot and slippery it was, it filled his hand the same as his own erect penis.

With a nervous giggle, Savannah murmured something. He was certain it included 'hurts,' however, he was too agitated, too overcome, too tense to care.

"You want my cock, don't you?" he breathed. "Don't worry; you'll have it up your butt soon enough."

Grasping the silicone shaft, he prodded the pleasure button just beyond her sphincter muscle, under her bladder. He expected a whimper; instead, she squeezed down to increase the pressure. A few moments later, her slender thighs moved farther apart. It was the incentive Frank needed. Rubbing D-5 vigorously right on top of the immature sex gland, strumming faster and harder as she strained, simultaneously sucking everything 'male.' She jerked too soon for a proper orgasm, a tightening spasm, ample to begin, slowly relaxing, now breathing erratically.

Unable to smile with his mouth full, Frank lifted up, took a deep breath, and smeared spit with his fingers.

"You want more, you need to say so," he said quietly, re-establishing what he thought was a good rule to have.

"Say what?" She was breathless, staring at his middle, little buttocks clenching around the massive D-5 wedged halfway.

He didn't expect reciprocity. It happened quickly, mere seconds for her to point his erect penis at her face and position her mouth. His heart thundered at imminent intimacy. A long wet kiss on his inflamed bulging knob, a playful lick at the end; it completely took his mind off what he was supposed to be doing.

After the shock dissipated, Frank sucked her 'boy-thing' very gently. He focused on the exposed tip, lips gripping being the glans, tongue swirling, flicking back and forth. Suddenly, she twitched and pulled away. Not wanting to upset her, he resorted to teasing the tender short shaft with long languorous licks.

When she didn't complain, he wobbled the silicone plug, surprised that it was able to move that much – definitely getting bigger inside. The T-G app said elasticizing the anus was just as important, going in and out repetitively to achieve dilation without permanent loosening. He allowed some to slide through, until it was about to pop out. Only the tip bulged into her anus. He pushed it through, pulled it back. Back and forth, suctioning juices into a squelchy mess.

She made her 'gross and disgusting' face for him. It would've ended it right there, except she giggled.

This time, she took his penis inside her mouth, the head and some of the shaft, enough that her cheek bulged.

"Because I'm doing it to you doesn't mean you have to do it to me," he muttered.

She stuck out her tongue and licked again, no tentative swipe, a deliberate slurp and a lip-smack. A longer, wetter kiss followed. Then, a sloppy lick with a modicum of suction, using her lips on the tip.

Predisposed, her head inclined, little pink tongue eagerly wetting her lips. Precocious brain churning, curious eyes wide, excited tingles all over; she smirked back at him.

"I'll tell you before it goes in your mouth." As much as he wanted to ejaculate between her lips, it was too soon.

"She said most men like to do it. Mom said it was okay to do it, but only if I want to." She hesitated, very aware he gone quiet. "The kids at school talk about sucking cock all the time."

"I think maybe we should get up, Sanny," Frank said, guilt barrelling down on him like an 18-wheeler on I-10, headed into Tucson.

< < < Can we put on a Bad-Barbie Show? >>>>

Frank Martin arrived on the non-stop red eye from Phoenix, less to save money than to avoid the pre-Thanksgiving traffic through JFK. At 6:00 am, he splurged, $15.00 for coffee and two croissants while he waited, bleary eyed, for a $230 limo to take him to 39th Street. It would've been cheaper if he'd booked a return trip.

Savannah was still asleep when he stretched out on the couch, intending to snooze for an hour, perhaps two. He awoke at noon to New York City hectic, taxi horns bleating, pneumatic drills, a constant dull drone through the curtained windows. He could hear Karen in the kitchen, the stop and start of her sewing machine, high-pitched giggles lurking somewhere nearby. Savannah's fuzzy blue baby blanket was over his top half, tightly tucked in.

"There's a cowboy asleep on your couch."

Frank was sure the voice belonged to Mickey. Ten going on eleven, precocious like Savannah, and gender dysphoric, just farther along. Girly didn't come close.

Savannah came closer. "Don't wake him up!"

He could sense her, like a cautious kitten, tiptoeing up. She stopped at the armrest, only inches away.

"I wish my grandpa was cool like yours, even if the outfit's a bit over the top," Mickey whispered.

Savannah looked down at him, sprawled on the couch in crumpled checked blue and yellow shirt, cowboy genre with requisite rawhide and turquoise bolo, stone-washed blue jeans, and silver bronco-buster belt-buckle. His tan Italian-leather jacket draped over the couch armrest; hand-tooled cowboy boots custom-made for Cimarron Ranch laying on the floor where he'd kicked them off.

"I think he looks hot, kinda like Bruce Willis."

"He's sexy, don't you think?" Mickey confided from the opposite end of the couch.

"He's my grampa, dumb ass."

"I bet his dick is huge when it's stiff."

"You shouldn't say stuff like that."

"Sshhh!" Mickey's voice returned to a whisper. "His bulge is way bigger than my uncle's."

"So, what if it is?"

"Geez, Sav; don't you know anything? It'll hurt, but the bigger it is, the better it feels after you're used to it."

"You mean in your butt?"

"Duh! If it's this big soft, it must humongous when he's got a hard-on."

"We could take a photo and 'shop it."

Frank wasn't sure he'd heard right, not *his* Savannah.

"Pick one of your porno pics," she added with a girlish giggle.

"You should pick! You said you see him in the buff when you go skinny dipping at his ranch. Guaranteed he gets stiff around you. You must've seen it."

Savannah glanced at her grandfather. He'd told her not to say anything; not a word to Mom or anyone else about what they did in private.

It was safer not to say anything, but Mickey regarded her, expecting confirmation or denial.

"No way am I sharing more secrets with you."

Annoyed that she said that much when she should've kept her mouth shut, Frank was about to 'wake up' and surprise his 'admirers' when the sewing machine stopped.

"Disturb Grampa, and he'll kick your butt back to Cimarron Ranch, Savannah," Karen chided from the kitchen.

Mickey said the first thing that came into her head. "Can we put on a Bad Barbie fashion show when he wakes up?"

"You said I should model Rage for him, Mom," Savannah added. "We got to get the runway set up so it's a surprise when he wakes up. Come on, Mickey."

She headed toward her bedroom doorway, giggling Mickey right on her heels.

"How about you model for both of us after I get back?" Karen called after them.

Savannah pirouetted. "You going out, Mom?"

"If I'm going to spend the holiday with you and Grampa, I have to run to the studio and pick up a few things. Meanwhile, you need to put on some clothes before he wakes up. Seeing both of you running around in panties might give him a heart attack."

<<>>

Frank peeked; it was impossible not to. Savannah wore TOMBOY WONDER, a hipster-style bikini bottom, scarcely enough to cover private parts with a second skin of purple and pink faux-snake scales. It was exotic and erotic, and loaded with latent sexuality. The matching bra was strapless, no more than a stretchy ribbon around her chest to flatten breasts. Mickey paled beside her, white semi-see-thru lace panties and a training bra that could've come from Victoria's Secret, if they had a kids' department.

He was still trying to decide if 'WONDER' had to do with Wonder Woman when he heard the two kids snickering, following Karen's instructions to 'bolt' the door. Bare feet padded back to the couch, their muted whispers intermixed with giggles as they moved around rearranging furniture and setting up three reading lamps as spotlights.

"Enter from the right, walk slowly to here with panache; that's flair." Savannah went through the motions. "Mr. Perlmann always wants me to wriggle my hips, do my 'sashay,' he calls it, only not too much or you look passé. That's like last season's catwalk queen. Then, pirouette and panache back to the bedroom."

"I got it."

It wasn't often that Mickey relinquished leadership; it made sense when Fashion Brat was the expert.

"What are you wearing?"

Savannah decided on the spot. "Mr. Perlmann always says start big and end with a bang; so I'm starting with Biker. Grampa thinks I'm uber sexy in it. Then, regular stuff; then, some of Mom's early Rage outfits to finish."

"Can we act sexy?"

"Sure. On the runway, I sort of flirt with the audience. Mr. Perlmann calls it my 'sultry kid.' It's with your eyes mostly down, and using your body to express mood. Mom and I practiced forever to get 'languid' just right."

"That French, too?"

"Most everything is in fashion."

Savannah performed 'languid,' sauntering with a kind of flouncy sway. Frank would've 'woken up' to watch, however, Mickey stood directly in front of him, arranging a reading lamp on the table beside the couch. Semi-see-thru lace panties didn't hide much; however, there wasn't much to hide, just the elongated bump of a little-finger-sized penis.

His interest increased when Mickey picked up the TOMBOY Fall catalog, Savannah and Raoul posing for Biker. Faux-leather vests open in front and skinny-leg pants, little black studs, oversized chrome zippers, kids having fun on a 1970s classic Harley Electra Glide.

