A Certain Perception

Kyra was not the girl of my dreams. I never DARED dream a woman that good would just walk into my life. She was smart, sassy, vivacious, intuitive, resourceful, and a real ‘people person’. We met in an Internet chat room called “Working Girls”. We’re not talking about the kind you find in corporate offices or retail stores. C’mon, be honest; what guy hasn’t fantasized about being with a woman like that? The room was filled with the usual posers and wannabes. Every girl was a drop-dead-gorgeous slut who would bang a guy on the hood of a car if the price were right. Every guy was a ‘Sugar Daddy’ with hundred-dollar bills hanging out of his pockets. At least, that is what they all would have you believe. Kyra was different. There was just some indefinable... SOMETHING that made me believe she was the real deal. It was not so much what she said as the way she said it that spoke of a woman who had truly “been there, done that.”

Naturally, a lot of snerts in the room asked the obvious, stupid question: “Are you REALLY a...?” She artfully deflected their inquiries, reminding them of the name and nature of the room and playfully suggesting they draw their own conclusions. Still, if one was astute enough to read between the lines.... Whenever she entered the chat room, people flocked to her. She reigned like a Queen on her throne. I was a little intimidated. I chatted mostly with my own online friends, interacting with her only in group conversations.

One evening, out of the blue, SHE started chatting with ME. Was I stunned? Oh, yeah. Our light, breezy banter in the room took a more personal turn that required private messaging. She revealed that, aside from my courteous, non-threatening manner, there were “little things” I had mentioned in passing about myself that had intrigued her. I hadn’t remembered saying ANYTHING definitive about myself. In fact, I avoided doing so. The room was fun enough, but I thought it best if the people in it did not know I really WAS rich (I was blessed with being born into the right family). Kyra didn’t ask, just as I hadn’t asked about her. She simply stated: “Breeding shows.”

We clicked - and spent long hours deeply immersed in IM’s. This intriguing vixen told me she lived in a city on the other coast. She was a bit older than me, but it didn’t matter to either of us. We exchanged pictures of ourselves and I was instantly in lust. She was a stunning redhead with sparkling emerald eyes and a dynamite body. I fervently hoped this vision really WAS her, not some random picture she scammed from Cyberspace. Finally, I booked an airline reservation (ticketless; she was impressed) to have her come for a visit - on my birthday. She promised she would bring a gift I would never forget. “Don’t take my pledges lightly, Michael,” she admonished. “A promise made is a promise kept.”

Meeting her in the flesh was the best birthday present I had ever received. I had expected to wait outside the airport security checkpoint for her to arrive. Instead, she was already there waiting for ME - wearing a bow pinned to her top and holding a lit birthday candle in her hands. She explained her flight had gotten in early. Her pictures hadn’t done her justice; she was even more spectacular in the flesh. As in the chat room, there was nothing in her appearance or demeanor that overtly suggested she was a ‘woman of ill repute’. She was merely the most beautiful, sensual, desirable woman I had ever seen. Our first kiss was instinctive - and pure electricity. The breathtaking redhead was all over me, oblivious to the scornful/envious stares of those around us. It was all we could do to contain ourselves as we loaded her bags in the trunk and drove home - to my two-acre walled estate with swimming pool, Jacuzzi, guest cottage, four-car garage and thirteen-room, forty-five-hundred-square-foot ‘bachelor pad’. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, the rich Sugar Daddy (at newly-turned twenty-one, I had trouble envisioning myself as ANYONE’s ‘daddy’) and his beautiful ex-hooker girlfriend. I thought that only happened on television....

Consummating our physical intimacy was almost an afterthought after the emotional intimacy that had flowed back and forth those past months - almost. I had never dreamed Sex could be so good, so fulfilling, so... well, kinky. Kyra could get inside my head like nobody’s business, make me visualize the most outlandish, erotic scenarios in a depth of detail that made them appear life-like. Talk about Virtual Reality! We shared the same tastes in kinky, fetish sex. Our favorites included big-boobed porn goddesses, overdone, overblown, over-the-top hookers, and tall, well-muscled, magnificently-endowed men - especially Black men. Kyra playfully chided me about my attraction to the hooker stereotype (“You boys are all alike!”) and was particularly amused that I could see the value in sucking and fucking big, black dicks.

