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Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 06:23:23 UTC

Subject: Part 1 of 3

Content-Type: text

This story is intended for adults above the age of 18. If you

are not 18 years or older, please do not read any further.

THE OLD SWITCHEROO

by Little Sissy Tippytoes

Panting, gasping, clutching her asscheeks as he squeezed her hard against

him, wanting all of her, ramming, jamming his aching, feverish cock as far

into her as he could, Martin grunted and sweated; she groaned, raking his

back with her long fingernails, her lips pressed hard to his, her teeth

so hard against the edges of his lips he nearly cried out in pain. He could

feel the climax approaching, wanting to drive on to the finish, but wanting

to hold back, to savor this moment forever and not let go. Oh, shit, this

was good! Losing all sense of timing, all sense of coherent rhythm, the two

now rolling, kicking, humping, rutting like two pigs in a sty. Raw, pure,

unadulterated animal lust pushing them onward, climbing now to the edge of

the precipice, ready to crash into the void, facing oblivion, completely

beyond their senses, bodies sweating so much they squeak as they rub

together. "Ah, ah, ah!" he cries, nearing the end, his sperm boiling now,

ready to burst forth from his splitting prick. She moans a long, female,

"Oohhhhh," a low, heavy moan, primordial woman releasing all her pent-up

passion, oblivious now to pregnancy concerns of females everywhere, totally

lost in this moment, "I want it! I want it! Oh, let me have it!" Now, at

the edge, teetering on the brink, she crying out her need, he grunting,

shoving, no sense of anything but the two bodies entwined. And then, all

hell breaks loose, and he has erupted inside her and she cries, more like

a scream, a long, tearful "Aaahhh!" and he, "Oh yes, oh yes, ohhh, fuckfuck,

shiiiittt."

THUMP.

Martin was drawn out of his drifting revery as the plane's wheels gently

scraped the tarmac and lurched slightly. He had begun to doze off as the

plane had circled the airport, O'Hare, busy airport, and today busier than

usual. It seemed to take forever to get the necessary clearance to land.

He'd been thinking of his wife, Edie, and must have slipped into a doze

and begun to dream about making love to her. Sad. They hadn't made love in

weeks. Something was wrong, and Martin knew it; he couldn't put his finger

on the problem, though. She'd begun growing distant and cool several months

ago, not telling him about her day in her usual chatty, happy way. He'd

always loved that about Edie. Although she was a successful interior

decorator - had her own business and more work than she could handle; wanted

to hire an assistant, but not quite financially strong enough to do that -

Martin also saw her as the old-fashioned "little woman," the "happy little

housewife," full of chitchat and newsflashes from the female world of

suburbia. If they had kids, she'd be president of the PTA. That sort of

girl. But a tigress in bed. She could drain him and leave him dishrag limp

for days. She was insatiable once she got her engine revved up. But not

lately. He couldn't figure it out.

Martin had spent a good part of the past week trying just that, trying to

pin down when their marriage had begun to sour. His preoccupation with his

troubles had led to two major mistakes, and he had failed to close the deal

with the west coast firm he'd been sent out to handle. He'd been distracted

and inattentive during the meetings, and had made a horrible impression on

his hosts. Even though they had originally felt his company had the most to

offer, by the end of the week they'd decided if Martin was any indication

of the kind of representation his company had to offer, they'd rather take

the competition and a slightly smaller profit. Martin's bosses were furious.

He'd been their top sales representative, the man they always relied on

to close the big deals. He knew it was not going to be a pleasant week

ahead.

Still, for all his anxiety over what he would have to face at the office

on Monday, that problem paled beside the one that had disturbed him these

past several weeks - Edie. What the hell had gone wrong? He was a good

husband, attentive and supportive (he thought); he was a good lover, paying

lots of attention to her sexual desires and needs (he thought); he was loyal

and faithful (he knew); he was, in short, a good friend, lover and husband.

So why had she grown so cool toward him lately?

These questions filled his head as he wandered somewhat aimlessly toward

the luggage pickup carousel. He wasn't really paying attention to what was

happening around him, the crush of people, the noise of the carousel turning,

the luggage dropping down from the chute and slapping against the rim of

the rotating feeder; but, out of the corner of his eye, perhaps because her

hair was so blonde, he noticed a woman bend over, pick up a suitcase, and

begin to leave. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see her face. But she

had a body that certainly went with the hair, slender with just enough hip,

nice long legs ending at trim ankles, her miniskirt showing enough thigh

to make him wonder about the rest of it. 'Boy, is she gorgeous,' he thought

to himself, as he watched her begin to edge her way through the crowd

pressing against the edge of the carousel. Then he noticed the suitcase in

her hand. 'Hey, that suitcase looks exactly like mine,' he thought. 'What

the hell's going on here?'

He began pushing towards her, but the crowd was too thick, and he lost

sight of her momentarily, only spotting her after she had emerged on the

other side of the gate in the luggage pick-up area. By the time he was able

to get to the gate, she was disappearing through the exit out to the

taxi-stand. He struggled through the throng at the gate, and sprinted

to the exit; but, as he began to push the door open, he spotted her getting

into a cab, and the cabbie closing the door behind her. 'Shit,' he thought.

'What'm I gonna do, now? All my clothes in there. Damn! My computer floppies,

with all my accounts. Fuck an A! I don't believe this!' He stood in the

doorway, jamming his hands in his pockets in frustration. Then he turned to

report the - what? theft? mix-up? - whatever. He started toward an office

with 'Airport Security' stenciled on the door.

As he passed by the carousel, he noticed most of the luggage had been picked

up, and the crowd had thinned out considerably. Then, he suddenly spotted a

suitcase, identical to his own! "Hey, maybe that woman didn't pick up my

suitcase, after all! Maybe she just happened to have one that looked like mine."

Breathing a sigh of relief, he approached the carousel to look more closely

at the suitcase as it slowly passed by. He reached down and lifted the bag off

the rotating tray.

Suddenly, a man standing next to him, touching him on the arm. "Don't make

any sudden moves, mister," the man saying. "Just walk slowly along with me

towards that office over there that says 'Airport Security' on the door."

Martin, shocked, said, "What? What is this - ? Who the hell are you? What's

going on here?"

The man's coat opened, a badge hanging from the breast pocket of his

suitcoat. "FBI," he said in an undertone. "Don't do anything stupid. Just walk

along with me to that office over there."

Martin shrugged his shoulder. "I don't know what this is all about, mister.

I think you're making a big mistake here."

The man replied, "Why don't you let me worry about that, ok? Just keep

walking."

They arrived at the door, the man producing a key to unlock it. As the door

opened, Martin realized the room was lighted (a shade over the window had

blocked the light), and there was another man, also in a suit and wearing an

overcoat, sitting behind a metal desk along the wall. The man with Martin

placed his hand on Martin's back and ushered him into the room, quietly

closing and locking the door behind him.

Martin, clearly nervous, tried to cover his anxiety. "Now, what the hell is

going on here?" he blustered. "Suppose you tell me what this is all about."

"Gladly," said the man who had identified himself as an FBI agent. "We just

want to take a look inside your bag, there. This should only take a moment, and

then you can go on your way." He indicated that Martin should hand him the.

suitcase. When Martin had done so, the man set the suitcase on the desktop and

slowly opened it. He began riffling through the clothes, then suddenly stopped,

and looked slyly at Martin. "Uh, huh. I think we found what we were looking

for." He produced a large plastic bag containing what looked to Martin like

some kind of powder, or baking flour.

Martin looked confused. "What are you talking about?" he said. "Let me see

that." He looked at the open suitcase. "Hey! Wait a minute!" he said, loud to

cover his growing fear. "This suitcase isn't mine! Look. Those clothes in there

aren't mine. I don't wear that kind of stuff! What the fuck's going on here?"

The two men looked at him expressionlessly. Finally, the man who had examined

the suitcase and produced the plastic bag began rummaging through the bag again.

This time, he produced a small leather case, something like a credit card

wallet. He opened it and inspected its contents. "Your name Martin Gold?" he

asked.

Martin's upper lip was beginning to grow damp with sweat. He was clearly

frightened now. "Yeah," he answered. "How did you know that?"

The man handed him the credit card case. Inside was an identification card.

The name, neatly typed, said, "Martin Gold." The address was his. He couldn't

believe what was happening. "I don't get it," he said, breathing hard now.

"I'm telling you, this can't be my bag. Those clothes aren't mine. They are

not the clothes I took with me to the west coast. And where's my computer disks?

You didn't find them in there, did you? I don't know what the hell is going on,

and I don't know what you two are doing here. But, I'm telling you, this bag

is not mine!"

The man looked very calmly at Martin, then raised his hand from behind the

open suitcase lid. He held three floppy disks. "Are these the disks you were

talking about?" he asked.

Martin was flabbergasted. This was like some kind of nightmare. This wasn't

his suitcase. The clothes clearly weren't his. And this plastic bag with the

powder; where had it come from? His eyes began to mist. He knew he was in some

sort of serious trouble.

The room grew quiet. Martin stood nervously, looking into the suitcase,

wondering how this horrible mess had happened. His eyes darted back and forth

between the two men, as they watched him, they showing no emotion, no

expression at all.

Finally, the man seated behind the desk said, "You're in big trouble, Gold.

I can't say without a lab report, but it sure looks to me like this bag is

holding cocaine. And from the size of it, I'd say we're looking at several

grams. This is one helluva lot of dope, bud. You've got a lot of explaining to

do."

Martin started at the word 'cocaine.' What - ? Dope? "Hey, wait a minute,

here," he cried. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. I've never used

dope, I've never carried dope, I've never sold dope. I don't even know where

to buy this crap."

The standing man said, "Then what's it doing in your suitcase, Martin? If

you didn't buy it on the coast and stash it in here, then who did? This is

your bag, isn't it?"

Martin struggled to think. "It does look like my bag, yes. That's why I

picked it up from the carousel tray. But - " Then, suddenly, recognition

dawned in his eyes. "Wait a minute! The blonde! She picked up my bag. This

must be her case. That's it! That's it! Listen, officer, I know this sounds

crazy, but there was this blonde woman, a knockout. If you guys were watching

the carousel, I'm sure you must have seen her." The two men exchanged glances.

Martin continued, "She must have picked up my bag and this is hers. She's the

one you want to question. That's right. Yes. That must be what happened."

Martin finally stopped, and began fidgeting, putting his hands in his

pockets, fooling with his keys.

The man who was standing finally said, "How do you explain the identification

card, then?"

Martin shook his head. He was in despair. "I don't know. I can't. I don't

understand what the hell's going on here. All I know is this is not my bag.

I swear to you on my mother's grave, this is not my bag. I don't do dope. I

don't sell it. I dunno...this is awful..."

Silence again.

Finally, the man seated behind the desk looked up from where he had been

filing his nails, and staring hard at Martin, said, "Y'know, Gold, I'm

inclined to believe you. You strike me as too goddamn nervous to be a courier.

Guys like you get spotted too easily, even in a crowd like the one you were in."

He turned to the standing man, "What do you think, Elliott? Do you think he

might be telling the truth? And this blonde he's talking about. Did you see

any hot-looking blondes when you were out there?"

The man named Elliott said, "I didn't see any blonde. I think this guy's

full of shit. I think we should just take him down to headquarters, get this

shit to the lab and have it analyzed, and then charge this motherfucker with

possession with intent to distribute. 'Cause I'm convinced he's a runner."

The other man looked at Martin. "Well, there you have it, Gold. No blonde

bimbo. Suitcase full of cocaine. Your nametag inside. I think maybe my

partner's right. I think maybe it's time to take a little ride downtown."

Martin cried, "But I'm innocent, I tell you. I did not transport these drugs!

This isn't my suitcase! I don't know where she got the nametag from, the blonde.

This is some kind of setup. I'm being framed! I want a lawyer!" He began to

sob in earnest, his shoulders heaving with the effort to breathe through his

choked gasps.

Elliott pulled a chair over from the wall and set it in front of Martin,

facing the desk. "Have a seat, Mr. Gold," he said. Martin sat down, nervously

wringing his hands, trying to stop from crying, ashamed that he had broken down

in front of these men. Elliott continued. "Alright, Mr. Gold. Now, let us

suppose you're telling us the truth. I'm not sure I'm willing to believe that,

just yet. But, just for the sake of argument, let's say you are telling us

the truth, that there was this blonde knockout who took your bag and left hers

on the carousel. Let's for the moment forget about the i.d. card in this

suitcase. Chalk it up to a weird coincidence. By the way, how tall are you?"

Martin looked at him, puzzled. "Huh?"

"How tall are you? That's a simple enough question, wouldn't you say?"

"I - uh - uhmm - five-eight, maybe a little shorter."

"How much do you weigh?"

"What? Uh, I guess about one-thirty, one-thirty-five. Why are you asking?"

"Right now, that's none of your business. But, if your story is true, then

I gotta tell you, you're in a lot of trouble with people other than the US

Government."

Martin was startled. "H-How do you figure that? Who else am I in trouble

with?"

Elliott looked closely at him. "We're here on a tip. We knew a big shipment

of cocaine had come into the LA area last week and that couriers were fanning

out all over the country delivering the shit. It didn't take much effort for

us to discover the dope in this bag here. You ever hear of search dogs that

can sniff out drugs?"