"I had to learn sang-froid for that shoot," Savannah went on. "It means really cool, like zero stress."

She demonstrated the disdainful James Dean Junior on the cover, stepping around Mickey, dramatic, imperial, haughty head tilted, peeking back, slender neck stretched, little lithe body holding the pose. Then, a slow turn, making her already slender legs seem longer, as graceful as a stork in water.

"Wow!"

"Mom said to act like I was naked, only pretend I know someone's watching me. That's why I'm sneakin' peeks."

Mickey held the magazine at arm's length, comparing. "You look really sexy."

"I'm sultry," Savannah mimicked Mom, flicking curls over her shoulders. "Modeling's fun when Bruce is the photographer," she added.

"How?"

"Mom won't let me show skin on the catwalk unless it's the style. Bruce, he does all my TOMBOY shoots; he wants to see skin. He's not happy if my tummy's covered up."

Mickey gave the front cover a second look; only one belly was bare. The Biker ensemble included six shirt styles; Raoul's was red, no collar. Savannah's pink T-shirt draped the green and white Harley fuel tank; the contrast as provocative as her downward smile.

Envious, Mickey resorted to, "He's gay, girlfriend."

Savannah shrugged, gave the catwalk an approving nod, and headed off to get dressed. Mickey dawdled in the rear, undecided about what she would wear, wondering if Savannah's grandfather was really *that* big – the bulge in his jeans was huge.

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 14 days old > > >

Frank Martin gave his Remington shotgun a final wipe down, and checked the action with a 'pump.' It was an American Classic, top of the line. He looked up to find Savannah frowning, aimlessly spooning cereal in her bowl.

"It's way better for you than those granola bars you're always chowing down, Sav."

With a hint of a smile, Savannah rolled eyes. "It tastes like horse feed, Grampa. Dry and chewy."

He was awkward around her, filled with a kind of guilty delight; the same reason why he couldn't stop glancing from the breakfast table to the kitchen counter, where Savannah sat on a stool, no flimsy panties between skin and varnished oak.

She picked dried apricots from Cimarron 'cereal,' Grampa's concoction of raw rolled oats, dried cranberries and raisins, pumpkin seeds, and walnuts. It was health food in a bowl, diluted with almond milk, almost no calories.

Impossible that she could sit like that, not with her ivory-smooth buttocks impaled on D-5, her anus fully dilated, and then some. She'd laid back on the breakfast table when he'd slathered on lubricant and pushed it in until the ring disappeared. He'd gotten it all the way in without a peep, not even a whimper!

"Even with Emile, it ought to hurt like the dickens. You're sitting on the dang thing."

She wriggled purposefully, her pale bottom tiny on the sculpted seat. "Feels really full up inside; that's all."

"The app says once I'm big enough, I have to get used to it moving around, Grampa."

"Yeah, I read something about repositioning internal organs for more give and take."

He blushed immediately – 'give and take' meant his penis could move around inside her, not just in and out.

He stirred eggs, bacon, cheese, and tomato into frying-pan mush with olive oil, sautéed onions, and garlic salt.

"You want some Cimarron omelette to go with your horse feed? Looks like crap, but tastes scrum-diddly-umptious. Definitely bad for the waistline."

"Yesterday, you said you'd like to go for a ride. I was thinking we might head over to Mustang Mountains. Maybe stay a night or two at Los Ansias Conquistador."

"It's a bed and breakfast, old-fashioned hacienda style. It'll be fun. It's a bit primitive though…"

"You want to go somewhere nice so you and me can …" She giggled, unable to say it. Instead, she mouthed, '…fuck.'

Frank dropped the spatula in the frying pan. He fished it out without burning his fingers. "Um, well, hopefully there's more to losing your virginity than just that."

"She's with me on this, Sanny. Do it again and we confiscate your iPhone until you go to college." Frank winked purposefully. "She's with me on something else, too. It has to do with D-5."

"She's not sure it's such a good idea, leaving it in longer than we're supposed to."

Savannah sighed loudly. "I told you she'd be upset if she finds out I'm ahead of schedule."

"Well, you are; way ahead; which is why this trip is going to be extra special," Frank hinted.

"We're doing it at the bed and breakfast? YES!" Savannah whooped, making a very un-girl-like fist in the air.

"There's nothing I'd like more than for you to lose your virginity at Los Ansias Conquistador; only it's not going to happen, not with old Missus Cardoso stalking the halls. I'm not ending up in jail till I'm 95."

"We better get a move on, Sanny. I'll saddle the horses. We're travelling light this trip. Pack only what you need."

"Um, I was thinking…" He took a breath. "Maybe I ought to bring a couple of…"

She cut him off. "I want it inside me, where it's supposed to go, Grampa. You do, too."

On the east side of Elgin, a gated gravel road turned off Upper Elgin Road. Already in the mid-90s, and at 5,000 feet, Frank and Savannah dismounted. He led their horses along a deteriorating track, Savannah skipping along beside him, hot as blazes in raNGe stovepipe jeans and denim shirt, long sleeves rolled up past elbows, elongated tails hanging out. Sexy kid with only her grandpa to see her, chattering about her Welsh Palomino, Sandy Girl, her mom's latest designs for TOMBOY ROCK, why gay kids liked emotional hardcore, nothing in particular.

"Well, it's real pretty in Spring. The veranda looks over a river, yellow roses all over the place. It used to be a mission and trading post. It's a fair way, yet; on the south side of these mountains. It ought to be empty this time of year, maybe a few soldiers from Fort Huachuca."

He grinned. "We'll see. They have a few cabins by the river. Maybe, she won't venture that far at night."

Any number of fences and side tracks, until a sign proclaimed, 'This is not a road.' After that, a contorted rocky canyon ran for a mile, crawling up between Mustang Peak and Mustang Mountain High Point. Soon, it made sense to switch to easier terrain, a grassy slope up a north-running ridge to Mustang Peak. Grampa insisted on calling it 'Little Butt Mound.' 'Little Butt Crack' was the canyon, a shady fissure filled with brush and haphazard rock slabs.

It was lunchtime when they took a break, close to 6,000 feet and just enough breeze that sweat evaporated quickly, avoiding sunburn in broad-rimmed cowboy hats. With the horses grazing among cactus, Frank concealed his shotgun under thorn brush and agave, and followed Savannah into a Juniper forest. Bushes and splintered boulders offered a semblance of shade to rattlesnakes, and not much else.

Savannah looked around, sweltering heat suspended on the ridge, inhaling deeply, stretching. She might've been posing in front of Bruce's camera, lithe and sensuous, yet cautious as a wildcat. It was enough that Grampa wondered if he should've brought Savannah's khaki canvas backpack. It was still slung over the horn on her saddle.

"I don't know about 'special.' It's historic, though. The main building is adobe."

"Like I said, Honey, it's too risky unless we get a cabin. If we don't, well, you'll have to wait another day; two at most, I promise."

The ridge was very exposed; however, it also ensured privacy – they'd see any hikers foolish enough to venture out in 100 degrees. That hot, border crossers stayed home. Still, there were signs, charred branches in a recent fireplace, busted sneakers, plastic drink bottles, candy bar wrappers.

"Depends on the scenery, I reckon. I was thinking you'd rather do it in the barn with Sandy Girl watching," Frank teased.

Savannah scampered as he tried to grab her. She circled, ducking and weaving until he caught her hand and pulled her close. They giggled together, hot and sweaty. He inhaled her hair. Then, holding hands, they looked over the range, mountains making dusty grey shadows.

Their ridge provided an easy trek to Mustang Peak, another mile, another few hundred feet to the summit, yet already they had a hazy view over the Elgin prairie.

"Who needs the best view? We're hot and horny, Grampa; that'll make it special."

Frank noticed her voice more than words, the husky, tremulous tone of juvenile lust. "What happened to romance?"

"Maybe nine and a half is too young," Frank grinned, looking around. It was rocky, too dry to support pine trees.

More worldly than ever, Savannah folded her arms, frowned, and stared him down. "Stop teasing. We both know we're here so I can lose my cherry."

"If that's what you want." He opened his arms. "Come here, Fashion Brat. Grampa wants to give his little horndog a hug."

"If you want to, yeah. This much grass, we'll have to stand up. Too much chance of a rattlesnake."

Yet another of Grampa's rattlesnake jokes; still she regarded him suspiciously. "No tickling, promise?"

"Promise. You got your iPhone handy? Losing your cherry isn't that big a deal. Small hole becomes big hole, but your mom wants photos, before and after."

She regarded him, no stranger to posing for him without a stitch on. Of course, he was teasing, yet digging her iPhone from her jeans' pocket anyway.