About the only thing we clashed on was our taste in music. I listened to Classical, Blues (B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Lightnin’ Hopkins, John Lee Hooker, Hound Dog Taylor and the Houserockers), and a lot of Rock. She was heavily into Hip-Hop and Rap - a legacy from her ‘past life’. I had a deep appreciation for the old Motown Sound and could certainly get into some of the genuinely artistic R&B singers, but 50-Cent? Nelly? OK, OK, Usher was pretty good. So were Outkast and Black-Eyed Peas - and is/are the latter considered SINGULAR, or PLURAL?

Now that she had come into my life, I couldn’t see being without her. Money certainly wasn’t a problem. My parents had retired and bought one of those huge, sprawling estates in Incline Village, leaving this more humble residence (yeah, right) to their only child - me - along with my Mercedes and comfortable inheritance. My lover teased me about being a “trust fund baby”. Laughter aside, she confided to me how comforting it was to be able to relax and enjoy life for a change. She vowed she was looking forward to my spoiling her rotten.

I took her to meet them. She was nervous - without reason. They adored her as much as I did. I knew they would. We told them our desire for a small, intimate ceremony, not the usual big, splashy Society thing. Mom might have been a little disappointed, but they both gave us their blessing. We got married right there, overlooking Lake Tahoe, with my parents as witnesses. I didn’t think Life could get any better than that.

Did I say Kyra was resourceful? In no time, she was plugged into my hometown as though she had lived here all her life. She found the best beauty salon (naturally), the best sources for clothes, shoes, and accessories (from classy to fetish kink), the best restaurants, theaters, and nightclubs. She even found the best plastic surgeon in a town full of them - a town where cosmetic procedures are considered a rite of passage. I treated her to a few little ‘touch-ups’ that rendered her beauty other-worldly.

We went everywhere together. We humored each other on our disparate musical tastes, as played out on the car stereo. I was thrilled to be seen with this gorgeous woman on my arm. Kyra was shamelessly affectionate in public, kissing, hugging, nuzzling me without a care who saw us. It was a major turn-on to see other men leer at her with obvious intent and just-as-obviously wish they were me. Eat your hearts, out, Guys!

Having tasted the world of achievement and privilege I inhabited, this love of my life developed a burning ambition to succeed. She expressed a desire to correct a mistake she made long ago; to go back to school and complete her education. She had already begun attending classes a couple of nights a week to earn her GED. I was delighted and promised her a full “scholarship” and that I would “pull some strings” at any college she chose to attend if the school was being a little too stringent on their admissions policy.

Our emotional intimacy included sharing the most intensely private, personal details of our lives. My suspicions had been accurate. Kyra finally admitted to having been a “sex worker”, as she put it, for six years; from the time the then-sixteen-year-old had run away from home until we had met in Cyberspace. The experience had changed her, matured her in ways few people ever achieved - certainly not at her age.

Kyra hadn’t wanted to deceive me, but she had been afraid to divulge that part of her life to me before we had a chance to meet face-to-face and really get to know one another. As she explained it, most men regarded hookers as ‘damaged goods’; suitable for a quick, anonymous fuck, but not relationship material. Kyra had desperately wanted a safe, sane, stable relationship away from her sordid existence. She had turned to the Internet as a way of meeting people in a neutral environment, free from the preconceptions inherent with her life. The “Working Girls” chat room was a very canny ruse on her part. She could meet people who, at least, were INCLINED towards getting to know a hooker as a real person. At the same time, she could easily hide among the obvious phonies and filter out the low-lifes who frequented the room only to find a ‘date’.

The more she had gotten to know me online, the more she had been convinced I was The One, the man of her dreams who would rescue her from the emotional trauma of life on the streets. She was quick to point out there was much more to her attraction to me than just that. It was just that she was...complicated. She didn’t hate men. In spite of her past, she hadn’t lost her taste for sex - especially the kind of lurid, edgy sex that had ensnared her in ‘The Life’ in the first place. If the truth be known, she still had a special fondness for the kind of overdone sluts whose pictures we both enjoyed. She had simply come to a point in life where she wanted to deal with it all on her terms, not someone else’s. She new instinctively I would make her very happy. And, in return....