Martin said, "Yeah, I've seen stories about those kinds of dogs on tv.

You mean you knew this bag contained drugs before it was placed on the carousel

tray?"

The other man, the one seated behind the desk, spoke, "That's right. All we

had to do was wait for whoever picked up the bag. And we had our courier."

Suddenly, Martin understood. He said, "And I picked up the bag, so you

figured I was the person you wanted, huh?"

"Yeah. Makes sense, don't it?"

Martin said, "Well, I guess the real courier was the blonde. But she mixed

up the bags. She got my bag by mistake."

Elliott said, "So you say. Remember, we still ain't convinced."

Martin said, "Well, ok, say you believe me. Then all you have to do is find

that blonde, and you've got your courier. So who are these other people you

say I'm in trouble with?"

The seated man said, "The suitcase has to be delivered to somebody, don't

it?"

Martin nodded. "Yes, I guess so. But, who - ?" Martin's eyes grew wide. He

finally understood what these men were saying. "You, mean, the mob? Gangsters?"

Elliott said, "You got it, my man. If your story is true, the blonde bimbo is

right now handing those guys a suitcase that doesn't have any powder. They're

gonna be pissed. They're gonna figure either the blonde ripped 'em off, or,

more likely, she fucked up like you said and got the wrong bag. Either way,

she's gonna be lucky to get out of this alive. And those guys are gonna be

all over the place lookin' for you."

Martin let out a low whistle. "Phew. So either way, I'm in deep shit. Either

I'm a courier, and you guys have nailed me. Or I'm innocent, but now I have to

worry about gangsters and what they might do to me." He placed his elbows on

his knees, put his face in his upturned hands, and began groaning. "I don't

believe this," he moaned. "I might as well be dead."

The room grew quiet again, except for Martin's soft moaning. Finally, the

man named Elliott broke the silence. "There may be a way for you to get out of

this jam. But you'll have to agree to help us."

Martin looked up, his brow knotted in concern. "How can I help you? I don't

know anything about any of this. What possible use can I be to you?"

Elliott responded. "We think we know who the distributors are. We think we

know who this runner, the blonde you mentioned, was delivering the shit to.

But we have to prove it. And breaking into this organization is tougher than

hell. We've tried a dozen times, and haven't managed it, yet."

Martin stared at him, recognition forming in his eyes. "Y-you w-want me to

'break into' this organization?"

Elliott said, "It might be worth a try. It's a huge risk on your part. If

you fail, you're dead meat; these guys don't fuck around. If you succeed, it's

still extremely dangerous, 'cause you've gotta get the evidence we need to us

before we can bust anybody."

Martin's eyes were like saucers. "I-I-I d-don't know, officer. I-I-I've

n-n-never done anything like this. Whew! This is scary as hell!"

The man at the desk said, "Well, we can shitcan this idea and just haul your

ass in on a possession with intent to distribute charge. We've clearly got

enough evidence here to send you away for twenty-to-thirty years."

Martin's hands began to tremble. He looked sick, like he wanted to vomit.

Finally, he said, in a voice just barely above a whisper, "What would I have

to do?"

The seated man said, "Here's what I figure. The blonde took the suitcase to

her house, or a hotel, or something like that. She opened it and discovered

she'd made a mistake. She's gonna try to recover the suitcase that's hers,

the one we're looking at right now. But she's gonna try to do it on her own.

No way is she gonna let the mob know she fucked up, 'cause that's certain

death. So, probably while she's trying to find this suitcase, she's also gone

into hiding. The distributors don't know yet that she fucked up and we've got

the dope."

Elliott picked up the thread. "Here's where you come in. We're going to have

you infiltrate the organization under extremely deep cover. You'll learn the

identities of the principal players, and you'll help us collect enough evidence

to nail these sons-of-bitches good, maybe even bust the whole operation."

Martin said, "W-w-what k-kind of d-deep cover are you talking about?"

Elliott said, "You'll replace the blonde."

Martin nodded. Then sudden awareness exploded into his consciousness.

"What?!" he roared. "I'm gonna do what?!"

The seated man said, very calmly, "You're going to replace the blonde."

Martin laughed, a sort of hysterical, hiccupy laugh. "Yeah, right. How am I

supposed to do that? Fat chance I can replace that broad. I'm not blonde, first

of all. And second of all, I'm not the right gender."

Elliott began pacing the room. "What do you take us for, Gold? A bunch of

amateurs? You think we're proposing something here we haven't done before?

Believe me when I tell you you can replace the blonde. We can arrange for that

to happen. Believe it."

Martin was clearly perplexed. "How do you figure that you can fix things so

I could replace a blonde female, who, by the way, makes the term knockout seem

like an outrageous understatement?"

Elliott replied, "We can do that. I'm telling you. It's not a problem."

Martin exhaled loudly. "Let me get this straight. I'm being offered three

options here: I can refuse to play ball, and I'm under arrest and in super

deep shit. Or I can play ball and cooperate; but this means taking a huge

chance on fooling a bunch of gangsters into thinking I'm a blonde bombshell."

"Right. What's the third option?"

"I can slice my wrists right now."

The two men laughed. "That's about it," said the seated man. "What are you

going to do?"

"If I agree to go undercover for you, what kind of protection can you offer

me?"

"None. We can try to keep in touch with you occasionally. But, you're going

to have to develop into one hell of an actor - actress? - in one hell of a

hurry."

Elliott added. "I figure we've got maybe a week to get you ready. Any longer

than that and these guys are gonna know the blonde split on 'em, and then

placing you in their organization will no longer be an option. And, if we lose

this opportunity, well, we've still got the shit, and we've still got you.

You understand."

Martin knew he really had no choice. Twenty-to-thirty years in a federal

prison for a crime he never committed? He hung his head in defeat. "Alright.

I guess I'll go along with you. I really have no choice, do I?"

Elliott said, "Not really, pal. But, don't worry. We'll do our best to

make sure everything works out for you. Ok?"

"I guess," Martin sighed.

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

The agent who had been sitting down replaced the plastic bag in the suitcase,

then folded the lid closed, latched it, and, carrying it, began to walk to the

door. Elliott grasped Martin by the elbow and followed the other man. They left

the office, locked the door, and entered a long hallway marked, "Authorized

Personnel Only." At the end of the hallway was a door, which they passed

through, emerging into a parking lot. They walked over to a late-model dark-

colored sedan, and, while the man with the suitcase fumbled with his keys,

opening the trunk to put the suitcase in, Elliott opened the rear door and

followed Martin into the seat. The other man, now finished with stowing the

suitcase, climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and began to

pull out of the parking lot. As they passed the airport exit and entered the

freeway into the city, the driver began to explain to Martin the idea he and

Elliott had in mind. "Here's the deal," he said. "We figure we can disguise

you so that you will look identical to this blonde woman you described. We have

a facility where such alterations in appearance can be done. Then, we will help

insert you into the organization we want you to infiltrate. While you're there,

we'll do what we can to keep tabs on you, just in case things begin to blow

apart. Then, when you've done what we sent you in there to do, we'll get your

ass out of there as quick as we can. Sounds pretty simple; but, believe me,

it's dangerous. One false move and the whole deal can blow sky high. So we

have to be very, very careful."

Martin pondered the man's words. Then, suddenly, something that had been

bothering him ever since these two FBI agents had proposed this scheme, came

to his consciousness. He said, "I don't get it. Why risk an undercover operation

this dangerous with an amateur who isn't even the right gender? Why not get a

trained female FBI operative?"

Elliott, sitting next to him, said, "Because, schmuck, as far as we're

concerned, this is your dope. Why should we risk our people to help you fuck

over us? If you're as innocent as you claim to be, it seems to me you'd welcome

the opportunity to prove it. What better way to do that than to help us nail

these assholes?"

Martin could think of no response, so he sat silently as the car sped along

the freeway into the city. As they passed the end of the freeway and entered

the city proper, Martin asked in a quiet voice, "Well, what do you have in

mind for me? How do you plan to pass me off as a good looking, sexy, blonde

drug courier?"

The driver said, "We can do some surgical alterations..." Martin gasped.

"Oh, don't worry. Nothing we do will be permanent. Once the mission is

completed, we'll restore you to your current physical state and no one will

ever know you had been through this surgery."

Martin asked, "What kind of surgery are we talking about here? What the hell

are you guys getting me into, anyway?"

Elliott said, "Never mind that. That's the easy part. The hard part is going

to be getting you to learn how to be a woman in one week's time. You gotta learn

to act like a woman, talk like a woman, shit, think like a woman for all I know.

You gotta learn to dress proper, you gotta learn all the mannerisms, you gotta

learn all the little things women do naturally. And you gotta make it all seem

just as natural for you."

Martin was growing more and more nervous. "Fuck, man. I don't know about this

deal. I'm starting to get worried. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

The driver said, "Believe me, we've done this kind of thing before. You just

bust your hump learning all you need to know - and we'll have a woman there to

coach you - and you'll get through this with your ass intact."

Martin was thoughtful. "What kind of surgery are we talking about here?

You aren't thinking of cutting off my nuts, are...?"

Elliott interrupted. "No way, man. No one's going to mess with your pecker.

The only surgery we're proposing here is to do a little reversible breast

augmentation, and a little cosmetic shit on your face. If we do this right,

you'll pass just fine. Unless you forget to act like a woman. Looking like a

woman, but standing at a urinal to pee ain't going to cut it with these hoods.

You understand what I'm saying, here?"

Martin's mind was racing. "Breast augmentation? What the hell is that?" he

wondered. The car continued heading into the downtown business section, finally

pulling up in front of an old brownstone apartment in a somewhat rundown part

of the city near the university. The driver parked, got out of the car, and

began walking up some steps to an entryway. He pressed a buzzer and heard a

click. He unlatched the door. Elliott opened his door and motioned for Martin

to follow. The three men entered the building. They walked down a fairly deep

hallway to an apartment at the back of the building. The agent who had been

driving knocked quietly on the door. It opened a crack and an eye peered out

at them, then Martin heard the sound of a deadbolt latch turning, and the

sound of night-chains. The door swung open and the three men entered. A woman

waited in the apartment.

Elliott said, "Hey, Amy, what's shakin'?"

The woman responded, "I'm alright, Elliott. How are you guys?"

The other man pointed to Martin. "This is the guy I told you about. What do

you think? Think we can train him for this mission in one week?"

Amy looked Martin over carefully. "I don't know, you guys. This one's going

to be a lot of work." Then, she said to Martin, "How willing are you to see this

mission succeed?"

Martin answered, "Well, if I understand these two men, if I louse it up, I'm

not going to be around to tell you about it."

Amy looked serious. "That's for sure." Then she brightened up a bit. "Well,

if you do what you're told, and you work hard to learn perfectly everything I

teach you in the next week, I can just about assure you that you'll be able to

fool this bunch and succeed in your mission. But you'll have to trust me, and

you'll have to work very, very hard. Ok?"

Martin was still somewhat dubious. But Amy seemed like she knew what she was

doing, although she appeared to be quite young, perhaps in her mid-twenties,

and extremely beautiful, with a narrow waist which accentuated her well-formed

breasts and her softly-rounded hips. Her legs were a trifle long, but perfectly

shaped and her small feet disappearing into three-inch heels gave them an

attractive definition.

Martin thought, 'Hmmm. If they can make me as goodlooking as this Amy babe,

maybe I won't mind this little deal at all.'

Amy quickly spoke, "Ok, we really don't have a lot of time, and we do have

a lot to accomplish, so let's get started. First, we need to measure you

from head to toe so we can pick out a wardrobe for you. Go in the bedroom

there and strip. I'll be in in a minute to take your measurements."

Martin, somewhat reluctantly, still not certain he wanted to go through

with this scheme, crossed the room to the hallway and went into a bedroom

at the end of the hall. Nervously, he removed his clothes until he was

standing naked in the room, which was empty except for an unmade bed and a

dresser. After a few minutes, Amy entered and closed the door softly behind

her. She had a tape-measure in one hand and a clipboard with a sheet of paper

attached to it in the other. She placed the clipboard on the bed and then

silently approached Martin with the tape-measure. She busied herself taking

measurements of his head, his chest, hips, waist, feet, height, writing all

this information on the clipboard. She estimated his weight, writing it

on the clipboard as well. Then, without another word, she left the room,

closing the door behind her. A minute or two later, Elliott opened the door,

leaned his head in, and said, "Ok, get dressed, and let's go. We've got a

lot to do."

Martin was growing more apprehensive with each passing minute. He knew these

three people, these FBI agents, were taking him somewhere to have something

done to him that would probably change his life forever. There was no doubt

that he was frightened. But the alternative seemed so much grimmer that he

resolved to put aside his fears and follow the agents' recommendations.

He finished dressing, and went to join the others.

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

Martin, along with the man named Elliott and the woman named Amy, silently

emerged from the brownstone and entered the car which the other agent had

driven to the entrance. Martin entered the backseat along with Elliott. Amy

sat in the front with the driver. The car pulled away from the curb and

began the journey to a destination Martin knew only as a 'clinic.' His hands

began to sweat, and he folded them together to try to get control of his

nervousness. Suddenly, Martin realized he hadn't contacted his wife to let

her know he had returned from his west coast trip. He turned to Elliott and

said, "I just remembered I haven't called my wife to let her know I'm back

from my trip. Is there any chance you might let me do that? I'm already late

meeting her, and if too much time goes by, she's going to begin to get pretty

worried."