Frank ignored the iPhone she held out. Still, he glowed at the thought, slowly stepping closer. Only the risk of Savannah losing it held him back; someone finding porn and reporting it.

He was aching hard under his jeans, the bulge so obvious he was surprised she didn't point it out.

"I might take a few fer myself when we get back to the ranch. Something to look at on cold winter nights when yer back in New York."

Savannah smirked. So easy to tease him, especially with all six of her nude photos in Eric Perlmann's vault, his private collection. She fiddled with the front of raNGe stovepipe jeans.

He stroked her long mane. She was small, and soft, and slender, a foal taking its first steps. He'd never loved anyone as much.

"We better find out if he fits first," he crooned. "He might still be too big for your cute little rump."

"You need to take out D-5 first," Savannah snickered, raising up on sneaker toes.

Suspicion switched to a sly smirk as pulled away. She danced and pranced around him, little-kid flirting. Then, wily coyote became teasing brat, flaunting her perky rear like a pole dancer.

Outright invitation! Playful as a fox kit, Savannah jumped out of reach as Frank made a half-hearted attempt to grab her wrist.

"Oversexed little tease, ain't ya? Now, you'll have to wait till we get to the top."

"Yer big ole stiffy might poke a hole in yer jeans if ya wait much longer Grampa."

Grinning at her mimicking him, he picked up the backpack and plodded toward a stunted mesquite. She caught up, taking his hand again, heart thumping, excitement increasing with every footstep, certain it was going to happen as soon as he found a place to spread out the blanket. No wonder her face was glowing; however, instead of stopping at the mesquite tree, Frank kept on, diverting around the worst of a mini rockslide, making sure she didn't stumble.

There wasn't a pointy peak on Mustang Peak. Instead, 6,317 feet above sea level was a rambling mound of crazy boulders splattered with lime lichen, stone splinters underfoot, struggling juniper patches. Standing on what was most likely the highest boulder, Savannah could see all the way across Elgin, the Patagonia Mountains, Apache Peak, and beyond.

She turned at his tone, scanning faraway Whetstone and Huachuca City until she met his eyes, determined, yet empathetic. He was always tuned into her feelings, more than ever the last few days. Suddenly, her intuition was adamant; she had to take the initiative or it might not happen.

"You think it's okay if I take off my clothes now," she said softly, blinking demurely.

Not really asking because little fingers were already at work on her raNGe shirt, undoing the two remaining platinum buttons. He was enthralled.

She always acted cool and cagey when she undressed in front of him; however, this time was different. She parted the shirtfront, revealing a pale soft belly, barely defined ribs, and miniature nipples, visibly more boy than girl. Doing her best to appear confident, she acted relaxed, as if stripping off for her grandfather was an everyday occurrence. The tremble in her voice was a dead giveaway.

No one for miles, yet Frank glanced around again to be sure. He smiled when he looked back. Unisex except for long curls, Savannah was bare from the waist up. Her silver pendant on a black leather choker was ambiguous, both ascetic and carnal, Egyptian ankh or Venus symbol; he settled on 'life.'

He folded the shirt while keeping an eye on her. Unbuttoning, opening a tiny chromed-brass zipper, inching down, embarrassed because her bottom half was undeniably boy.

"Don't worry about it," he said to keep her focused, telling himself to ignore the bulge, no matter what.

He kept her steady, holding her right arm with his left hand as he tugged down with his right hand. She pushed with her left hand. Between them, raNGe jeans and silver-sheen Wonder panties reached her knees. He couldn't remember a time when there wasn't a tight Lycra thong to conceal Junior.

It would've been easy if she'd been wearing a thong with everything hidden. Kneeling before her, he had to confront reality, truth, fact. His grandchild had an erection. He intended to ignore it, even though boyhood was blatantly obvious. He lasted as long as it took him to unfasten sneakers.

Now at the precipice, endless palpitations, ragged breaths, disregarding rock splinters digging into his knees as he gaped, delicate, sensitive, smooth, stubby. He trembled, seeing two tiny bumps in the scrotum underneath. They had to go; there was no getting around it.

"My Sanny is truly beautiful." He almost ruined it with 'perfect.' "Absolutely gorgeous." It still sounded trite, not even close to what he wanted to say.

Nothing to hold him back with her arms by her sides. No longer a game; surrendering virginity to him, offering what he wanted more than anything else. Desire surged; it left his face burning, sucking in hot dry air, staring. It was unwavering, little helmet shiny and lavender-colored, scrotum now scrunched up, suddenly so crinkled and rounded there was no sign of the precious cargo within.

With stovepipe jeans and flimsy silver panties abruptly yanked off scrawny ankles, Savannah was completely exposed, not embarrassed. She surveyed Arizona's version of big-sky, mountains, canyons, and plains. Statuesque, on her pedestal rock, she might've been looking over the rugged terrain of Ancient Greece, a bare willowy hermaphrodite, hands on hips, pretending to ignore Grampa hurriedly undressing. Instead, she peeked. Naked and engorged, he was surely Priapus.

Each breath was deep, sustaining, fulfilling, concentrating on retaining control because he was certain he couldn't. He stepped over his clothes, smiling, nodding approval, encouragement, hoping she was as happy as he was. He stopped before her, her eyes level with his. She blinked, searching his face, his crinkly eyes, easily finding what she needed.

"Grampa." She faltered, sniffling, tears of joy forming. "Grampa, I want you in me, please."

Savannah twitched erratically, nervous, so excited she couldn't stop glancing around, blinking rapidly. It didn't help that her iPhone beeped with an incoming message.

He clasped her waist, narrow, sleek, both thumbs stroking her lean warm belly before his left hand slowly inched behind her bottom, rough fingers caressing, sliding along her crevice, cupping a firm round buttock. His right hand lifted around her back. He pressed into her warmth, his aroused sex brushing her knees, nuzzling the delicate skin of her neck, burrowing into golden curls. Inhaling, licking little ears until she clung to him, shivering with raw hunger, her face against his furry pelt, absorbing sweaty phenomes.

Frank clutched her protectively. His eager sensual grandchild trembled, wriggling bare and hot, both of them pawing each other as they kissed, a surprisingly chaste familial kiss. Without warning, their passion exploded into a wet frenzy. He crushed her against him, licking anything within range, lots of tongue sucking, too. When she couldn't take any more, he lifted her off the rock, unwanted 'boy thing' and adult genitals mashed together, both hard and hot, and throbbing.

The one thing they needed was lubricant, and she'd left it in her backpack, still slung over the saddle horn.

"We'll do it the same way a cowboy cleans his boots, lots of spit. I need you to hold me as tight as you can, Sanny."

Her slender thighs clamped around his middle; her arms locked around his neck. What the heck! No longer chaste when they kissed, slurping noisily, unadulterated lust with his swollen slippery glans bumping, squeezing between her thighs, the oozing glans dangerously close to her buttocks. Instinctively, Savannah squirmed against it, wriggling her pelvis to get it positioned. It got away, sliding up her perineum, ramming into boy-gonads. She winced and tried to reach underneath. His hand was already there, his fingers slippery with grownup spit.

He rubbed gently, moist, tantalizingly hot, insinuating the tip of his forefinger into the very dilated rim. He felt it moving back, foreign yet essential, sliding inside her. There was no contraction, just loose and mushy at the opening the way it was supposed to be. Still, the silicone ring resisted further ingress.

Clinging feverishly, Savannah tensed, exerting muscles intended for defecating, the slippery ring slowly squeezing out to greet his fingertips. He tugged, just enough to get the shaft through her sphincter. She groaned as the rest of it glided out, pink, shiny, and hot. It plopped onto the slivers of rock littering the ground.

With his erection already in hand, he wedged the tip between her slippery buttocks, sealing off a dribble of excess lubricant.

Again, Savannah tensed, wriggling as she pushed down. His glans, massively swollen, bulged into tender nerves, penetrating slowly, stretching the still-dilated muscle.

He was breathless, throbbing, burning, the virgin opening so tight it denied passage. Yet instinct said otherwise, insistent, demanding. This was supposed to happen. He slathered saliva over his unyielding shaft, rubbing the blunt tip in the slimy drool from her anus.

She wriggled, and whimpered as his glans swelled inside her. It didn't hurt, not in the slightest, just 'full' like D-5, and shaky all over.

"I reckon you can take a little bit more," he whispered, holding steady, letting gravity and nature do the work.

Unable to get to his mouth, Savannah skewed her head around and vampire-sucked on his neck, her first-ever love bite outdoors. Her heart pounded, her excitement so overpowering she barely heard a buzz from her cellphone. He lifted her, withdrawing just enough that she shivered, murmuring the obvious implication.

