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From anon.penet.fi!daemon@methan.chemie.fu-berlin.de Sat May 18 12:40:39 1996 Return-Path: anon.penet.fi!daemon@methan.chemie.fu-berlin.de >>Received: by methan.chemie.fu-berlin.de (Smail3.1.29.1)

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id ; Sat, 18 May 96 09:45 MET DST To: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE X-Anonymously-To: nostrumo@nienor.in-berlin.de Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an309248@anon.penet.fi 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