The man driving the car said, "Don't sweat it, Gold. We'll let her know

what's going on. You just concentrate on getting your mind prepared for this

mission you're going on."

Martin sat in silence, absorbing what the agent had said. The car glided

through the city streets into neighborhoods Martin was unfamiliar with; the

silence in the car was stifling. Martin's hands shook and he gripped them

tighter. Sweat had formed on his forehead and upper lip. Finally, Elliott

broke the tension. "He's really nervous back here."

Amy, in the front seat, replied, "We'll give him something to calm him

down when we get to the clinic."

Silence again. Finally, they turned into a dark alleyway between two

grimy-looking tenement buildings. Trash cans were strewn about in the

dark passage, and the driver stopped the car so Elliott could get out to

stand them up against the walls of the buildings. There was a smell of

rotting food and other garbage that seemed to emanate from the buildings

themselves. The driver parked the car against a fence at the end of the

alley, then Elliott opened the front and rear doors for Amy and Martin to

get out. He pointed to a door in the side of one of the tenements that

appeared to open into a basement, and told them, "It's unlocked. Go in there

and wait."

Martin and Amy entered the building and closed the door behind them. They

were standing in a dimly-lit hallway. A shaft of light at the other end

indicated some sort of entrance which allowed sunlight to fall into the

foyer. Finally, Elliott entered and said, "He's parking the car in a garage.

Let's go on up to the clinic."

The three walked to the other end of the hallway to an entryway which

was situated at the foot of a set of stairs leading to the upper floors of

the tenement. Elliott indicated to Amy and Martin to go ahead of him.

When they reached the top floor, he pointed to a doorway at the rear of the

landing. "Go on to that door over there and knock. They're expecting us."

Martin was suddenly frightened. What kind of clinic was this? There was no

sign on the door, it was in a filthy tenement building. He wondered, what

were these three people up to? What kind of deal had he struck with them?

Were they really on the level?

Elliott seemed to sense Martin's apprehension. He said, "This probably

seems odd to you, doesn't it? Well, the clinic is not really a clinic

that serves the public. It's something we set up particularly for this

type of undercover mission. Don't worry. Once we're inside you'll see it's

clean and perfectly safe. It's just that we have to keep its existence as

secret as we can. You understand, I hope."

Martin seemed to understand; he nodded his head, anyway. But this

explanation of Elliott's still did not reassure him. He was as nervous as

he'd been ever since he'd been detained at the airport.

Amy knocked on the door, and it was opened by a man wearing hospital

operating room clothing. He already had a gauze face mask in place.

Martin thought, 'Perhaps he doesn't want me to recognize him. Why not?

This is really getting creepy.'

They entered the apartment and Amy mentioned to the doctor that Martin

was extremely nervous. The doctor nodded and then said to Martin, "Mr.

Gold, step over here a moment and let me give you an injection of a mild

tranquilizing drug which should help to ease your anxiety. It will certainly

help to calm you before we begin our work. And although I can appreciate

your anxiety, believe me, sir, you have nothing to worry about. Nothing at

all. Everything will go as we've discussed and arranged, and you'll be

on your way in no time at all."

He led Martin over to a table which was covered with some sort of shiny,

rubberized-looking material, almost like an oilcloth covering. On the table

were several instruments which looked like the kinds of tools doctors use

in the operating room. The man in the hospital clothes reached down to the

table and lifted up a plastic package containing a syringe. He tore the

plastic cover off, then asked Martin to roll up his sleeve. He applied

disinfectant to Martin's arm, then injected the needle, depositing the

contents of the syringe into Martin's bloodstream. Almost immediately,

Martin felt his whole body growing heavy and lethargic; he felt as though

he were about to droop over from the waist and fall on his head. The room

began to dim, and objects became less distinct, fuzzy and foggy-like.

Even the corners of his mouth drooped down, and he felt as though he

could not lift his tongue to make sounds. Everything about him felt heavy

and off balance. For a moment, he thought he was sinking in a pool of water.

Amy led him to another table and she and the man Martin supposed was a

doctor helped him onto it so that he was lying on his back looking up at

a dark ceiling. Martin felt not so much dizzy as simply heavy, heavier than

he'd ever felt in his life. The doctor spoke, though his words were not

really clear, and Martin had to struggle to make them out. "I'm going to

perform a couple of tests on you to see if you have feeling in certain

parts of your body. Alright? Now, can you feel this?" The doctor ran his

fingernail down Martin's midsection from his chest to his bellybutton.

Martin felt a pressure there, but it wasn't painful or even particularly

uncomfortable. He tried to reply, but his response was a mumbled and

incoherent, "Y-y-yetthhhh."

"Does it hurt?" asked the doctor. Martin shook his head slowly and

awkwardly, no, in reply.

The doctor continued probing and scraping, each time eliciting the

response from Martin that he could feel, but it did not hurt nor did he

sense any discomfort. Finally, it appeared the doctor was ready to begin

his work. While Elliott and the other man sat on a dilapidated sofa in

the living room area, Amy and the doctor began the serious work of

altering Martin into the appearance of the blonde woman at the airport,

the first step in the group's mission to infiltrate the drug smuggling

operation.

Martin could feel pressure on his chest, but it seemed like a gentle

massage rather than anything painful. He began to doze off, trying but

unable to keep his eyes open. But at no time did he sleep. He seemed

aware of the presence of Amy and the doctor throughout the long afternoon.

Every now and then she would gently lift his eyelids to look into them.

She would make soft, musical sounds, and Martin would feel reassured.

He drifted in a haze, warmly soothed by the doctor's massage. He felt

gentle pinches in his ears, and smiled - or tried to - when Amy softly

rubbed them. He felt a probing in his genitals, and another pinch;

but, again, Amy soothed and rubbed. After a long while, the doctor

administered another injection, and Martin slowly and peacefully drifted

into sleep.

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

It was dark outside when Martin awoke. He felt groggy and slightly

dizzy, but at least there was no headache. He groaned softly and attempted

to sit up. Something felt different, but he was still too woozy, too full

of sleep to recognize what it was. Then, slowly, realization dawned on him.

It was his chest. It felt different, heavier somehow. He looked down and

suddenly he was fully awake. "Ohmigod!" he moaned to himself. "They've

given me tits! Oh, shit!" He looked down unbelievingly, but there was no

mistaking the fact that protruding from his chest were what appeared to be

two large breasts. They were covered by what looked like a brassiere, though

it was an unattractive-looking garment, probably designed more as a surgical

bandage than as a bra one would wear socially. He tentatively touched himself

on the protrusion, as if to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming. But,

no. They certainly seemed to be real. Martin began to tremble in fright.

If these people could do this to him, what else might they have done?

"Oh, lord," he cried softly. "Don't let them...oh, I hope they didn't...

they couldn't..." He reached slowly down to his pelvis to feel what was

there. But, it seemed as though everything in his groin area was the same

as usual. He could feel his balls still attached; and his penis was still

intact. But, wait...what? He looked down with growing fear. There, on the

underside of his penis, right behind the crown, he felt something...

something metallic. What? He leaned over and looked down. It was

something metal! There, neatly attached to the underside of his penis...a

gold ring! 'I don't get it,' he thought. 'What the fuck is going on here?'

He tried to get down from the table, but a wave of dizziness forced him

to lie back, holding his head to stop the rooom from swimming around.

He closed his eyes, then slowly lowered his hands to the two attachments

on his chest. 'They seem huge,' he thought. They didn't hurt, though there

was a dull ache in the area of his chest, probably from the incisions the

doctor had made before he formed the breasts. Martin covered each breast

with his hands; they were large enough to exceed the size of his palms.

'These things are really huge,' he thought. Strangely, he was neither

angry, nor was he frightened by the fact that he now had breasts. Perhaps

it was the drug the doctor had given him. Perhaps it was all the fear and

anxiety he had felt before this surgery. Perhaps he was simply too tired

to comprehend what was happening. He only knew there was no sharp pain

and only slight discomfort. "Maybe I'll understand what's going on here,

later," he sighed, and laid his head down, drifting again into sleep.

When Martin awoke again, Amy was standing over him, smiling. He slowly

sat up, trying to orient himself in the room. At least this time he didn't

feel so woozy. "Where am I?" he asked. "What time is it? What's happened

to me?" Amy continued to smile at him. She was holding a paper cup full of

water in one hand, and a large pill in the other.

"Here," she said. "Take this pill and drink this water. Then we'll talk."

Martin held the pill in his hand. It seemed huge. 'Can I swallow this?'

he wondered. But, then, opening his mouth, he did just that, and then drank

the water. The pill seemed to lodge in his throat and took what seemed like

an inordinate amount of time to begin to slide down his esophagus. He coughed

a little, then looked at Amy. "What was in that pill? I've never seen one

so big. It almost didn't go down, in fact."

Amy laughed lightly, and said, "Ok. I guess I should explain exactly what's

going on here, shouldn't I? Are you awake enough to be able to listen and

understand?"

Martin nodded. "I think so. What have you all done to me, anyway?"

Amy walked over to a dinette nearby and pulled a chair out. She brought

it back to the table Martin was lying on and sat down. "As Elliott explained

to you," she began, "the drug ring we're after seems to be expecting a

blonde woman to deliver the stuff to them. We don't know if this woman is

well known to the people in the ring that we might call the 'distribution

department,' or not. We're hoping she isn't. We're hoping she's just a

courier for the larger organization, brought in for this one big shipment,

then hustled out of this region and sent somewhere else. If that's the

case, then our work will go a whole lot more smoothly. All the local

'distribution department' people know is that a good-looking blonde woman

is delivering the goods."

"But she may already have tried to deliver the stuff to the locals,

wouldn't you say?" Martin asked. "And they might already know she doesn't

have what they're looking for."

Amy replied, "Again, we're hoping she opened the suitcase before she

dropped it off, and discovered she'd gotten the wrong one. So the locals

still won't have seen her, because she isn't going anywhere near them

until she either recovers the goods, or replaces them with some suitable

alternative."

Martin thought about the woman's precarious situation. Amy seemed to

be making sense, but he wasn't sure. He still didn't feel like he was

thinking straight; his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, as a

matter of fact.

Amy continued, "What we're hoping is that the woman thinks all that

happened was that she accidentally switched bags at the airport, and has

gone back to see if her bag was returned to the unclaimed baggage area.

If so, see, then she can switch bags again, and then she'll be able to

deliver the cocaine to the local group."

Martin perked up. His brain seemed to absorb this thought quite clearly.

"I get it," he said. "Then, when she arrives at the airport, you'll be

able to pick her up."

"Right," said Amy. "But getting her only means we get rid of one courier.

She isn't going to lead us to her bosses. That's instant death for her.

And she isn't going to lead us to the local group, either. But that doesn't

matter, anyway, because we already know who they are."

Martin's eyes widened. "You do?"

"Sure. But we can't bust them, because we've never been able to catch

them with any dope in significant enough amounts to allow for serious

prosecution. So, that's where you come in."

Martin began nodding his head slowly up and down. "I think I see what

you're talking about. If you can get away with planting me in the

organization, and then I deliver the dope to them, then you can bust

them wide open."

"Exactly," said Amy.

Martin still seemed puzzled. "But, why me? Why not use a real female?

Why go to all this trouble - and danger - to insert an amateur into the

gang? I mean, I could foul up this whole operation without even trying."

Amy said, "To tell you the truth, I don't know the answer to that

question. Elliott keeps talking about how he doesn't believe any of your

story. He doesn't believe there is a blonde, or that anyone switched your

luggage. He figures, why sacrifice a real agent if this guy's feeding us

a line of bullshit? If he's telling the truth, he'll be damn sure he does

everything he can to succeed in this little deception. If he's lying, who

gives a good goddamn if they uncover him? Does that make sense?"

Martin nodded. "Unfortunately for me, it does."

Amy leaned forward. "Now, let me explain to you what you and I are

going to do for the next week, which isn't much time, you'll agree.

So, we are going to be unbelievably busy, and you are going to have to

cooperate to the limit. It is your ass, after all. I would think you'd

want to keep it intact for a few more years."

Martin looked into her eyes. She was deadly serious.

She continued, "Ok. As Elliott promised, we haven't yet done

anything that can't be undone. All we've done so far is some breast

augmentation, first. You were thirty-six inches in the chest. You are

now forty inches, and, if you were wearing a bra, you'd wear a D-cup.

We pierced your ears, and put rings in them. We also applied an

electrolysis treatment to all your body hair, especially on your face,

chest and legs. We also shaved you bald. You're going to wear a wig,

a blonde wig, shaped to look as much like your description of the

blonde as we can manage."

Martin interrupted. "What did you do to my, uh, you know, my..."

Amy looked where Martin seemed to be pointing. Then suddenly she

broke into laughter. "Oh, that!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Well, we

promised not to do anything irreversible. So we couldn't hardly cut

off your cock and balls and keep our promise, could we? So we hit on

the idea of inserting a ring in your penis. Later, we'll attach a

cord of some sort to the ring, so we can draw your penis and testicles

back through your legs to give you a more natural, flat-tummy look."

She smiled broadly.