She felt him slide in again, deeper, thicker, holding her tightly and crooning 'relax' in her ear. She was unaware of him turning her around, carefully easing down onto the rough warm rock. He sat and she reinserted, easily fitting his 'part A' into her 'part B.' She sighed and settled onto him, accepting the helmet head; then, a little of the shaft. He held her firmly, his front against her back. She was safe in his lap, sitting with her legs outside his, adult erection partially buried in her bottom, glowing all over, Arizona sun beating down.

"Not yet. It feels…" She closed her eyes, not dreamy, uncertain. She settled on, "… weird."

All her gay friends talked about doing it. Some said the first time hurt like hell; most said it wasn't that bad, despite folklore and jokes. Only Mickey said it didn't hurt at all. Wayne said it hurt like hell, but it was still worth doing.

Tight and hot, clamping, relaxing, quivering around his engorged member. He stroked her thigh, knee to hip, rancher fingers trailing silky-smooth skin, ignoring the buzzing iPhone.

The app said she shouldn't do anything the first time, just concentrate on the nice feelings, relax, and let it happen.

"I won't last if I do," he rasped, one arm clutching her taut little body, his erection throbbing.

Ejaculation was imminent. A third of the way inside wasn't near deep enough for Frank Martin. Fortunately, Savannah's most tender spot was nearby. Just a little bit deeper, positioned under the bladder. Only his bulging glans could provide the pressure essential to pleasure. Surely, Savannah could feel it building up. She was enjoying it, too; lean legs twitching, muscle spasms binding, breathy gasps.

So close, he held his breath, straining to hold back because only moments remained.

Unable to stop, Frank shuddered erratically, gritting his teeth, fighting nature's imperative, the deep-down impulse to breed, a last ditch effort to salvage boyhood, or staking his claim forever. He wished it could be both. A shocking urge exploded, primal, essential, life changing simply by possessing his grandchild. His penis throbbed, scorching hot, squeezing relentlessly, embedding deeper.

Savannah clawed his neck and back, clutching frantically as immense pressure built in a juvenile prostate, heart fluttering, quivering little body soaked with sweat and saliva, longing and dreams coming together all at once. No longer virgin.

He dared not move a muscle. Her rectum and sphincter clamped on adult cock for the first time in her life, panicked squeezing as she shuddered into a juvenile orgasm. One glorious spasm as she strained down. A few moments later, it happened again. He eased back, quaking, gripping slender hips as she writhed, seeking more. He squeezed inside her, into the slippery squeezing rectum, trying to ignore the buzzing iPhone.

Savannah's rectum relaxed. He surged, gasping, a few frenzied thrusts making everything oh-so-loose. She groaned, grinding against his erection. It was almost fully embedded. The pressure ebbed, relief just out of reach. Then, a third spasm left her quaking in a final convulsion.

Now, he thrust up, gripping her pelvis to achieve full penetration. Even post-orgasmic, she was tighter inside than any vagina. Inserted all the way was unforgettable, more enjoyable than anything he'd ever done.

Despite his best intentions, his fingers came dangerously close to her 'boy-thing.' It sagged, slowly shrinking like an inflatable swimming pool toy with a leak. Resenting what was soon going to happen to parts so fundamental to boyhood, he cupped tiny testes, mauling delicate orbs.

On the brink and delirious with joy, he attempted to thrust carefully. Just a few gentle pushes would be ample. He managed a pitiful push before the spasms began. He quaked at the first searing squirt, grasping Savannah's chest and pelvis just in time for the second spurt. He plunged her down, groaning as the rest dribbled out.

He wrapped both arms around her, melting flesh, never more aware of her small hot body. Even her hair was damp, sticking to a forehead beaded with perspiration. Mutual trembling changed to twitches, frenzied gasping slowly became shallow nervous breaths. Both stunned, scarcely aware of the scorching sun, the buzz of sweat bees, and flies, lots of flies.

Her cellphone beeped for an incoming text message. There was also a rustle in the dry spiky grass, likely a horny toad lizard – scorpions seldom made a sound.

So addled he couldn't remember how many times they'd done it like that. Three times at the motel in Tucson, so at least five.

Frank chuckled; still dwelling on a few incredible seconds. Not a single hard thrust to claim virginity, yet virginity was gone and the memory would last forever. Mostly, he recalled the intensity of those spasms with his penis barely inside her, panicked juvenile muscles gripping him, forcing glans against prostate, her little abdomen cramping, squeezing the seed from his loins. Now, she sagged against him.

Scarcely a nod, yet it was entirely expected. Like Gabby Hayes in a 1930s' cowboy B-movie, he was 'plumb tuckered out,' too. Drained after two ejaculations since waking up, he was unable to do more than snuggle.

"Having a cock in your ass will do that." His softened penis still plugged the tail end of her rectum. "It might be worth taking a photo for your mom, the babe losing her virginity."

She giggled, playing along, because there was no way Mom was going to see her baby chock full of cock.

Frank took two photos, one with his penis no longer inserted, her, the little opening not so little. Still dilated, it gaped, crimson-red and obviously not virgin.

He deleted the photo with Savannah's help. The second photo was Savannah's radiant face. She sent that to Mom, no explanation needed. Her dreamy 'just been fucked' look said more than words ever could.

< < < You said you didn't want a structured aesthetic. > > >

According to Eric Perlmann, New Orleans in early January was the ideal time and place to shoot the Rage catalog, comfortably cool and no Mardi Gras mania. Frank drove from Arizona, 20 hours in two days, intending to spend another two days with Savannah after the photo shoot ended, and before school resumed.

He arrived, tired and hungry, at the hotel on St. Charles Avenue, in the garden district. It was gorgeous, resembling an antebellum mansion. Within, impeccable eclectic rooms and superior service awaited, and a cozy old-fashioned bar with happy hour. With a $5 mint julep in hand, Frank nibbled on curried shrimp until Mom and Savannah appeared.

He could tell there was a problem as soon as he saw Savannah. However, a moment later she launched herself into Grampa's welcoming arms. He muttered something about it being only a week since she saw him at Christmas, yet he'd missed her more than ever; maybe it had something to do with happened in the barn on Christmas Eve.

As luck would have it, Karen turned away when Savannah smooched him on the cheek. In short order, a coquettish lick on his stubbly chin, a giggle, and she kissed him again. This time, her little wet tongue swiped his lips, no holding back.

Red-faced, Frank eased her down, planting her feet firmly on the floor before he hugged her. After hugs and hellos, they relocated along with Mom, to a table on the front veranda.

"Everything going okay?" he asked nervously, still hand in hand, now with her perched on his lap.

He could still feel her tongue, warm and wriggly like her fingers, like the rest of her body. Her firm little rump was right on top of his erection.

"New Orleans stinks, Grampa." Savannah wrinkled her nose, fluttering eyes as she gazed up at him.

"I thought we talked about not being flirtatious," Karen said, pointblank.

"I'm not flirtatious! Grampa knows I'm teasing." She giggled, reaching down to grab his fingers again. "I'm just making sure he's wearing the ring I gave him for Christmas, Mom."

With an eye-roll, Karen explained. "It's been a long day, Dad. We were in the French Quarter. It's what you'd expect with all the horse-drawn carriages."

"Ahh, the sweet scent of manure. Nothing quite like it." He wrinkled his nose, winking right at his grandkid.

"The smell is awful, Dad. Fashion Brat kept making faces in front of the camera."

"Your barn smells like lavender perfume compared to New Orleans, Grampa." Savannah rolled her eyes and scrunched her nose, mostly to mimic him.

"Sav, you need to sit in your own seat, not on top of Grampa."

"We're just getting reacquainted, Mom." She swooshed back her hair.

There was no doubt about her intention as she cuddled with Grampa. It was far too close for comfort with Karen sitting across the table.

"I could tell you a poop joke, Grampa, but it's really crappy."

He grinned. "Is that the best you can do?"

"What's brown and sounds like a cow bell?… Dung! Get it, Grampa?"

"Enough is enough, Sav!" Karen said tiredly. "Sit in your seat, now!"

With the chortle of a Halloween goblin, Savannah proved again she was born mischievous. She put her hand directly over his groin and pushed down as she clambered off him.

As she slid into her seat, Frank said, "Sandy Girl misses you cleaning out her stable,"

It was out in the open, sort of, yet Karen still didn't make the connection. They were in the barn for an hour on Christmas Eve, although only the last few minutes were unforgettable. Outrageous, intimate fun! Spontaneous, too, with both of them giggling as he rubbed up against her back, pressing her against her palomino pony. Supposedly, he was showing her how to use a currycomb. Long curls flung over her pony, a lean tawny kid not moving a muscle.

"Savannah shovelling horse dung, I'd like to see that," Karen joked.

Right there, on the veranda, she smirked back at him, as much as acknowledging desire had been mutual. So close to the incestuous precipice, there had been no doubt she was submitting willingly, if not eagerly. He'd come within moments of ravishing her before he regained control, took her wrist and demonstrated what ponies liked

"Mostly, I supervise Grampa," Savannah giggled.