Martin shook his head again, still uncertain if he was hearing all

this or dreaming it. "What was in that enormous pill you just gave me?"

he asked.

Amy smiled. "That was a massive dose of estrogen. Since we only have

a very short time to prepare you for this mission, we decided to begin

immediately pumping you with as much estrogen hormone as possible. It

will help to give you a more feminine appearance by softening your

features, rounding you out, you might say. The pill, which you need to

take at least three times a day, has more than ten times the normal

dosage for an individual undergoing SRS. So, by taking three pills,

you're getting more than thirty times the minimum daily dosage. Your

body is going to be like a nuclear bomb test area." And she laughed

merrily at this comment.

Martin obviously wasn't amused. In fact, he was growing more worried

by the second. "What the hell is SRS?" he asked.

"Oh," said Amy, "that's Sex Reassignment Surgery. It's the program

all transsexuals go through. But don't worry. It's completely reversible."

Martin wasn't reassured. He held his head in his hands and groaned.

Amy waited until he had calmed down, and then continued, "Now, like I

said, we don't have a lot of time. We need to teach you how to be as much

like a female as a possible, at least close enough that you can pass for

one. We also need to create a persona for you, a character you can become

so that your behavior will be consistent all the time. Because of the

very brief preparation time we have, we've decided to simplify all this

as much as possible."

She stood and began pacing the room. "Now, one thing we didn't want to

mess with was your vocal cords, which would happen in real SRS. This means

that if you speak in your normal voice, you will immediately be unmasked.

So, we figured we would teach you to sort of whisper in a breathy tone,

a sort of high-pitched stage whisper."

Martin was puzzled. "You mean like one of those blonde bimbos Marilyn

Monroe used to portray?"

Amy said, "Exactly! In order to pull off a voice like this, we have to

turn you into a blonde bimbo. Precisely!"

Martin looked even more confused. "B-but how...wha...?"

Amy touched his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry. It'll work, believe me.

We're going to give you a makeover, we're going to teach you all the

behaviors and mannerisms you need. And we're going to practice this voice

over and over and over until it becomes second nature to you. By the end

of this week, believe me, my dear, you are going to be one hell of a sexy

broad. Now, get up off that table, and let's get started."

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

The pattern for the week was set: early each morning, Martin would be

awakened and would shower and shave his face (even with daily painful

electrolysis treatments, his beard grew back, though less and less hair

appeared each succeeding day). Then, he would sit at a dressing table

and practice applying makeup. Amy taught him to put the makeup on heavily;

after all, he was disguising himself to look like a bimbo, and it also

helped cover any remaining trace of whiskers. Long false eyelashes were

attached with an adhesive that made them virtually permanent. His eyebrows

were plucked and shaped. His lips were gaudily colored in the brightest,

sluttiest shades of red imaginable. A blonde wig was attached to his scalp

using the same adhesive Amy had used to attach the false eyelashes. Amy

explained that this glue was so effective that someone could pull on

Martin's hair and it would never budge. To all intents and purposes, it

was real hair growing out of his scalp.

"But how will I get it off after the mission?" asked Martin.

"We have a chemical which will neutralize the bonding agents in the

glue. We simply apply that and voila! the wig comes off. Don't worry,

sweetie. Nothing we are doing is irreversible."

Then came the dressing. As promised, Amy had a use for the ring which

had been inserted into Martin's penis. She introduced it on the second

day. "W-w-what the hell is that?!" exclaimed Martin, as Amy brought an

object that looked like a dildo out of the bag she held in her hand.

"This," she responded, "is the means by which we will hide your,

er, equipment, and provide you with the flat tummy look I said you would

need to fool the bad guys. It's quite simple, really. This thing is

called a 'butt plug.' We insert it in your anal opening. Notice it has a

little bulb attached to the end of it. You simply squeeze the bulb a few

times and the plug expands inside you so that it won't fall out. Clever,

eh? Now, notice further that attached to the plug is a short chain with

a latch. That will be attached to your penis ring. See? It'll draw your

penis back between your legs - your balls will obviously be pushed up

into your perineal area - and hold everything firmly in place. No one

will realize you're not a female."

Martin eyed the plug and chain with suspicion and concern. It looked

pretty threatening to him.

Amy smiled, "Let's go ahead and put it on, ok? No time like the present,

as they say. I'll show you how to attach it. Then you practice doing it

until you've got it down."

She had Martin stand in the middle of the living room, legs spread

slightly apart. She then latched the chain onto the penis ring. Next, she

began to draw the chain back through Martin's legs, jamming his testicles

up into his perineum, and severely stretching his penis. The pain nearly

caused him to faint. "Aaaoooggghhhh!" he screamed.

Amy relaxed the tension on the chain a little bit. "Shh!" she scolded.

"You'll wake the whole building! Big baby."

She continued to draw the chain back through Martin's legs. Then, taking

a gauze applicator, which was shaped like a cigar, and which she had dipped

into a jar of petroleum jelly, she inserted it into Martin's anus and

thoroughly coated him with the greasy substance. Carefully, then, she began

to insert the plug into his opening. The further she pushed, the more tension

was added to the chain, further stretching his penis and flattening his balls

against the perineum. By now, Martin was up on tiptoe, gasping and wheezing.

Finally, Amy appeared to have inserted the plug entirely up his ass.

"Now," she told Martin. "I want you to reach behind and grab the little bulb

on the end of the plug." Martin struggled to comply. Finally, after much

heavy breathing and grabbing and grasping, he managed to grip the bulb.

Amy instructed, "Now, squeeze it a few times, and when you're satisfied the

plug is firmly seated inside you, you can stop pumping it."

Martin gave a tentative squeeze. The plug expanded, causing him to grow

dizzy. His penis stretched even further. His forehead was bathed in sweat.

Manfully, he continued to squeeze, until he thought his testicles were going

to push his stomach up into his lungs. His rectum felt like it was holding a

balloon.

"Good boy," congratulated Amy. "I think you've got it well seated. Now,

we can continue dressing, and begin learning how to move and stand and act

and even think like a woman."

Martin gurgled something that sounded like, "H-h-ho-k-k-kay," through

clenched teeth.

Dressing was not really a problem. Amy explained to Martin that, since

his persona was going to be that of a slutty blonde bimbo, he would be

dressed in the minimal amount of clothing possible to allow him to hide his

true nature. Although for purposes of post-operative necessity, he would

continue to wear the odd brassiere for a couple of days, once he began his

mission to infiltrate the drug gang, he would be braless. Amy said by the

end of the week, the tiny scars from the incisions that were made to place

the gel-sacks in his chest to form his breasts would have healed and be

almost invisible. So he would have no reason to cover his breasts with a

bra. He would wear the flimsiest panties imaginable, only to cover any

possibility of the discovery of his secret. He would wear stockings and

a garter belt rather than pantyhose along with the extremely short skirts

and dresses he would wear. These were far sexier, in her view. The dresses

and skirts were also very tight. Martin was convinced they were at least

one size, and probably two, too small. Amy argued that it reinforced the

slut image they were trying to project. Martin simply gritted his teeth

and continued his training.

After showering, shaving, making up, forcing the butt plug in place

and dressing, Martin would take his first estrogen tablet of the day,

along with a glass of orange juice. The morning would be filled with

exercises: walking, sitting, standing, bending, even kneeling. He learned

to keep his knees tightly together, to keep his ankles close together, as

well. He learned to bat his lashes and coo in a sultry manner. He practiced,

over and over, the new breathy stage-whisper of his bimbo persona.

Then would come lunch: a salad with maybe a small container of yogurt,

or cottage cheese. Water. Another estrogen pill.

Then back to work. After dinner - tuna salad and water - he would continue

his rehearsal until Elliott arrived to take him to the doctor's office

somewhere in the center of the city for his next electrolysis treatment.

Then, finally, blessedly, to bed and sleep.

By mid-week, Amy had grown a bit exasperated. "You're not getting the

voice right," she declared. "When you talk in sentences of any length at all,

you lose the breathiness and your natural baritone begins to be noticeable.

We've got to prevent that at all costs." She paced the room for awhile,

then, suddenly brightening, she turned to Martin. "I've got an idea. You're

going to be a bimbo, right? The classic dumb blonde?" Martin slowly shook

his head in agreement. "Well, that's the solution to our problem! Don't you

see?" Martin looked confused again. "Look," she went on, "your classic

dumb blonde wouldn't know a word of more than two syllables it it killed her.

She couldn't put together a complex sentence if she spent a year working on

it. So, here is what we'll do: we'll practice using only simple words and

very short sentences. Given the bimbo persona, it won't be considered

unusual at all. Let's give it a try. Hmmm. Ok, do this. Tell me how you

put on your lipstick this morning."

Martin looked blankly at her. Then he began, in his practiced stage-

whisper, "Well, I opened the lipstick tube and very carefully applied it

to my lips, being careful not to smear it over the edges. And I did this

for several coats to get the right consistency you want me to have."

Amy said, "Now, that's the normal Martin talking, just as I feared.

On all the words of more than two syllables, you lost your breathiness.

And, by the time you'd finished the second sentence, your baritone pitch

had already returned. We have to have you thinking in such basic speech

patterns that those two sentences can be separated into four or even more

sentences, using words of no more than one or two syllables. Do you see

what I mean?"

Martin said, "Welll...I'm not sure."

Amy thought a moment. "Look. Let's try something. I really want you to

get into your persona. I want you to become this person. I want you to

develop your skill at being this character so thoroughly that when the

mission is completed, we'll have to train you to be Martin Gold again.

Do you understand? You must become this person you're pretending to be.

All right. First, she needs a name. Hmmm. I've got it! How about this?

We'll take part of your first name and part of your last name, and

combine them together. So, how's this? 'Mar' from Martin, and 'Go' from

Gold - Margo! What do you think?"

Martin was dumbstruck. "Margo? Margo? What - ? How - ?"

"Listen," said Amy. "You have to use a female name to fool the gang,

right?" Martin nodded. "Well, this name is close enough to your own real

name that you shouldn't have any problem remembering it. Right?"

Martin nodded again. "Ok," Amy went on. "Margo it is. Now, we need a last

name. Hmmm. I - wait! - how about this? You were arrested at O'Hare

Airport, right?" Martin looked at her. "So, how about Margo O'Hare? I

like it. I think it's you. What do you think?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't know. I guess, well, I guess it's as

good as any other name." He sighed. "Ok. Margo O'Hare it is."

"Good," said Amy. "Now, I want you to practice being Margo and identifying

so completely with this character that you become her. So, instead of saying

'I' or 'me,' from now on, I want you to simply say 'Margo.' Got it? So, in

your new dumb blonde voice, tell me how you put your lipstick on this

morning."

Martin hesitated. "Uhhmm. I, er, Margo opened m-my, oh, uh, Margo's

tube and rubbed the lipstick on my, oops, Margo's lips," he breathed.

"It felt good," he continued. "Margo put on some more, uh, er, to make it

beauti-, no, hmm, ahh, look good. For you."

Amy looked unhappy. "No. You're almost there, but that last couple of

sentences were too long. I could hear Martin's baritone creeping in there.

Try it again."

Martin swallowed, then began again in his breathy whisper, "Margo opened

Margo's lipstick. She rubbed it on her lips. It was goooood. Margo likes

her lips bright. Don't you?"

Amy applauded, "Excellent! That's perfect. Now, we have to practice this

new speech pattern over and over until we've got it absolutely perfect. It's

got to be second nature, if we're going to succeed at all."

And so began Martin's transformation from a rising young super-salesman

and negotiator for a highly successful company, into Margo, blonde bimbo

slut drug courier.

Day after day they practiced. Martin - Margo, now - and Amy, becoming a

team, a unit, a single entity, so at one in their perception of this

character had they become. Of course, Amy was already a female; Margo had to

become one. The days were long and exhausting. Margo usually had no time to

ask questions, let alone think of them. In order to learn to speak in the

simple-minded manner Amy required, Margo began training himself to think in

the same way. Even in his sleep, he could swear his dreams were carried on

in simple sentences, simple-mindedly constructed. At the end of a week and

a half of this intense training, Amy declared Margo ready to begin the

mission. In order to test her declaration, she planned a 'graduation'

shopping trip for Margo. The two of them would take a bus to the center

city shopping area, visit a few stores, have lunch at a nice restaurant,

then return to the apartment where they were scheduled to meet with Elliott

and the other agent to go over the final plans for Margo's infiltration of

the drug ring.

Needless to say, the trip downtown was a smashing success, even though

Margo drew stares from everyone they encountered, nearly causing him to

become unnerved and insisting on backing out of the deal he'd made with the

agents. But, with Amy's encouragement, and considering the stares were not

because he looked like a man in women's clothing, but like a sexy, eye-catching

woman, Margo agreed to continue the operation. That evening, Elliott arrived

at the apartment to give Margo his final briefing.

"Alright, here's the deal. The package is in the suitcase you brought with

you, along with your clothes, cosmetics and medicine."

"Medicine?" asked Margo in his well-rehearsed stage-whisper.

Amy said, "Your estrogen pills. You're to continue taking them, three times

a day."

"Oh," Margo breathed.

Elliott continued, "The drug ring operates out of a bar called Red Dog's,

not too far from here, in a rundown section of the city. The owner, and we

believe ringleader, is named Erek Johansson. But you don't care about that.