Then, she gave him her 'Fashion Brat' look, both teasing and serious to conceal their secret.

After catching Mom's eye for the third time, she exchanged tormenting him for fiddling with a crystal vase containing a single red rose.

Unable to deal with Savannah's sullen face, Frank averted his gaze to watch a streetcar go by.

"Rage is two days behind schedule," Karen went on.

"Because of horse shit?"

"It rained all day on Monday. Bruce thinks the sewers flooded, it's that foul. We had to reschedule."

"Meaning?" Frank was testy, and tired after driving all day.

"Tomorrow is Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge. It's important, Dad." Karen hesitated. "Eric has a problem with Rage; 'it's too focused thematically,' quote, unquote."

Savannah picked up. "Rage is all dance clothes, Grampa."

"Do tomboys dance that much?"

Karen smiled insincerity. "Eric said the exact same thing."

"Gay boys love dancing and showing off," Savannah butted in.

Rage was flamboyant, glossy pastel latex and vibrant linen; five distinctive mix-and-match ensembles for gender-confused kids to party in. Unisex fashion/in-your-face fetish came at an outrageous price – sleeveless blouse or T-shirt, $39.99, knee-high latex pants, $89.99, pole-dancer pink-latex jacket, $149.99.

"Eric loves the 'tease' style; however, he wants to see more than 'dance,'" Karen continued. "Actually, what he wants is 'art with inspiration,' his exact words, starting with unusual settings."

"So, we're shooting outside, Grampa."

"It's some kind of marketing gimmick he's come up with," Karen went on. "'Indigenous multiplicity,' he calls it."

"In the morning, Randal's taking Disco Kid to a cemetery; a multiplicity of tombs and headstones," Savannah said, surprisingly neutral, yet still with a twinkle.

"She means Raoul. Bruce is shooting Fashion Brat with a multiplicity of birds," Karen added.

"He gets to do 'gay zombie.' I get to do 'bird brat in mud.' It's not fair!"

"It's also a chance to show off the other you, like we talked about, Savy."

Confused, Frank let out a long sigh, shook his head, swilled mint julep, and silently told himself he should've known better than to drive 1,400 miles to spend two days with his grandkid in the middle of an important photo shoot.

"I miss you so much, Grampa."

He glanced up from his barely touched glass, wondering why he'd ordered a mint julep in the first place. "I miss you, too, Sweetheart."

He sat back, watching Savannah play with the crystal vase. Its lonely red rose seemed weary, like her.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I know you want to spend time with Savannah. She already said she wants to sleep in your room while you're here."

Savannah looked up with a hopeful smile.

"Only the one bed; but if you don't mind, I guess I could put up with her for one night," Frank said slyly. "She's like an electric blanket, except for her wriggling."

"The only other thing I can suggest is you go with her tomorrow," Karen went on, as much as saying it was his decision. "It'll last through noon. Then, the two of you can hang out together."

"For the rest of the day?"

"We're shooting 'Pole Dancers' in the French Quarter at 3:00 pm. The Nature Refuge shoot will just be you and the Sav, with Bruce; and Mark, of course; he's makeup. The park rangers are afraid more people will disturb the balance of nature."

<<>>

"Art posing is different to modeling clothes, Savy-baby," Bruce said for the third time. "I want you to focus on emotion and the action line; remember everything is subtle."

He stepped away from his camera and tripod. Whenever Savannah posed before his camera, he realized how lucky he was; an incredibly good-looking kid, agile, natural, and smart made his job so much easier.

He straightened, stretching out kinks – almost without fail, he shot at Savannah's eye-height, or lower, for a kid's perspective of the world.

"I want you to forget you're showing off clothes," he continued, dropping the jargon. "You're not Fashion Brat. You're a curious kid inspired by nature. Imagine you grew up in the bayou."

"Raoul maybe! I grew up without swamps. The closest thing to nature was pigeon poop."

"Act curious. Better. Tilt your head a little more. Look at the bird."

"Which friggin' bird?"

There were thousands of birds, great flocks of migratory waterfowl. Still, Savannah proceeded through positions and motions, making each pose seem spontaneous while concentrating on being Nature Brat. It was all about conveying a curious kid in the bayou.

"Eyes follow nose," Bruce snapped.

"I'm not looking at the camera!"

"Your eyeballs are still rotating!"

"I can't help it. The birds keep moving, Anyway, you said you didn't want a structured aesthetic!" Savannah snapped back.

Pleased, Bruce switched to compliments. "Your pouty face is way better than bored. Right shoulder up and give me a headshake, Savy. Good, but keep your chin down."

"It doesn't feel natural. I keep getting bitten," Savannah warned.

Mosquitoes, gnats, no-see-ums, haunted the swamps of Pontchartrain.

"I want determined jawline. Serious, not smoochy face. Remember to keep the thighs slightly apart."

"Not smoochy plus crotch shot, got it."

"Now, romantic with your mouth slightly open, Sweetie, subtle and intimate. Yes, like that exactly. Brooding with a hint of passion. Don't blink! Petulant works. Show some muscle. Bend back. Be a sensuous kid. That's good. Suck the belly in slightly."

Bruce composed until curls got in the way.

"My gorgeous girl needs a spruce, Bruce," Mark tittered, a stretch for a languorous tenor from Biloxi.

Frank Martin covered his smile. The mercurial makeup artist was O-U-T, even more than the L.A. newlyweds who'd moved into the toy-ranch a mile down the road from his place. The good news was they drank local vintage, mostly his 2010 Copper Top, Syrah.

"Fuck it!" Bruce took the photo anyway, Savannah jumping, slapping at another mosquito. "Take a breather, Bouncy-feet," he declared.

Mark beckoned to Savannah. "Better bouncy than a fatty with concrete footsies, Brucie-dear."

Bruce grumbled something about overweight models.

"Go ahead; not just a spruce. I want her to look super-coy in the next set of photos."

Bruce wandered over to Frank, while Savannah headed to Mark and the makeup stool. Frank had lugged it from the parking lot, along with Bruce's reflectors and tripods.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Bruce confided, wiping his eyes and blinking from the glare. "The setting, I mean; it's spectacular."

"Stunning," Frank agreed, eyes glued to his pretend tomboy.

It bothered him, Mark expertly applying eye shadow, so close he was in Savannah's personal space.

"Stunning," Bruce confirmed.

Savannah was stunning! TOMBOYpre Rage in white, form-fitting latex pants and a radiant yellow sleeveless T-shirt. It hung halfway down her thighs, suggestive while concealing.

"Latent won't last much longer," Bruce said quietly.

"Latent?" Yet, Frank saw it, too, every time he glanced at his grandkid.

"With the androgynous look; Savannah turns hot into sizzling without overdoing it! Unfortunately, fashion kids grow up fast, New York especially." Bruce hesitated. "Only last week, Eric told Karen the best thing would be for Sav to live on the ranch with you."

"Perlmann said that to Karen?"

Bruce nodded. "Despite what you think, he's a good guy. He cares about the brat."

Barely nine years old, high fashion stole Savannah's childhood; from hours with hair stylists to get long curly hair just right, to body awareness and constant dieting.

"You onboard with the vagina thing?" Bruce asked quietly.

Frank nodded reluctantly. He was increasingly of the mind that Savannah's suppressed sexuality was already burgeoning. It wouldn't take much…

"Between you and me, I'm holding out for the penis thing," he whispered.

"Raoul's almost too old for Tomboy. He's got to go all out gay if he wants to keep modeling. Savannah's got options. Once she meets the right guy, she'll settle down…"

With cutthroat competition driving every decision, everything came down to sexuality, even for kids.

Frank swallowed. "At nine?"

"I lost my cherry before I turned ten."

"Jesus!"

"If a boy's into it, it's not what most people think. The sensation blew my mind, truly life-changing," Bruce chuckled.

"So, there's hope yet?"

"Either gay or trans, our Fashion Brat's got what it takes, not only career-wise, if you catch my drift. In the fashion game, being gay's the easy way."

"When Karen was nine, the last thing she was interested in was fashion."

"She told Eric she was always a tomboy. Apparently, her mom told her you wanted a boy."

Not about to go there, Frank shrugged it off. "My ex-wife said a lot of dumb things."

"Karen really wanted a girl," Bruce confided, nodding in Savannah's direction. "Fashion Brat could switch gender or be a girly boy; the question is what makes her happier."

Frank looked the other way. It was safer.

"Kids are a lot wiser than we give them credit for. Gay kids especially." Bruce hesitated. "If I wanted to push the limit a little with Savannah, would you mind?"

"Push it how?" Frank held his breath; there had to be a reason why Karen brought it up over breakfast.

More explicit modelling was on the cards; not nude, just taking advantage of Savannah's lithe little body. It was nothing for him to get upset about.

"I want to shoot the final segment more overt."

"Exactly what does 'overt' mean to a professional photographer?"

Bruce waved his hand at abundant nature, thick marsh grass and waterfowl only a few steps away.

"I'm thinking a kid in the Louisiana wilderness wearing only a T-shirt. I think Sav's up for it, don't you?"

Frank didn't like the 'don't you?' Not at all! He ran his hand through bristly grey hair, scratched behind his ear, anything but answer directly.

"She might be. Overt's not up to me."

"Knowing Sav, posing without pants won't be a problem," Bruce said confidently.

"It's not Savannah's decision. You need to clear it through Karen."

"We talked about making sexuality more obvious after you and Sav went to bed."

Frank took a breath – that explained Karen's awkwardness over breakfast.

"When Eric says he wants 'art,' he really means 'risqué, Frank." Bruce glanced at Mark, busy restyling Savannah's hair. "Nothing showing, yet still showing off."

"I thought that's a no-no in the kid-fashion."

"Karen's of the mind that revealing what's down there works for Rage."

Frank exhaled. "Revealing what, exactly?"

"Nothing but shape and shadow under the T-shirt. Only if you and Savannah are okay with it."

Less dumbfounded than bewildered, Frank gave what he hoped was a noncommittal shrug.

<<>>

Bruce beckoned Savannah over as soon as Mark finished 'sprucing.'

"What your mom said about showing off your body; you want to try it?"

"I'm good at showing off, aren't I Grampa?" She looked him in the eye, silently daring him to disagree.

The memory was recent, so strong that Frank gulped saliva. The night before, Savannah started stripping as soon as he closed the door, flinging clothes at him as she pranced around the bedroom. Then, she posed for him. Spinning pirouettes, graceful arches, obscene leg splits; it went on and on until Frank wrestled her into submission. After prolonged tickles and kisses, he'd bathed, dried, and cuddled a very naked Savannah until sleep took over. At least, that was his intention. Sound asleep, he couldn't keep his hands off his grandchild.

"How you pose is up to your mom and you, Sanny."

After a few stressful moments, worrying she'd blurt out something about doing 'leg splits' and wrestling on the bed, he turned toward Mark, his meaning clear.

Bruce took the hint. "Hey Mark, might as well start packing up. We're nearly done here."

Savannah regarded her grandfather, worried until he smiled a little, offered a reassuring nod. She beamed back, visibly relieved he was on her side.

Bruce glanced around. "Okay, if you're up for showing off, Sav, lose your pants and undies," he said quietly.

"I'll give Mark a hand," Frank offered.

He started toward Mark even as blood rushed to his face.

"I need you to hold stuff, Grampa."

Savannah was so adamant that Frank stopped in his tracks. He stared, very aware that Bruce was behind his camera and tripod. With a practiced sashay, she lifted her yellow T-shirt, deft fingers undoing chrome-plated buttons, no zippers on Rage.

"Hey, Grampa."

Frank peeked.

She was shameless in front of the camera. However, he saw no more than a swathe of bare belly. The T-shirt dropped down as she wriggled and tugged, dragging latex pants and undies from her narrow pelvis, down slender thighs.

"I need help over here."

He hurried over, an obedient acolyte kneeling before his mistress, assisting as much as he dared. With trembling hands, he unfastened sandals, scooped up latex pants and titty-pink bikini briefs, and quickly stood up again. Backing away, yet his gaze was drawn, instinctively stopping where lower belly transformed to thighs, a gap that culminated in a bump under the thong. It seemed bigger than a girl's mons. Maybe it was just his imagination; a tiny finger hid under the T-shirt…

"Raoul would definitely have a boner by now," Bruce teased from behind the viewfinder.

Savannah scowled, already in posing mode as the camera clicked rapidly. After a few shots, Bruce gestured to Frank. He started toward the reflectors.

Setting up took three tries before Bruce was happy. Posing resumed. Frank tried to remain calm. He took one deep breath after another, disputing morality. Not that he could see anything conclusive, just a small agile body hidden under a long yellow T-shirt. Still, it wasn't his imagination; those tiny pimples on her chest were really kid-nipples, and the symmetrical groove that centered her bellybutton, it went all the way down to the little bump doing its best to define gender. Worse, he trembled every time her gaze rested on him.

"Stretch and flex, Baby," Bruce muttered. "I want to see tendons, not puppy fat."

"No fat on this puppy," Savannah retorted.

"Now, side on and look up. Bottom lip hangover! That's perfect. Now, tongue it, Sweetie. Just the tip. Sexy brat! Do dreamy and flirt with your lover."

Savannah snapped, "I'm showing off a friggin' T-shirt, Bruce."

Bruce guffawed. "You want to show off, kid? Start taking it off."

Frank came close to blurting, 'That's too much!' But he didn't. There was too much at stake.

With a nervous glance at her grandfather, Savannah hiked up the T-shirt. She made it last until Mark had carried his makeup boxes all the way to the rental Dodge Caravan. Finally, with her patented teasing giggle, she pirouetted, exposing a slender glabrous thigh, her crotch craftily concealed by a fold of bright-lemon-yellow. Frank was certain he could see Savannah's erection stretching the cream-colored thong, inviting, entrancing, demanding…

Bruce clucked approval, his left hand leaving his camera, indicating a slow turn-around.

"Oh yeah! Give me the Fashion Brat look. How about it, wild child? You ready to lose the thong?"

Frank gaped, unable to formulate coherent thoughts. Without any hesitation, Savannah reached under the t-shirt. She peeled it from her middle, dragged it down and off, and tossed it to him, warm and silky, and tiny. Frank resolved not to look even as he clutched it in a very nervous hand.

"Side on and look over your shoulder. Keep the sly smile, and lift the T-shirt," Bruce went on as if nothing had changed. "Talk about sexy. Now, slowly turn and look innocent. Like that, exactly… She's one sexy kid, huh Frank?"

"You sure this is okay with Karen?" Frank muttered.

It wasn't hot, yet he was sweaty all over. Not nude, yet she might as well be.

<< Savannah is nine years, five months, and 15 days old >>

Savannah dozed, contented, still-sleepy eyes closed to slits to block out the remnants of dawn. Remembering.

Los Ansias Conquistador was a real hacienda, yellow roses all over a long pergola, growing up the walls, and spilling from planters, just like Grampa said. Missus Carduso wasn't grumpy at all, nothing like Grampa said. After settling in, they watched the sun set from the river terrace as Frank gorged on Arizona-style lamb ribs. Savannah nibbled on fresh garden greens, cheesy garlic focaccia, and lemon linguine.

Back in their adobe-walled La Casa de Rosas Amarillas, they showered together; and then they made love, long, slow, sweet, passionate love. Afterwards, they watched the moon rise over the river until they drifted off to sleep.

At 7:30 am, Grampa still laid behind her. His right arm draped her side, his hand clasping her hip, as much holding her in place, as claiming her ass.

She smiled and wriggled back slightly. His soft sigh was unmistakable, unparalleled joy. It didn't seem possible that anything could feel as good as waking up to a man's naked body. Pressed so close, it was surely the best thing ever, yet it paled beside falling asleep, knowing his seed filled her rectum. No longer any doubt; he belonged inside her.

The feeling was mutual. Pitch dark, middle-of-the-night, with his sweaty groin pushed up against her equally sweaty butt, a sleepy Grampa had finally murmured, 'You're mine, now.'

Eight hours later, she still belonged to him, yet something had changed during the night. Dreamy memories lingered; after finally doing what a transgender-girl was supposed to do, she should be happy. She'd enjoyed every caress, every caress, every precious moment… yet, she still wanted more.

Now, she worried, a lingering realization of simply being with him would never be enough. They'd joined, but not truly joined, not in the way she needed. She would never have a real vagina; it would always be faux, and small, and… she didn't want that.

Her right hand extended. The boy part of her was wide awake, like it was most mornings. She touched the tip lightly, delicate, rounded, tingling, muscles tightening in her groin, stiff hot flesh flexing, making her feel… alive and sexy, oh-so-sexy. No longer self-conscious, no longer despising its arrogant stiffness, her thumb extended and rubbed the tiny helmet head. Savannah quivered and closed her eyes, doing what Raoul said he did every morning. Stroking slowly, rhythmically, flinching as sensations amplified and spread out, afraid to go faster, wanting to grip harder, fighting the urge.

It was hot behind her. Her left hand explored, finding his sex separating her buttocks, more sticky than slimy. Somehow, Savannah resisted the urge to touch her anus, even though she was very aware of it. The place where his penis entered was now very special. She could tell it was bigger back there; it was reassuring, too. Instinctively squeezing, because just inside felt itchy, not really sore.