He calls himself Red Dog, and that's all that matters to you. When you get to

the bar, you'll ask for Red Dog. Then, you'll tell him, 'Margo comes from

Gold's.' Got that? 'Margo comes from Gold's.'"

Margo breathed, "Margo comes from Gold's. Ok."

"That's the password. After that, he'll take you into his office in the

back, and you'll open the suitcase and give him the package. Now, once he's

got the package, he'll probably try to get you out of there. If you leave,

though, the whole operation will be compromised. The other day, while we

were staking out the bar, we noticed a sign in the window advertising for a

waitress. We want you to ask him to hire you. You can tell him that the

people who sent you no longer needed your services, so you were in need of

a job. Do whatever it takes, but get that job. Once you're inside the drug

ring, you see, then the operation can continue."

"I - uh, Margo understands," responded Margo.

"Ok, let's move out. 'Margo comes from Gold's.' Right?"

"Uuhhmm. Right."

Elliott shook Margo's hand, and Amy gave him a hug. Then Margo picked up

the suitcase and followed them from the apartment outside to where the other

agent sat waiting in the dark car. They drove in silence for several blocks,

taking several turns until Margo became disoriented and couldn't figure out

what neighborhood they were in. The car turned into a street that looked

nearly deserted, except for one store window with a neon light proclaiming,

"Red Dog's Grill." As Margo read the sign, his hands began to sweat and he

thought his heart would burst through his chest.

Elliott, sitting beside him in the rear seat, said, "We're going to drop

you a couple of blocks from here. It'll give you time to walk a little bit

and get control of your nerves. It'll also cover our tracks as well."

They turned a corner and drove a short distance, then pulled over to the

curb. Elliott said, "Well, here you are. Good luck. Make sure you get that

job. We'll be in touch with you in the next few days and you can brief us

on what you've learned about the operation, who the distributors are,

their chief customers, all that sort of thing."

He put his hand in Margo's, gave it a squeeze, then said, "Get going.

And don't worry."

Margo, lips trembling, knees shaking, released his hand from Elliott's,

took the suitcase, and stepped out of the car. The door quietly closed,

and the car pulled away, turning at the next corner, silently disappearing

from view. Margo realized he had to gain control of himself, or he would

never be able to get through this charade. He had to convince these people

he was about to meet that he was a sexy blonde bombshell. And he had to

get that job! He picked up the suitcase and began walking down the street

he'd just been driven up, repeating over and over in his breathy, bimbo

whisper, "Margo comes from Gold's, Margo comes from Gold's, Margo comes

from Gold's..."

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

The interior of Red Dog's Grill was dark and smoky, smelling of stale

beer. There were perhaps a dozen tables, filled mostly with tough-looking

young men, sitting in clusters, drinking and smoking. It looked to Margo

like a motorcycle gang's headquarters. The men wore a sort of uniform -

dusty black boots, faded jeans, white tee-shirts covered by denim jackets

with the sleeves ripped off, patches sewn on the front and rear of the

jackets. Most of them had beards or mustaches, and their hair was long,

some drawn back into ponytails. Some wore bandanas wrapped around their

foreheads. Some had wide leather bracelets on their wrists. Some wore thin

leather gloves with the fingers cut out. The smell of marijuana permeated

the saloon. Beyond the tables was a bar with several stools filled with men

who looked like the other men seated at the tables. Behind the bar stood

a tall, muscular man with a striking red beard. He was staring at Margo

as he entered the door. 'This must be Red Dog,' thought Margo. He could

feel his heart pounding, and he was sweating profusely between his legs

where his penis and testicles were tightly bound by the chain and butt-plug.

But he affected a casual air as he closed the door and began to approach

the bar.

He glanced surreptitiously around, and quickly realized there were no

females in the cafe. Every eye in the room was on him as he made his way

across the floor to the bar. Of course, because of his intense training over

the past several days, he swiveled his hips in an exaggerated bimbo walk,

taking short, mincing steps on the four-inch stiletto heels of his bright

red plastic strap-on open-toed 'fuck me' shoes. He could hear murmurs in the

background and quiet whistles of appreciation.

But, he arrived at the bar in one piece, even if he was a little out of

breath from the effort to deceive these roughnecks. "What can I do for you,

little lady?" asked the redheaded giant behind the bar.

Margo half-whispered, "The job? The waitress job? Is it still open?"

('Here we go,' he thought. 'You're in the soup now.')

The redbeard stared at him. "You sure you want it? Maybe you better look

around a little more, see what you're getting into."

Margo continued to look into the man's eyes, as if hypnotized. "Margo

really needs a job," he whispered. "Margo likes bars. She likes working in

them. Please? Can't Margo have this job?"

As soon as Margo said his name, Red Dog's eyes narrowed into slits, and

he studied the goodlooking blonde standing before him. "What'd you say your

name was?" he asked.

"Margo."

A long moment of tense silence followed as Red Dog continued to scrutinize

the scantily-clad Margo. Finally, he spoke, "Where you from, anyway?"

Margo swallowed nervously. He whispered, "M-Margo c-comes from G-Gold's."

The room grew strangely quiet. Even the jukebox, which had been blaring

a loud heavy-metal rock tune a moment before, timed the end of the song to

coincide with the rest of the silence in the room. Red Dog glared at Margo.

Then he said, "Maybe we can work something out after all. Why don't you come

with me to my office?" Tossing the damp towel he'd been holding in his hand

to one of the men sitting at the bar, he said, "Here, Waste, take over. And

don't let anyone swipe any free beer. Got it?" The man named Waste caught

the towel, and moved behind the bar. Red Dog crooked his finger at Margo.

"You," he said. "Follow me."

Margo could barely move one foot in front of the other, let alone swish

his hips in the exaggerated motion he'd learned from Amy. But he managed to

do it, and to follow the large man through a door marked 'Office.' They

entered a small room which contained a narrow desk, an office-type chair

and other folding chairs scattered randomly about, and a file cabinet in one

corner. The tall, muscular, redbearded man went behind the desk and seated

himself in the office chair, indicating Margo should sit on one of the

folding chairs.

Red Dog sat appraising Margo for what seemed like a long time, at least

it seemed so to Margo who was struggling to maintain his composure despite

his growing apprehension. Finally, the redbearded giant spoke, quietly, with

just a hint of threat in his voice, "'Margo comes from Gold's,' huh?"

Margo, trying to appear sexy without betraying his nervousness, answered

in his customary stage voice, "Right. Margo comes from Gold's. Y-You are

Red Dog?"

"Would you like me to be Red Dog?"

Margo was puzzled by this response. He sat quietly, folding his hands on

the small suitcase he held in his lap.

"Open the bag," Red Dog said.

Margo, brightly polished fingers shaking, opened the suitcase. Red Dog

could see a couple of skimpy dresses neatly folded inside.

"Suppose you empty it here on my desk," he said, quietly.

Margo began to remove his clothing from the bag. A couple of bright-

colored dresses; some obviously tight, skimpy skirts; two transparent

blouses; a couple of tube tops so thin they looked like oversized headbands;

several pairs of patterned, super-brief bikini panties; several pairs of

stockings and a black garter belt; and, several tubes and jars of make-up

and other feminine notions. And, finally, underneath all this female finery,

a large plastic bag filled with a powdery substance.

Red Dog sat quietly, pondering the bag before him on the desk. "What did

you say your name was again?" he asked after awhile.

"M-M-Margo," Margo nervously replied in his whisper.

"And where did you say you were from?" asked Red Dog.

"M-M-Margo c-c-comes from G-Gold's."

"Hmmm." Slowly, he reached over to the plastic bag and picked it up,

seeming to weigh it in his hands. Then, looking directly into Margo's eyes,

he eased the easy-lock gripper apart, gently licked his finger and slipped

it inside the bag. A small amount of the powder stuck to his finger as he

slowly withdrew it. He held the finger under his nose, then licked the powder.

His eyes remained fixed on Margo's through this entire procedure.

"Should I make the usual tests?" he asked.

"N-no," Margo whispered nervously. "I-It's supposed to b-be good s-stuff."

Red Dog smiled broadly. "Well, what the fuck. Let's give it a try, see

just how good it is. Hmmm?"

Margo replied, "O-ok."

Red Dog reached into a desk drawer and removed some items, all of which

were unfamiliar to Margo, who had never used drugs in his life. He was

beginning to become really frightened, wondering what would happen if he

took the powder. Would his cover be blown? His hands began to shake, and

he gripped them tightly, pinching them hard with his inch-long, glued-on,

bright red nails. Red Dog continued making preparations. Then, he picked up

a tray with a small amount of powder on it, and took some sort of straw,

and began sniffing the powder through the straw into his nose. Margo was

utterly fascinated. 'So, that's how...?' he marveled.

Red Dog spooned a little more of the powder onto the small tray, handed

it and the straw to Margo, and said, "Now your turn, sweet thing." Margo's

hands were shaking so badly he nearly tipped the tray over. But he managed

to regain control and to bring the powder over to his nose. Trying to seem

confident, he smiled at the man and dipped the straw into the powder. Then,

he began to sniff it into his nose. Almost immediately he knew he'd made a

mistake. Nothing happened. He sneezed a little as the powder entered his

nasal passage. But, nothing. His lower lip began to tremble. He thought,

'Those bastards! They set Margo up! Shit! What can Margo do - ?'

Red Dog's eyes bored into Margo's. They were like lasers, narrow and

intensely focused. Margo thought, 'One more minute and Margo's going to

pee in his panties.' Red Dog continued to stare at Margo for a long time,

then he casually picked up the bag filled with powder and slowly dumped its

contents all over Margo's clothes and containers on the desk.

He leaned across the desk and in a tone both amused and deeply threatening,

he said, "Now, let's start over. Who did you say you were?"

Margo, clutching the empty suitcase still on his lap, whispered, "M-Margo

O-O-O'Hare. Margo O'Hare."

"If you're Margo O'Hare, then what the fuck is in that bag? Cake mix?"

"M-M-Margo doesn't k-know," Margo responded, still clinging to his training.

"S-s-something w-went w-wrong. T-the s-stuff's been s-s-switched." His whisper

faded into silence. A long silence.

Red Dog gestured with his hand. "Come here. Around the desk here. I want to

get a look at you." Margo stood, knees trembling, and set the suitcase on the

floor. Then he walked shakily around to the side of the desk where Red Dog

sat, watching him carefully.

Red Dog pointed to his lap. "Come here. Sit down here. On my lap."

"Sure," whispered Margo, trying to overcome his nervousness with a false

bravado. He stepped in front of Red Dog, turned slightly, and seated himself

on his lap.

"Take off that top you've got on," Red Dog said softly, but with a voice

dripping menace. "C'mon, cunt."

Margo started at the word 'cunt.' He thought in a panic, 'Uh, oh. This

doesn't look good.' Nervously, he brought his manicured hands with the

ring-covered fingers around to the front of the tube top and lifted it over

his head.

Red Dog let out a low whistle. "Those are really nice tits you got there,

bitch. Lemme see you bounce 'em around a little. Go on. Put your hands under

'em there, and roll 'em around for me."

Margo placed his hands under his breasts - 'Oh, don't notice the scars!' -

and began kneading them and bouncing them in his hands.

"Feed 'em to me, one at a time," Red Dog said.

Leaning forward, Margo placed his right breast up to Red Dog's lips,

then gently rubbed the stiffening nipple against them. Red Dog's mouth

opened slightly, and Margo pushed the nipple between his lips. Suddenly, he

bit down with his teeth. Hard. "Ahhh! Ahhh!" gasped Margo, trying desperately

to sound like Margo and not like Martin. "Oooohhh!" he wailed in a breathy

tone. Red Dog stopped biting and massaged the wounded nipple with his tongue.

Then, he opened his mouth wide and attempted to swallow the entire breast.

Margo could feel a pressure like a vacuum and all of a sudden his breast felt

hot and wet as Red Dog sucked and licked simultaneously. He couldn't believe

how good it felt! "Ooohhh," he softly groaned. "Oh, yessssss."

But now something else was happening, something even more threatening than

Margo's breast in Red Dog's mouth, vulnerable, completely without defense.

Margo felt Red Dog's large, strong hand brushing his leg at the point where

his stocking top joined the hem of his short skirt. Margo reached down with

his own hand, and tried to take Red Dog's hand in his. He tried to clamp

his knees together as tight as he could. But as soon as Red Dog realized

what Margo was doing, he bit down on the nipple again.

"Ah! ah! ah!" Margo cried, lifting both his hands to his defenseless

breast. And Red Dog's hand plunged beneath the skirt and, too strong for

Margo, forced his legs apart just enough to grasp the prize between his

legs, only - "What the fuck is this?!" Red Dog exclaimed, and suddenly

pushed Margo off his lap and onto the floor.

Margo landed painfully on his ass, and immediately tried to get to his

knees to crawl away from Red Dog who was now standing up. From Margo's

vantage point, sitting on the floor at his feet, Red Dog appeared to be

huge, a giant. Margo began trembling and whimpering, sliding backwards in

a futile effort to escape the hand which now descended and took hold of a

large portion of Margo's tightly (permanently?) glued-on blonde wig.

"Oh! Ow! Aagghh!" Margo screamed, all pretense of breathiness and coyness

removed from his terrified voice.