Thinking about his hot hard penis kept her from going back to sleep. Remembering the throbbing, the slick suctioning shaft sliding in, reaching into her bowels, the spasms getting stronger, longer, squirting his seed, all of it unforgettable. Without warning, the urge returned, a surge from deep inside, desire that made her wriggle and squeeze and push back to increase the pressure. More contact was nice, yet his penis wasn't buried deep inside like it had been during the night.

Just two times, and eager for more, so far beyond innocence there was no stopping. Impossible now, not when she knew where and how far it went, and what it did. There was no getting past it, all part of being loved by a man.

Suddenly, she missed the oh-so-strange giggly feeling that got better and better.

Yawning, needing him to hold her, knowing she still had to call her mom and tell her… What? To call Doctor Stein? That having sex was everything she'd hoped for?

Savannah poked his flank, little fingers annoying, wanting, needing affection. Nothing. She pulled his arm over her flank, clutching his fingers against her bare lower belly, soothing the persistent emptiness.

Barely awake, his hand strayed, rough fingertips stroking her warm soft flesh. She loved his thumb rubbing into her bellybutton, his hand outstretched, covering her lower belly, fingertips carefully avoiding her maleness, yet lightly brushing a very-hairless pubis.

Unable to stop himself, his little finger edged sideways, tickling the exposed tip. The stiff little penis jerked in response, bouncing with excited spasms as his fingernail scraped in the sensitive groove, tantalizing juvenile nerves. It tingled more than tickled, getting harder, a tiny bit bigger, the shaft so tender she twitched when he touched it. Mostly, he pinched the tip, rolling the swollen helmet between his thumb and index finger, squishing. It was all she could do to breath. Then, he stopped, and she felt abandoned.

Now, his left hand held her pelvis steady. His right arm was under her, wrapped around her chest. He nuzzled the top of her head, his chin securing her in his embrace. Between sighs, Savannah lifted her upper leg, offering. His bulbous glans nudged her scrotum. Without warning, his penis cleaved her buttocks, sliding in the crack. As nice as it with his erect penis splitting her crack, inside was infinitely better.

She sighed again, not at all nervous as he cautiously probed the opening, definitely bigger.

She smiled into her pillow, hoping, still anxious; still very sensitive. Her soft whimper made him stop.

Suddenly, alpha-male asserted itself. He rubbed back and forth, playfully poking at the tender pucker, almost annoying, though no longer sore.

He pushed gently, giving her time to adjust. The T-G app was right; after D-5 and lots of Extended Medicated Internal Lubricant, penetration was stress-free. However, a juvenile anus still had to dilate. Stretching to accept his thick helmet took time, and some getting used to.

Even now, the stretched sensation lingered. Penetration took longer – she was still achy after the night's prolonged pummeling. Not a lot of resistance, though; the muscles quickly weakening, relaxing to welcome him inside; then, straining down to increase the pressure as soon as his glans breached the sphincter.

After just two times, she was ready to tell him she needed him all the way inside her.

His swollen glans poked into her anus again, not too tight, not too loose, just right.

Under the bedcovers, his thick slippery erection possessed her for the third time, inching into the taut hot tube. As soon as he gained sufficient depth not to be easily pushed out, he began thrusting, very carefully.

Surely, it was a dream, gentle and sweet, with undulating waves. Always the waves, getting bigger and stronger, until something deep inside Savannah's body was pounding like her heart.

Just a headshake, urgent, gasping, pelvis twitching, gulping saliva. He kept stopping, pulling back, surging, making her groan and whimper, biding his time until she couldn't stop shuddering.

He grasped boyhood, rigid shaft and crinkled balls, squeezing, pushing her forward with every abrupt thrust, grownup fucking, pulling her back and onto his cock. Burying himself, rhythmic, erratic, craving the ultimate closeness.

"You're my beautiful little lover," he crooned. "I love you… love you so much…"

Like a metronome, sliding in, sliding out, tingling all over, sniffling, gasping, shuddering as the pressure intensified. Unimaginable joy. Leaking piss as Grampa pummeled a pint-sized bladder, juvenile prostate aching.

The app said for her to strain down, for him to go faster, concentrating his thrusts on her special place. She shivered and shoved back at him, writhing as his erection stabbed at her core.

His hand all-but-vibrated on the tender shaft, straining, skin almost painfully taut.

It didn't seem possible that a boy's penis could get any harder; but it did. Aching hard, and it wasn't so little. About then, it was so swollen she was certain it would explode if he kept doing it. It was so stiff it might even break off, yet there was no way could she tell him to stop.

Nerve impulses flooded her brain, releasing adrenaline and dopamine, her heart beating frantically, changing her forever. Then, with no warning, the pressure exploded, her little body quaking as powerful spasms erupted. Sadly, it lasted only a few heartbeats, cramping, groaning blasts of intense joy.

Savannah groaned through the aftermath, throbbing inside and out. Dry as sun-bleached bone in the desert, the now ruddy penis kept jerking as if there was more to come. Surely, something should burst forth from a boy's dick when it was that hard, tiny veins swollen, the glans like a plump crimson cherry.

Just a wrinkled knot underneath, yet he fondled gently, feeling tiny testicles scooting under his fingertips, pressing one, then the other into inguinal canals, pretending they were gone.

"Don't get angry, Savannah…. Please…. I have to say this… I love you… because you're a boy… my beautiful boy."

He regretted it instantly. It didn't come close to what he wanted to say, yet he couldn't think of anything else, and it needed to be said.

Angry at himself, he kept on, churning her insides to mush. It left her shaking, too discombobulated to speak, let alone able to stop him. He trembled mightily, unable to stop thrusting, testicles aching as the need to empty himself inside Savannah grew. She cried, blubbering happiness, her little body exhausted, no longer hers to control.

For a few moments, he fought back, eyes and jaws clenched, resisting the culmination. Savannah sniveled, shivering, burning hot, disbelieving. His swollen erection was so big she seemed about to burst, and he was scarcely moving it. She wriggled, trying to get it where she needed. For the second time, pelvic pulses became spasms, making her writhe, the pressure increasing until she could barely breathe.

Then, he strained, his throbbing sex way up inside her slender abdomen. He was frantic, the throbbing deep inside initiating orgasm. Pulsations became little jerks, became savage shuddering as he ejaculated. He slumped, trembling, the intensity of his release overpowering.

On the edge of consciousness, Savannah would always remember him wiping up excess lubricant with a wad of toilet paper. His semen wasn't messy at all; only a little dribble managed to escape.

Frank Martin woke up again when someone hammered on the door. Its thick wood slabs should have dulled the sound of a fist, however, the noise was metallic and hollow, like an aluminum baseball bat.

Old Missus Carduso told Savannah all about the door when she escorted them to La Casa de Rosas Amarillas. An eight-mule wagon had hauled the hacienda's doors and windows from Flagstaff in 1882. A local blacksmith forged its hinges, black-iron same as his horseshoes. It had two bullet holes after a finicky whore snubbed a drunken cowboy from Abilene.

Still pressed up against Savannah's back, inhaling flowery shampoo scent, nuzzling sleepily, the last thing he wanted to do was get up and get dressed.

It was a man's voice, so loud, so demanding that Savannah shoved back the sheet and scrambled up. Frank's scowl fleeted; there was no getting past bare smooth boy, not with boyhood standing stiff and proud. Gorgeous small buttocks no longer virgin because of him; the very idea entranced him.

Even as the man hammered again, he pointed to the bathroom door and whispered, "Shower."

Hurriedly, Frank pulled on yesterday's blue jeans. Fastidious to a fault, Savannah grabbed D-5, 'Emile' lubricant, and a still-moist clump of toilet paper. No sign of her silvery TOMBOY Wonder panties on the table where they'd been tossed the night before. She shoved Grampa's Remington pump-action shotgun aside to make sure, before she grabbed a clean pair from her backpack. Then, she scampered, gleefully smirking back at Grampa.

"I know you're in there!" The man hammered again. "I'm speaking to 9-1-1 right now. You got ten seconds to open up."

Frank drew the bolt and turned the door handle, stepping back just in time as the man thrust the door open. He stood on the porch, smirking, swinging a kid's aluminum baseball bat in his left hand.

He was unshaven, balding, otherwise plain looking in a Western-style checked shirt with wide lapels, turquoise bolo, greenhorn jeans and pretend cowboy boots. He shoved past Frank, stalked a few paces into the room before looking around.

Frank frowned; it was all he could do with his heart hammering at hearing her name. Like being in the corral with a wild stallion, sweating; a single wrong move would be fatal.

The man scanned the room, still swinging the baseball bat as he spoke into his cellphone, on speakerphone. "I'm inside the room."