Red Dog pulled steadily on Margo's wig, painfully lifting him to his feet.

Margo was trembling and crying now. "You're a fuckin' guy, ain'tcha?" Red

Dog demanded. Margo was screeching, "Please! Ow! Oh, oh, aagghh! I can

explain! Oh, lord, oh shit, please! Don't kill me! Ooohhh." (Thinking,

'Less than half an hour and I'm exposed! Sonofabitch! Not even an hour!

I'm going to die! Fuck!')

Margo was shaking uncontrollably now. Red Dog viciously gripped his wig,

then grabbed Margo's breast and gave it a wrenching twist. "Is this thing

real, faggot?" Margo was screaming in pain and terror. Red Dog loosened his

hold on Margo's inflamed breast and muttered, "Yeah, I guess it is."

Finally, with a look of complete disgust on his face, Red Dog threw

Margo against the wall with one bone-shattering motion, and watched as

Margo slid to the floor, dissolving into a sobbing, hysterical wretch.

Red Dog went back to his chair and sat down, silently waiting for Margo

to calm himself. After several minutes had passed and Margo was just sitting

against the wall, sniffling miserably, afraid to meet the red-bearded

giant's stare, Red Dog said, "Alright. You may as well tell me. Who the

fuck are you and what the fuck's going on here?"

Margo sniffled and choked back his final sobs for a few more seconds,

trying to buy a little time, wanting desperately to come up with some sort

of explanation that would not mean his death. He needed to think! "P-please,

mister, p-please," he sobbed. "It isn't w-what you t-think. I-I'm n-not

a-a f-faggot, l-like you think. I'm undergoing a t-t-transf-f-formation to

b-become a w-woman. I-it's c-called s-sex re-reassignment su-surgery."

He broke down again. After several minutes had passed, when he seemed to have

regained control of himself, Red Dog said, quietly, "Go on."

Margo lifted his eyes. 'Maybe this guy's gonna buy this - ?' "A-anyw-way,

I-I n-needed money f-for the su-surgery. T-that's w-why I agreed to

t-transport t-the p-package to you."

Red Dog leaned forward in his chair. His voice was quiet, but terrifying.

"Then where's the shit? Why didn't you bring it with you?"

Margo mumbled, in utter despair. "It got stolen at the airport. Someone

switched suitcases on me. I-I think i-it was an a-accident."

"Do you know what the person looked like?"

"I-I don't know if it was the right person, but I saw a man leaving with

a suitcase that looked just like mine." And he described Martin Gold in

perfect detail.

Red Dog looked closely at Margo. "I have a feeling you're giving me a

line of shit," he said. "But, maybe not. Anybody stupid enough to try to

substitute pancake flour for cocaine might just be stupid enough to want to

become a broad." He got up and walked around the small office, pacing back

and forth, thinking. Finally, he turned to Margo, "Take off your clothes,

bitch. And then lie across the desk."

While Margo undressed, embarrassed and shy, Red Dog took the contents

of the suitcase which were strewn on the desk and put them back into the bag.

By this time, Margo was undressed. He stood facing Red Dog, hands clasped

together, absolute terror in his eyes. Red Dog began laughing. "Where's your

cock, girly-boy?"

Margo lowered his eyes. "I-it's b-between my legs," he mumbled.

Red Dog laughed again. "Well? Lemme see it."

Margo reached behind himself and released the air from the pumped-up

butt plug. Then, with a soft plop! he removed it from his anus. He spread

his legs slightly, passing the plug through. Then, face red and eyes wet

with tears of shame, he detached the chain from the ring in his penis.

He stood quietly, his purplish-hued cock and balls now fully exposed,

the dildo held loosely in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks, ruining

his garish makeup.

Red Dog stared in wonder at the half-woman/half-man standing before him.

"Motherfucker," he whistled. "I ain't never seen this before."

He grabbed Margo roughly by the wrist and pulled him over to the desk.

"Spread yourself across this desk," he growled. "I want your ass facin' the

door, and your head over the other side. Go on! Move!"

Margo hurried to obey. The desk was narrow enough that he was able to

lay himself across it, his buttocks lewdly displayed for anyone who stepped

into the office. His head and arms hung over the other side of the desk,

making it impossible for him to see what was going on. He began to tremble

and shake in fear.

Red Dog said, "I gotta go see someone. You stay right there and don't

you move. If you do, I'll know about it, girly-boy, and your ass won't be

worth a dime when I'm done with you. You understand me?"

Margo, his head below the desk's edge, mumbled, "Y-y-yessir."

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

The door slammed shut, and Margo was left alone in the office. The silence

seemed to stretch on forever; his legs were beginning to cramp from stretching,

and he had a headache from draping his head over the desk. He was sweating

both from fear and the exertion of maintaining his awkward position. The

desk became increasingly slippery. His breasts ached from the pressure of his

lying on them so long. It was becoming difficult to breathe. A million

frightening thoughts ran through his mind. Margo was convinced he would be

dead before the end of the day. He wished he'd refused to cooperate with the

agents. Any length of time in prison was far better than this hell he was

going through, waiting to die, knowing it would be a slow death, painful

beyond endurance.

After a long while, he heard muffled voices outside the door. The door

suddenly banged open, and Red Dog was back in the room. He was not alone.

"Well, Waste, here it is. What do you think?" he said.

The man named Waste, a lean man with a dark, narrow face and deep-set

eyes that pierced through people's defenses, a narrow, mean mouth with

sharp, nicotine-yellowed teeth, said, "I don't know, Dog. The ass looks

cherry. How about the mouth? You tried it out, yet?"

Red Dog said, "Naw. I figured I'd let you check it out. With that huge

schlong of yours, we'll find out in a hurry if it's worth keepin' the

bitch."

Margo, who had slowly begun to relax despite his awkward, painful

position, suddenly tensed. 'Oh, no. Oh, shit,' he silently moaned. He

sensed a presence in front of his face. Slowly, he raised his eyes from

where they had been intently studying the floor. He gasped as the enormous

cock, huge in its un-erect condition, loomed menacingly into view. Red

Dog's face appeared beside Margo's. "Waste here wanted to live up to his

name and blow you away, asshole. But, I convinced him to give you a chance

to save your worthless life. Now, you're gonna give him the blowjob of

the century, understand? That's your ticket back to the land of the living."

Margo's eyes were riveted on the huge penis that hung inches away from

his mouth. His forehead was bathed in sweat, and his eyes were filled with

tears. His lips trembled uncontrollably. Red Dog's quiet voice was a

whisper in Margo's ear, "Ever give head before, girly-boy?" Margo groaned

and shook his head back and forth.

Red Dog chuckled softly, "Well, get ready, bitch. Do a good job, and,

who knows? The life you save might just be your own."

He moved his mouth away from Margo's ear and stood up. Waste moved

closer to Margo's face, until his cock was touching the tip of Margo's

nose. Then, slowly, he reached his hand down and lifted his penis so that the

opening in the head was pointed directly at Margo's mouth. Margo was both

repelled and awestruck. The hole looked to him to be as large as the opening

in the barrel of a pistol. He'd never seen a penis this close up before, and

had never seen any penis this large before. 'Oh, shit,' he cried to himself.

Waste murmured, "Kiss it, slut. Kiss it soft and sweet. Let me see how

you love my prick."

Margo closed his eyes and formed a circle with his lips. He leaned forward

to comply with Waste's order. SLAP! Waste's hand appeared from nowhere and

the force of his blow nearly knocked Margo off the desk. Margo's eyes

immediately filled with tears and his face turned a crimson red. "Keep those

eyes pointed at my dick, girly-boy," snarled Waste. "What's the matter?

You don't like lookin' at it? Hmmm?" In spite of the pain and the tears,

Margo forced himself to keep his eyes riveted on Waste's groin area.

"Well?" said Waste. "Are you gonna kiss it, or am I gonna have to get annoyed

again?"

Finally, Margo's lips circled the head of Waste's penis. He was so

frightened, he could neither smell nor taste the organ as it entered his

mouth. But he could feel the rubbery texture, and note its warmth as slowly

it slipped between his lips and entered his mouth.

"Now, lick along the length of the underside of it," ordered Waste. "And

act like you're enjoying it, asshole." Margo's tongue touched the penis

behind the crown. Slowly, he licked the length ('My god! It's enormous!')

down to the root. Then, just as slowly, he ran his tongue back up to the

head. He heard Waste say, "Now, lick around it in a circular motion. Yeah,

like that." Margo's tongue was now circling the cock, which he could tell

was beginning to grow and stiffen and heat up in response to the action of

his tongue. Margo marveled at how the texture of Waste's penis changed as

it enlarged in his mouth. Now Waste directed him to begin sliding his

mouth up and down the length of the rapidly-expanding organ. Margo suddenly

noticed something; he was becoming interested in what he was doing.

He was puzzled and somewhat fearful of his reaction. But, as Waste's cock grew

larger and larger and pushed farther into Margo's mouth, battering itself

against his throat opening, Margo could feel a growing warmth inside himself.

His 'interest' was becoming more than that; he suddenly realized that he

• wanted* this cock to pump in and out of his mouth, he wanted this heat

burning his tongue, he wanted this feeling of being overwhelmed by the

size and force of this man's masterful penis. He groaned aloud, and began

fucking the dick in his mouth. He could hear Red Dog say, "Hey, the slut's

starting to get into it, huh, Waste?" And Waste responding, "Oh, yeah, I

got an idea he's gonna be a helluva cocksucker, Dog."

Cocksucker. Margo the cocksucker. 'What the fuck,' he thought. 'This

really is great! If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die. But, at least I'll

have had this experience.' And he rammed his face down the length of

Waste's prick, bumping his nose against Waste's pelvis, breathing deeply

and savoring the delightful man-smell. Then, back and forth, faster and

faster, trying to get it all into his mouth. 'Oh, man, great, great,

great,' he sobbed over and over in time to his sucking motion. His tongue

was everywhere, wanting to touch every inch of Waste's powerful organ,

wanting to love it and worship it and be welded to it forever. Then, a

new sensation: he could feel it twitching, sense the beginning of Waste's

climax. 'Oh, fuck! He's going to cum! In my mouth!' Then, the burning

sperm exploding into the back of his mouth, and he desperately trying to

swallow it all, knowing the volume was more than he could handle, genuinely

sorrowful as it escaped through his lips and dribbled down his chin.

Cocksucker. Margo the cocksucker. He could feel Waste's penis gradually

softening, and he began sucking harder, trying to revive the shrinking

tool. But, gradually it resumed its original size, and he was left moaning

and kissing it, savoring its rubbery texture and the taste of man and cum.

Waste let out a soft, low whistle. "Well, he's got a lot to learn," he

said to Red Dog. "But, I think he's gonna be a good student. How about

his ass?"

Red Dog said, "I think he's a virgin there, too. Is that right, slut?

You ever been cornholed?"

Margo, red-faced with shame and embarrassment, shook his head no.

Waste said to Red Dog, "No time like the present, Dog."

Red Dog replied, "Yeah, you're right about that." Then he stepped in

front of Margo's face, lowered his zipper, and pulled his dick out of

his jeans. It wasn't as large as Waste's, at least not in this state of

softness, but it still attracted Margo's attention. Without being told

what to do, Margo leaned forward and swallowed the rod, this time aware

of the taste and aroma, realizing with a sense of wonder that he loved

it. He loved it all, the power these two men displayed, his own sense of

submissive weakness, his attraction to their penises as something like

badges of office. He knew he now belonged to them, he wanted to belong to

them. He was their cocksucker. Eagerly, he began sucking on Red Dog's cock,

wetting it with saliva, licking it with his tongue, kissing, sucking,

wanting to capture it with his mouth and hold tight to it forever. He never

wanted to be without it, ever again. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks

as he groaned and sighed and sucked away on this delicious meat.

Suddenly, Red Dog stepped back, and Margo's mouth was empty. He moaned,

"Please, please, let me..." But Red Dog only laughed harshly and stepped

from view. A moment later, Margo could feel Red Dog's hand on his ass.

'Oh, shit,' he reaized. 'He's gonna...' He could feel Red Dog's penis

probing his anal opening, jabbing at the tiny hole, trying to gain entrance.

"Relax, bitch," Red Dog snarled. "How'm I gonna get inside if you keep

tensing up?" Margo, fearful and nervous again, tried to comply, tried to

relax. It was hard, but he tried. Then, he could feel a burning sensation

in his anus. 'It's in,' he thought. 'My god, I'm being fucked in the ass.'

He could hear Red Dog saying to Waste, "It's a good thing he's been using

that butt plug. Otherwise, he'd be too damn tight." And Waste laughing

softly.

The burning pole pushed deeper and deeper into Margo's ass. He could

feel it now against his prostate. As it rubbed, Margo could feel himself

growing flushed and hot, he could sense his own organ beginning to respond

to Red Dog's stimulation. The penis was now being withdrawn, slowly,

inexorably. 'No, no,' Margo moaned to himself. 'Stay. Please stay.'

The tip of Red Dog's penis was all that remained at the entrance of Margo's

anus. Then, with a great powerful thrust, Red Dog buried it all the way in,

and began fucking Margo in earnest. Margo cried for joy, and began humping

back against the rutting redbearded giant.

"Look at that," shouted Waste. "He loves it. He's going right after it."

And he laughed loudly, Red Dog joining in. Then he was in front of Margo's

face again, his penis hanging limply before him. "Ohhh, yesss," cried Margo

and sucked the wonderful organ into his mouth. He began sucking excitedly

on Waste's dick, then realized his mouth and his ass were not in sync.

Concentrating as hard as he could, he tried to match Red Dog's in-and-out

motion with the motion of his mouth on Waste's rapidly growing penis.

Finally, he seemed to catch a rhythm and pushed and pulled with his sphincter

in time with the pushing and pulling of his lips. He was engorged with dick.

He realized he was in paradise. He had never been this aroused before. He

thought his own cock was going to explode, and it finally did, shooting cum

up to his belly as he slid back and forth, sweaty on the wet desk, trying

to bury the cocks in his body. He was groaning loudly now, groaning and

crying in frustration that he couldn't capture enough of these wonderful

battering rams that hammered away at him.

Red Dog was the first to come, his sperm roaring into Margo's entrails,

a burning liquid that filled Margo's yearning bowels. Then, a few moments

later, Waste exploded, filling Margo's mouth again with his fabulous jism,

overflowing from the full mouth onto the chin, dripping now onto the floor.

The two men were breathing hard, exhausted from their exertions. Margo

quietly sobbed on the desk, licking cum from his chin, dripping cum from

his violated ass. Waste looked up at Red Dog, and gave a low whistle.

He winked at the larger man and said, "Well, I'd say the bitch passed with

flying colors. You gonna keep the little cocksucker?"

Red Dog said, "Yeah, I think I may have a use for the cunt. Thanks for

your help, my man."

"Anytime, Dog. Any fucking time. This was a whole lot better'n I

thought it was gonna be."

Red Dog motioned to Waste to take a seat in one of the folding chairs.

Then he sat down in his chair, facing Margo's head which was still draped

over the desk. Margo was sniffling now, trying to stop his tears. Red

Dog reached over with his hand and lifted Margo's chin until Margo was

looking directly into his eyes. "You got a real talent, there, girly-boy.

How about letting us develop it?"

Margo looked thoroughly confused.

"What I mean is, even though I think you ripped me off with the powder,

I'm inclined to keep you around. I think I might have a real use for your

talent, even though you're pretty raw." Margo's face was a study in how

fear and relief can combine in one single expression. Red Dog examined

him closely.

From the other side of the desk, the side where Margo's ass was still

bleeding sperm onto the floor, Waste asked, "What've you got in mind for

the bitch, Dog?"

"Well, the cunt seemed pretty eager to get that waitressing job, you

know? So, I'm thinkin', yeah, I do need somebody in there. But, now I

found out this cunt's real talent is fuckin' and suckin'. So, I want to

develop that, too. So, I'm figuring right now it's about worth two

bucks a shot. Am I right? You think this asshole is about at the level

of a two-dollar whore?"

Waste laughed loudly. "Oh, man, if that." Still laughing. "If that."

"So here's how I figure we pay the bitch. Every fuck and every suck

is worth two bucks. We keep a book on the number of times girly-boy

here gets fucked or gives someone a blowjob. Or eats one of the ladies'

pussies." At this, Waste nodded approvingly. "Then, at the end of the

day, we add it all up, and that's the cunt's pay. Of course, we also

have to deduct any expenses pussy-ass incurs that day, too. Like, for

a bed and meals and drinks and like that."

Waste was grinning from ear to ear. "Yeah, Dog, right. Man, I see why

you're the king around here. You got great ideas, man." Then, suddenly,

he leaned forward, looking at the space between Margo's legs. His hand

shot up and seemed to disappear into Margo's asshole. "Hey, Dog!" he

exclaimed. "Get a load of this! What the fuck is this all about?"

Red Dog dropped Margo's chin and stood up. He leaned over Margo's

outstretched body to see what Waste was talking about. Waste was holding

something in his hand. "Look," he said. And Red Dog realized Waste had

discovered the ring which was attached to Margo's cum-soaked penis.

"Oh, yeah," said Red Dog. "You ain't gonna believe this, Waste.

The asshole had a butt-plug on a chain and the chain was clipped on this

ring." Waste began laughing so hard he howled. He turned in his seat and

stamped his feet on the floor, coughing, choking, gasping with laughter.

"Yeah, yeah," continued Red Dog. "I ain't kiddin', man. It's true. But,

hey, this bitch is gonna have so many cocks up its ass there ain't going

to be any time left over for butt plugs, you know what I mean?"

Waste nodded. "But, that ring doesn't look like it's gonna come off very

easily. So we're stuck with it. And I am a little pissed. I can't think

of anything to do with it."

Waste quit laughing, and began thinking. All of a sudden, he gave the

ring a hard yank, causing Margo to cry out in startled pain. "How about this,

Dog?" he asked. "Why don't we hang a little bell from it? And we could

call him Tinkerbell."

Red Dog got a big smile on his face. "Yeah, Tinkerbell. And then I'll

always know where the bitch is, 'cause you'll hear the bell anytime the

slut moves. Great idea, Waste."

Waste grinned. "I know just where I can get one, too. I'm gonna go

get it right now."

Red Dog said, "Alright. See ya when ya get back."

Waste left the room and Red Dog returned to the front of the desk

to sit in his chair again. He lifted Margo's head and said, "Well,

Tinkerbell, you worthless whore, welcome to Red Dog's Grill."

                         * * * * * * * * * * 

Several weeks had passed, and Tinkerbell was slowly beginning to lose

his constant feelings of terror. As Red Dog had outlined, he was now the

only waitress in the cafe. This alone would have kept him perpetually

busy; but, he had other duties as well, because he had to cover his

expenses.

Red Dog had allowed him to put a cot in a large storage closet. The

closet also held a sink, at which he took sponge baths, shaved, brushed

his teeth, did his face, hair and makeup, and generally kept himself

looking groomed and presentable. The small room also had an old worn-out

toilet with a cracked seat that continually pinched his asscheeks.

This wonderful accommodation cost a mere $40 per day, or twenty tricks.

In addition, Tinkerbell had to pay for his meals, which were, regardless

of what he ate, a flat $10 per plate, or five more tricks. So Tinkerbell

had to turn a minimum of twenty-five tricks each day, as well as perform

all the duties of a waitress, and unpaid dishwasher as well. At the end

of the day, after Red Dog had closed and locked the door to the cafe,

and turned off the neon light, he would lead Tinkerbell into the office,

where he would tally up his debt. Tinkerbell never got ahead. Tinkerbell

never broke even. Tinkerbell always ended up owing something. And Red

Dog took his payment in punishment, one lash of the riding crop for

each dollar Tinkerbell owed. Tinkerbell never got used to those beatings.

Red Dog never showed mercy. When the punishment session was over, Red

Dog would open the office door and lead Tinkerbell, sobbing and rubbing

his blood-red ass, to the storage closet door. Tinkerbell would enter,

pull the cord on the lone bare-bulb light, and wait for Red Dog to close

and lock the door. Then, he would undress, wash his face and hands,

and climb into the narrow cot to cry himself to sleep.

Because he had a choice of either being severely beaten each night

to cover his daily living expenses, or trying to meet them by hustling

his ass and his mouth to any willing customer, Tinkerbell quickly overcame

any shyness or sense of shame about his half-male, half-female physical

condition. He became very aggressive in hustling customers, which worked

to help him overcome his fear of Red Dog and his gang; after all, one

cannot sell oneself if one is too timid to advertise, can one? The bell

attached to Tinkerbell's penis ring merrily sounded throughout the day

as he scurried from table to table, customer to customer. Because he

was to be available at all times to provide sexual relief to Red Dog's

guests, Tinkerbell very quickly quit wearing panties. But, Red Dog

insisted he wear stockings, so he continued to wear his garter belt

as well. After his breast surgery had healed, the special bra he had

worn had been discarded, so he really never did get used to wearing a

bra. His breasts had to be available for the customers at all times,

so he didn't miss a bra, anyway.

Before he had been taken to Red Dog's Grill by Amy, Elliott and the

other agent, Amy had given him a large supply of estrogen tablets, and

a prescription from the doctor with no termination date. Red Dog insisted

he continue taking the pills, which he obediently did. He had to pay for

the renewed prescriptions, which weren't cheap, and these payments kept

him extra busy several days a month. He wasn't sure what effect this

hormone treatment was having, except that he noticed his skin generally

was becoming softer and his shape rounder, his hair wasn't growing back

as quickly as it had before, his breasts were extremely tender and

sensitive to the touch, and his emotions seemed more easily aroused than

before. In fact, he found he laughed easier, cried more quickly and

generally seemed less interested in thinking matters through than he might

usually have in the past. It was probably the overwhelming amount of

estrogen he was taking that was responsible for his violent mood swings.

Anyway, it didn't matter. He was too busy to be concerned about such

things. And at night, he was too exhausted to sit and ponder the changes

which had taken place in his life. Within a few weeks, he had already

settled into a routine. Long before Red Dog would arrive to unlock his

door each morning, Tinkerbell would have awakened (he had an alarm clock

on the floor beside his bed) and prepared himself for the day, sponging

his body all over, douching his ass as well, putting on his makeup,

combing his hair usually into a ponytail. Then, sitting on the edge of

the cot to pull on his stockings, loving the feel of the nylon as it

gently rubbed the hairless skin of his legs, attaching them to the

black, lacy garter belt. Next, he would step into his shoes with the

four-inch stiletto heels, the open toes and the thread-thin straps.

Finally, pulling on one of the two-sizes-too-small miniskirts and tight,

transparent tops Red Dog had decided would be his 'uniform,' he would

struggle to fit the clothes on neatly and smoothly. His generous breasts

would strain at the low scooped neckline of his too-tight top, trying to

spill over into naked freedom. Finally, he would check his hair and his

makeup. Then, Red Dog would arrive and unlock his door, and he would

immediately go to the kitchen to clean up any mess that remained from

the day before. If the cook hadn't arrived, he would put on coffee for

Red Dog and himself and then fry up a couple of eggs and some toast for

the two of them. 'What the hell? So what if it costs five tricks? I'm

famished.'

The day would be a blur of activity: refilling drink orders, clearing

tables, removing hands from his ass (or his breasts, if he bent over to

empty an ashtray), delivering food orders (usually hamburgers and fries),

making change. But, of course, there was more, much more. He was

continually hustling the customers, whispering in their ears, offering

his talented mouth to both men and women (oh, yes, the ladies loved his

mouth, and he had a special fondness for hot, wet pussy), or his ass

(he was an expert lap-dancer). They all knew Tinkerbell, and they knew

he brought a special enthusiasm to his work. And it wasn't just because

of the quota imposed by Red Dog. The whole gang realized that, believe

it or not, this Tinkerbell really enjoyed what he did, he never faked

his excitement or his desire, and he never played favorites, either.

The meanest, nastiest, ugliest men in the gang were his special friends,

because they couldn't usually get girls on their own and had to rely on

him to relieve their sexual needs. So he catered especially to them,

kissing them, rubbing their cocks as he bent to replace their drinks,

whispering sweet promises in their ears. And he was busy. All day.

Every day. An endless round of cock, cock, pussy, cock.

But, he never got ahead. And he never broke even. Soon, however, he

noticed he was beginning to become indifferent to the beatings he

received from Red Dog. He no longer feared the crop as he had at the

beginning of his service. His motivation seemed to have undergone a

transformation. Could it have been those damn estrogen tablets? Who

knew? Who cared, really? It just seemed that what interested Tinkerbell

most after awhile was providing service to the members of the gang. He

found he liked all of them, even the worst, even the sadists who would

pinch his nipples until he cried in pain, begging for relief, or who would

grab his penis ring and pull until he thought his groin was going to be

separated from the rest of his body.

And, make no mistake about it, this was one helluva nasty bunch, this

gang of Red Dog's. They bought dope and sold it in large amounts, and

kept plenty for their own use. They had weapons, and they weren't afraid

to use them when they thought it convenient, holding up the occasional

7-11. Their women spent their working hours dancing naked in other bars,

or hustling johns in alleys, as often as not setting up muggings for the

men. In a romantic era, the hard edge of these people's lives might have

been softened until a mythology developed and grew around them, a Robin

Hood sort of story. But this was not a romantic era, and there was no

softness in these people. None at all. They were hard, they were tough,

they were mean. Their idea of family was to appear together in court

to bid a colleague goodbye as he was being led through a door to a few

years in prison; or to meet the same person at the prison entrance upon

his release. Beyond that, they hung together only because no one else

would have them. 'Red Dog's Grill' was their living room, dining room,

and family room. And Tinkerbell was the servant who heard their brags,

their lies, their troubles and their joys, dispensing neither opinion

nor judgment, but warmth and, surprisingly, love.

Surprisingly, indeed. The weeks passed. Tinkerbell found himself

being drawn closer and closer to these people whom he had previously

feared. He knew they were the dregs of society. But what, after all,

was he? Half-man, half-woman, a sex slave to the most undervalued

people in society. And another surprise was in store for him.

It was one of those rare, quiet afternoons when the gang members, for a

variety of reasons, were occupied elsewhere, and only two or three

customers were in the bar, quietly drinking and talking. Tinkerbell had

cleared and wiped down all the empty tables, had washed the dishes, and

was seated at the bar enjoying a cigarette (cost: $2, one trick).