The woman on the phone was surprisingly calm. "Sir, I told you to wait outside, out of sight. I said not to go inside."

He stared at the bed nearest the window, sheets shoved aside. The other bed was untouched except for a few crinkles on the Navajo-blanket bedspread.

Frank's voice went up a notch. "She's right! You need to leave, whoever you are."

"No way, Ma'am. He was raping her for sure. There's signs all over." The intruder turned to the bathroom door. "She in there?"

The man hefted the baseball bat. "You're under citizen's arrest for sexually abusing a kid, Martin." Still looking around, he gestured, 'Back up.'

At hearing the woman's voice, he clasped his cellphone to his chest. "Dumb bitch! You fuck her, Martin?"

The man smirked. "You just did her, that's why you don't want me to see her. Don't try to deny it."

Frank took a slow deep breath. "If I was you, I'd leave, cowboy. Barging in here and accusing me… I'll sue your ass!"

"You aren't suing anyone, you goddamned pedo!" the man shouted back. "You're all the same. I bet you rent her to other men. You watch 'em dick her, don't you? Take any photos?"

He started towards the bathroom door, clutching his baseball bat as he tried the door handle. "Open the door, Savannah. He can't hurt you anymore, not with me here."

Clutching his cellphone to his chest, the man swung at the bathroom door. Savannah screamed. His mind made up, Frank took a few steps sideways, reaching back. His shotgun was on the table, behind Savannah's open backpack.

The man banged the baseball bat against the door again before he spun around. "What?"

Frank glared back, aiming to antagonize, ready to do whatever it took to protect Savannah. The man took several deep breaths before he realized the 9-11 operator was speaking.

"Sir, you need to leave the room immediately. I want you to wait outside until the police arrive. They're on the way. Just be patient."

Frank didn't delay, hoping he was doing the right thing. "You're Wayne! You've been stalking Savannah online!"

Wayne jabbed his baseball bat at Frank. "Sit down and shut up." He spoke into his phone. "How long before the cops get here?"

"Sir, I told you they are enroute. I need you to wait outside the room until they arrive."

Frank leaned against the table, arm extended, fingers touching smooth American walnut, the stock of his Remington.

"You're all hat, Cowboy." He hesitated, wondering if the man realized. "Savannah told me about your emails, texting, all kinds of queer shit."

He figured he had a few minutes before the police arrived, maybe as long as fifteen minutes.

"You're stalking her, Wayne. That why you're here, pretending to be some kind of do-gooder? You disgusting pervert!" He kicked the chair. "Jesus! Okay, I'll sit." His panicked tone got attention.

Wayne hefted the bat, lifting his camera to record video. A threatening step closer to Frank. "What?"

"What the Hell are you doing?" Frank growled, backing away for the camera. "Don't threaten me, Wayne."

He kicked the chair again, sending it flying across the room. "Jesus! What the hell are you doing?"

"For God's sake, NO!" Frank shoved the coffee pot and microwave onto the floor, shouting. "Help! Put it down! Help!"

Then, as Wayne stared in disbelief, he pivoted, grabbing his shotgun, bringing it up as he pumped a round into the chamber, thumb already off the safety.

Epilogue

Still disbelieving, Frank Martin walked through the second gate of Pima County Detention Center. He turned to look back as the gate closed behind him. The six-story concrete fortress was a nightmare, soulless, endless racial epithets, the stench of sweat. He shuddered. His gut ached, his face flushed, his head throbbed. Maybe he'd caught hepatitis; it was rampant.

Just five days in minimum security, he felt like he'd aged ten years. Jammed into a two-person cell with three illegal immigrants awaiting deportation. The second day was torture after rumor spread through the B Wing. In the middle of the night, someone punched him in the groin.

He looked around and spotted Karen, standing by the Jeep. He inhaled; thankfully, no sigh of Savannah. Then, it struck him…

"She's still in Mexico," he murmured, staring down at chewing gum splotches all over the sidewalk.

However, it wasn't like Karen. The last thing she'd do was leave Savannah alone for the operation.

Impossible to forget, not when it was all he thought about. Doctor Klein's Stage One was a subscapular orchiectomy; both of Savannah's testicles gone forever. Stage Two was a vulva; Savannah's small scrotum gone forever. It was scheduled for June 24th. Then, he remembered Karen saying there was too much at stake to wait. If they drove down to Topolobampo without him, and were back already, it meant… already castrated!

If he'd been there, would he let it happen? Maybe. After everything? After making love with Savannah, all that mattered was her happiness.

The Pima County Attorney was undecided. Twelve-gauge buckshot at two yards; was it murder, manslaughter, or stand your ground? The Tucson Herald Editorial called him an out-of-control gun-toting rancher. The local NRA branch was having none of it. His attorney, Mack Cassidy, said something about an inconclusive medical examination, and Child Protective Services.

Mack said he'd pumped another round into the Remington probably out of habit. He remembered pulling the trigger. Wayne was making too much noise, whining about his missing hand. Besides, he scared Savannah.

He looked up, blinking in the bright afternoon sun. Karen stopped, still yards away, as if he was contagious. He couldn't remember when they'd last spoken. Two days ago? Yesterday? Today was… June… June… The last time he saw a calendar was the 17th. It didn't make sense. Driving all the way from Topolobampo, at least 12 hours, or longer.

He shook his head, gave a feeble smile, and stumbled as he stepped off the curb. She took his hand, squeezed, took his plastic bag of belongings, and started across the road.

"You only did what was necessary. Well, maybe a bit more. Savannah hasn't stopped talking about it in five days."

His pace, like his mood, picked up a notch. His heart raced when he spotted Savannah sitting in the rear of the Jeep, head down, afraid to look at him.

"This week, all of this, it's been hard on Savannah. You need to be really careful what you say."

"The entire mess, it's her fault. I shouldn't have let her buy that damned iPhone."

"I'm just glad I'm out of that place," Frank said. "I'm sorry she had to go through a medical exam. It must've been awful."

"I got a two-hour lecture from Child Protective Services. Some sex-consultant from Penn State said the amount of rectal dilation indicated adult penetration. We're lucky Savannah flushed the evidence."

Karen smiled. "You've always said Savannah's a bright kid, Dad. She told them it was mine. A sexually precocious gay kid, the prosecutor decided not to press it."

Wondering why she said 'gay' and not 'transgender', he went around to the passenger door, opened it, and got in. Just a glimpse in the rear, Savannah's sad little face made him feel even worse. No fancy Fashion Brat outfit, loose white shorts, pale blue T-shirt, almost a boy except for hair in a ponytail.

There was so much more he needed to say. He dared not look at Savannah. He exhaled, inhaled, trying not to think about the operation.

Within minutes, Karen was doing 75 on I-10 East, switching lanes in afternoon traffic to get out of Tucson as quickly as possible.

Finally, Frank turned and looked between the front seats. Savannah's shorts were all but off, white cotton bunched at the ankles. Knees apart. Tanned lean smooth thighs. He expected a neat little gauze bandage, at worst a vulva, swollen, bruised, with black ugly stitches. Not a small pink scrotum. It was perfect, just loose enough to reveal two tiny testicles.

Frank gulped. Without thinking, he murmured, "Thirty-five thousand bucks a year to stop puberty. Jesus."

"I thought you'd be glad." Karen glanced sideways. "The balls are in your court, Dad."

Only then, he realized what they were trying to tell him, why Savannah looked so anxious. It was what every parent of a transgender-kid worried about.

The slight smile on Karen's face confirmed it. "Savannah wants to see what it's like? Delaying puberty will give him time to decide."

He hesitated a few moments. "This is about what happened that morning, isn't it Sav?"

"He loves you, Dad. I mean he really loves you. I think the best thing is for us to live with you for a while; see how it works out; if he's happy… Eric and Bruce are both onboard. No one else needs to know."

Ganymede A Fly On The Wall 2022 Boys Medical/Medicine Story

Edited by Tony

Category & Story codes

Summary

Characters

Disclaimer

Author's note

AN ANONYMOUS REVIEW

A LITTLE BACKSTORY TO GET STARTED:

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and four days old > > >

< < < Tickle Teddy, Grampa> > >

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and seven days old > > >

< < < Mommy, can Grampa barf me?> > >

< < < Savannah is still nine years, five months, and seven days old > > >

< < < It's right up inside me, Grampa > > >

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and eight days old > > >

< < <… My thing is itchy > > >

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and nine days old > > >

< < < Does fucking hurt, Grampa? > > >

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 12 days old > > >

< < < What if Mommy saw us doing this? >>>>

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 13 days old > > >

< < < Can we put on a Bad-Barbie Show? >>>>

< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 14 days old > > >

< < < You said you didn't want a structured aesthetic. > > >

<< Savannah is nine years, five months, and 15 days old >>

Epilogue

The End