Red Dog was in his office and the cook was preparing some concoction

that might be served later that night.

Tinkerbell, sitting perched on the barstool, shoes hooked in the

footrest, sipping a glass of ice water (cost: free, thank god), began

contemplating his situation. He had long since lost track of the time

he'd been living at the bar. He was too busy to stop and read the paper,

or watch the television. And when he went out for an infrequent walk in

the park a few blocks away, he was usually accompanied by Red Dog or Waste,

neither of whom ever discussed the day of the week or much of anything

else, either, for that matter. He had long since grown accustomed to

the lifestyle imposed on him by Red Dog: not only the hustling and the

endless work; the cramped room into which he was locked each night;

the revealing, sluttish clothes he was required to wear. Even the nightly

beatings with the riding crop were now a part of his daily routine.

And Red Dog had imposed another change on him as well. In addition

to speaking in the breathy, bimbo stage-whisper taught to him by Amy,

of forcing himself to think in terms of simple sentences formed by words

of no more than two syllables, Red Dog had also insisted he lisp ("Since

all fairies lisp," reasoned Red Dog), and that he call Red Dog, 'Daddy.'

Tinkerbell no longer thought of this as an acknowledgement of his

submissive role in his new life. In fact, calling Red Dog 'Daddy' had

taken on a whole new overtone. He wondered, 'Can it be? Can Tinkerbell

really be falling in love? What's going on? And, oh, could Red Dog ever

feel the same about Tinkerbell?'

Just then, a gang member, who had been sitting at a table in the corner,

raised his bottle, signaling Tinkerbell to bring him another. Tinkerbell

reached into the cooler behind the bar, and with his ultra-high heels on,

minced over to the man, rotating his hips in a come-hither style. He

reached the table and set the beer on it, then bent over at the waist,

wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders. "Ith there anything elthe

Tink can do, you big thtrong lover, you?" he pouted in as sexy a voice

as he could use.

"What you got in mind, there, cunt?"

"Oooo," he purred. "Tink'th alwayth ready for fun." Kissing the man's

neck, nibbling on his earlobe.

"Mmmm, baby, how about putting that tongue to work where it'll do me

some good?"

"Oh, you rathcal. You can read Tink'th mind." Tinkerbell giggled and

dropped to his knees, simultaneously reaching for the zipper on the man's

fly. "Oh, my, my," he cooed. "Look at thith lovely rod." Planting a wet

kiss on the head of the man's cock, licking the hole. "Mmmm, lunchtime."

The man placed his hand on Tinkerbell's head, gently forcing him into

position. He sighed and relaxed, knowing Tinkerbell's skilled mouth was

about to create an unforgettable moment in his life. Tinkerbell began

running his tongue up and down the man's tool, savoring the flavor and

the aroma, kissing it and urging it to stiffen up. He could feel the

temperature of the cock beginning to increase, and his interest and

attention became focused on arousing the sleeping giant. As he tongued

and pecked the semi-hard cock, he gently reached into the man's fly,

gently grasped his balls, and gently removed them from the darkness

of his underwear. Tinkerbell transferred his tongue from penis to balls,

reveling in the feel of the man's pubic hair tickling his lips and

chin. He placed each testicle in his mouth, blowing his hot breath

on them, wetting them with his tongue, blanking his mind to everything

but the immediate moment. Then he returned his attention to the rapidly

lengthening penis, purring and cooing as it grew harder and longer.

He placed the cock in his mouth and began riding up and down its length

with his lips, pausing at intervals along the way to tease and tantalize

it, to draw as much sperm into it as he could - he loved gigantic eruptions

in his mouth. He could sense the man's crisis approaching, and he gently

urged him on. But, the man had other ideas. He grasped Tinkerbell's head

in both hands and lifted him off his penis.

"You fuckin' turn me on, pussy," he breathed. "But I don't wanna come

in your mouth. I wanna come in your ass."

"Oooo, mmmmm, lover boy," Tinkerbell moaned. Then he got to his feet,

and reached out to take the man's hand in his own. "Let'th pay a little

vithit to Tink'th room, hmmm?"

As they walked across the room to the short hallway where Tinkerbell's

storage closet/bedroom was located, the man lifted the back of Tink's

short, tight skirt and placed his hand on Tink's bare ass. Tinkerbell

leaned back, resting his head on the man's chest. "Let'th hurry,

thweetie-pie," he whispered.

As they passed the bar, Tinkerbell noticed Red Dog coming out of his

office. Red Dog stood behind the bar, smiling and winking at Tinkerbell,

who formed a kiss with his mouth. Then, he and the man disappeared into

Tink's room. Once inside, Tink turned to the man and whispered in his

ear, "Mithionary or doggie-thtyle, hon-bun?" He removed the jelly-covered

gauze applicator he wore in his ass, tampon-style, to help keep himself

well-lubricated for just such moments as this.

The man pushed him onto the narrow bed, and lay down on top of him.

He leaned over Tinkerbell's face, muttered, "Fuckin' whore, I love it,"

then placed his lips on Tink's, driving his tongue into his hot, waiting

mouth. Tink spread his legs as far apart as he could and lifted them

high off the bed, his knees nearly touching his ears. He grasped the

man's still-rock-hard penis, and gently pushed it into his anal opening.

As the man thrust it into him, Tinkerbell captured and held it by closing

his sphincter around it, forming a vise-like grip on the red-hot cock.

The man began fucking in earnest now, ramming and shoving his dick

as far into Tinkerbell's bowels as he could. Tinkerbell was crying now,

filled with joy as the head of the man's penis rubbed and excited his

prostate. He gasped and mewled and cried as the man grunted and sweated

his way toward his approaching orgasm. Tinkerbell's legs were flailing

in the air, all coordination lost as he concentrated on meeting the man's

violent thrusts, timing his upward push to the man's downward shove.

Locked in sweaty embrace, the two melted into one, intent only on arriving

at the peak of ecstasy, humping and grunting, bodies perfectly in sync

with one another. Finally, the man could hold back no longer. He cried

out in pleasure-filled pain, and exploded into Tinkerbell's ass, shooting

what felt to the sobbing, wailing Tinkerbell like gallons of delightful

cum. Tinkerbell locked his legs around the man's waist, refusing to

relinquish one moment of joy. He milked and milked until the man was

completely drained and gasping, out of breath, collapsing on Tinkerbell's

magnificent breasts.

The two remained locked in embrace, the man trying to regain control of

his breathing, Tinkerbell weeping softly now, filled with a sense of

contented fulfillment. Gently, he stroked the man's hair, running his

fingers through his beard, murmuring, "Thank you," into the man's ear,

kissing and licking it. Finally, they were done. Slowly, reluctantly,

the man lifted himself off Tinkerbell. Before he could return his penis

into his jeans, however, Tinkerbell insisted on cleaning off the excess

cum and sweat with his tongue and mouth, gently licking and kissing the

still-warm cock until it was clean of all its sweaty cream.

The man gave Tinkerbell a soft slap on his ass, and left the room

to attend to his beer in the bar. Tinkerbell slowly got off the bed,

douched and touched up his hair and makeup, then returned to the bar to

resume his duties. Red Dog was still standing behind the bar, one hand

leaning on it, the other on his hip. He had a grin on his face.

"You slut," he smiled. "I could hear you out on the street." He laughed.

"C'mere," he said, grabbing Tinkerbell by the wrist. "I got something I

want to discuss with you in my office." Tinkerbell was a little nervous

as Red Dog pulled him into the room. Red Dog left Tinkerbell standing in

the center of the room and went around behind the desk, where he lifted

his chair and brought it around to the front. He eased himself into

it, and said, "You really love it, don't you?"

Tinkerbell blushed, his face slowly turning red from the neck up.

"Yeth, Daddy."

"Well, I gotta say I think the gang enjoys it, too. Come here. Sit

down." He pointed to his lap. Tinkerbell gingerly sat down. "Yeah,"

Red Dog continued, "I think you got a future here. What do you think,

bitch?"

"Ooohhh, Daddy," Tinkerbell pouted. "Tink loveth it here. Tink wanth

to thtay here alwayth." He began to kiss the edge of Red Dog's beard,

kissing and rubbing his lips on the bright red bush.

Red Dog reached under Tinkerbell's skirt and began playing with his

penis, softly rubbing it, causing the bell to quietly tinkle. Tinkerbell

began breathing a little harder, becoming excited by Red Dog's fondling.

Red Dog spoke softly into Tinkerbell's ear, "Suck my cock, cunt."

Immediately, Tinkerbell slid off Red Dog's lap and went to his knees.

He pulled the giant's zipper down, releasing his already hardening,

thickening penis. He cried out, a little in lust, a little in fear, and

began kissing the long, masculine rod. He started sucking in earnest,

knowing from the state of Red Dog's cock he didn't want to waste time

on preliminaries. Rapidly, his head bobbed up and down the length of

the massive cock, tears forming in his eyes as he lathered the dick

with his wet tongue. He felt an unbelievable sensation of warmth and,

what? Yes, happiness, as his 'Daddy's' huge tool rammed repeatedly against

the back of his mouth, wanting to find its way into his throat. Then,

just as the gang member had done out in the bar, Red Dog placed his hands

on either side of Tinkerbell's head and gently lifted him to his feet.

"Sit on it," he commanded, "with your back to me."

Tinkerbell lifted his miniskirt and, spreading his legs on either side

of Red Dog's, he grasped the penis and held it rigid as he gently lowered

himself onto it. He caught his breath and gasped as he felt Red Dog's

masterful cock enter his anus and impale him all the way into his bowels.

Red Dog lifted Tinkerbell's top and began mauling his magnificent breasts,

rubbing the nipples to a stiffness they'd never known, mashing and kneading

the ample tit-flesh. He grunted into Tinkerbell's ear, "Start beating your

meat, cunt." Tinkerbell groaned loudly and grabbed his exposed penis,

pulling and tugging on it in rhythm with Red Dog's thrusting, pummeling

dick. He began groaning and crying as his own penis began to stiffen in

passionate response to Red Dog's fucking.

Just then, the door flew open and in came - the blonde from the airport!

the one who'd picked up Tinkerbell's suitcase! the one who'd started all

the trouble! As Tinkerbell's eyes widened, the blonde reached up and pulled

off her wig! "Edie!" screamed Tinkerbell. "Wha - ? How - ?" Tinkerbell's

wife stood before him, a smug, derisive grin on her face. The door opened

wider and Amy, Elliott and the other agent entered, standing next to Edie.

In his shock, Tinkerbell had dropped his hand from his penis, but was

reminded by Red Dog, who painfully squeezed his breast and demanded in a

snarling tone of voice, "Keep whackin', bitch!"

Edie laughed loudly, and said, "Well, hello, Martin. Are we enjoying

ourself?" Tinkerbell groaned and closed his eyes. "I just came by to settle

accounts with Red Dog," she said. "You see, I'm the one who set this whole

thing up. I admit it was a rather elaborate hoax. But, I wanted to have a

little fun. You've already met my friends Amy and Elliott, and now let me

introduce you to my lover, Tom."

Red Dog whispered into Tinkerbell's ear, "Keep beatin' your meat, got

it? And pay attention." Tinkerbell, face red with shame and confusion,

continued pulling at his penis, which seemed to him to have grown to an

enormous size, an erection unlike any he had ever experienced before.

Edie continued, "Yes, I've had a lover for a long time now. And we're

making it permanent, as soon as we conclude our business with Red Dog,

here." Red Dog's cock was like a battering ram in Tinkerbell's ass. Using

his breasts like handles, Red Dog raised and lowered him on the huge pole

in a blind frenzy. Tinkerbell was gasping and grunting, being pummeled

in his ass, flogging his own penis and trying to hear and understand Edie's

cruel words. "Well, Red Dog," she said. "What do you say? Do you want the

pansy slut?"

Red Dog grunted, "You bet your ass I do. How much do you want for him?"

The four people standing in front of Tinkerbell and the gang leader

began laughing uncontrollably. Edie said, in between shouts of laughter,

"Well, if I understand correctly, he's nothing more than a two-dollar

whore. He isn't worth shit, as far as I'm concerned."

Red Dog said, "Ok, it's a deal. Two bucks." And he reached around to

his desk top and, picking up two one-dollar bills, handed them to Edie.

She bent over the weeping Tinkerbell and, gently slapping his face,

said, "'Bye, 'bye, Martin. Enjoy your new life. I'm sure going to enjoy

mine." Then, turning on her heel, she left the room, followed by her

three friends.

Red Dog returned his hand to Tinkerbell's breast and began kneading

again, at the same time ramming his cock deep into Tinkerbell, pushing

and humping, trying to get deeper and deeper as his climax approached.

Then, suddenly, he was boiling over, and his sperm shot into Tinkerbell's

depths. He began to laugh, a loud, prolonged laugh to accompany the

explosion of his balls.

Then, Tinkerbell's eyes flew open as he felt his own climax arriving,

trying to join Red Dog's heaving emission, and in a sudden rush, he

exploded, fountaining his sperm out of his penis so it landed on his hand,

his thighs, the floor in a geyser-like eruption. And as his orgasm hit

full force, he threw his head back onto Red Dog's shoulder and began to

cry and laugh, marrying his own joyful laughter to Red Dog's.

END