I swept her up in my arms and kissed her deeply, passionately. When our lips parted, I explained that, although Cyberspace is Cyberspace and anyone can pretend to be anything they wish under the cloak of anonymity, I had suspected all along she was a genuine ‘working girl’ and the thought had not bothered me. She avowed that part of her life was over and she would never ‘date’ again, in deference to her love for me. I smiled, gently placed one finger to her lips, and replied even if she did, I believed in her and my love for her was stronger than any jealousy or insecurity that might tear us apart. She liked that a lot. It SOUNDED like the right thing to say at the time, didn’t it? I mean, this was my first experience with anything this serious and I was head-over-heels in love with her. If SHE had blown in MY ear, I would have followed her anywhere.

I wasn’t a ‘hunk’ in the traditional sense. I certainly wasn’t a ‘hulk’. Most women considered me “too small and too pretty”, as they often put it, to take seriously. True, I could have had any woman I wished simply by flashing my money around. Does that sound cynical? Anyway, I didn’t want to do that and didn’t respect guys who did. Then there was Kyra. She and I were within millimeters of the same height. If my diminutive, less-than-imposing physical size and pretty-boy good looks were a problem for her, she never mentioned it. She had giggled about it once, shortly after we had met. She teased that it was nice to finally have a man with whom she could really see “eye-to-eye” - except when she wore heels, of course. “In fact,” she purred, “your stature makes you perfect for OTHER PURSUITS.”

I suited her to a “T” when it came to oral sex. Although we enjoyed our intercourse, Cunnilingus had always been my favorite form of sexual intimacy. I excelled at eating my (few) lovers out. Since Kyra and I had first begun having sex, I had learned how to push all the right buttons. I knew exactly what to do to bring her to the most shattering, mind-numbing climaxes imaginable. She avowed it was like making love with another woman. That it was a MAN who made slow, soft, considerate, gentle love with such depth of emotion - like a woman - made it even better in her mind. She returned the favor, fellating me to levels of orgasmic bliss I never knew existed.

My love was nothing if not uncannily perceptive - and VERY crafty. One night, in the afterglow of an intense session of sex, she manipulated me into admitting to my most intensely personal, private desire.

“Fess up, Michael,” she teased. “The pictures. The lurid pillow talk. The racy, provocative girls we BOTH stare at on the streets. The porn videos we like to watch together. I know you WANTED to be with a hooker all along, even if you don’t want to admit it. That’s why you were hanging out in ‘Working Girls’, isn’t it? Don’t worry; you won’t chase me away. I know what a living doll you really are. You are STUCK with me now. Just tell me I am the girl of your dreams and I will be happy.”

“No, not exactly,” I replied.

She pouted, teasingly. Then, she lightly caressed my naked chest, tenderly raking the flesh with her elegant sculptured nails in that sensual, seductive way she did so well.

“NO? Well then, if it isn’t ME, who is it? Britney? J.Lo? Christina? I can show you things those lame-assed bitches have never dreamed of.”

“Um, that’s kind of complicated.”

“I UNDERSTAND ‘complicated’. I wrote the book. Tell me more.”

I explained it as tactfully as I could, terrified of revealing my sordid secret to ANYONE, let alone one I was truly, madly, deeply in love with.

“You teased me about always having wanted to be with a hooker. That’s ALMOST accurate. I have always fantasized about... experiencing Sex from the other side of the gender divide. Oh, there is more to it than that; a lot more. You know me. You know the kind of girls I - WE - lust for. In my fantasies, I never envision myself as the Girl Next Door. I have always been obsessed with the kind of fantasy slut you see in “B” movies; standing on a street corner with Big Hair, too much makeup, long, glistening fingernails, killer curves sheathed in tight, revealing dresses and dangerously high stiletto heels, the works. I want to get inside that slut’s head, to know her thoughts, desires, what her life is like. That dream has haunted me as long as I can remember, but I have always regarded it as exactly that; a dream that will never be realized. How would I even begin? I feel so far removed from that world. I haven’t known any hookers. I had no idea where to find one until....

As the import of my words suddenly dawned on me, I rushed to put words in my mouth, hoping that, by sheer volume alone, I might accidentally hit on the right ones to cover my amazing lack of sensitivity.

“I love you, Kyra; I really, really do. YES, when we were in the chat

room, when I first suspected you might be a REAL ‘working girl’, my

imagination ran wild. I conjured up all the lurid, wanton images that

have occupied my brain since... well, a long time, OK? When you

started chatting with me, when we began to get REALLY CLOSE, I fell

in love with the PERSON, not the sex object. That you were ALSO... uh,

‘experienced’, was a nice plus. You are out of The Life now. I wouldn’t

change anything about you. I certainly would not, under ANY

circumstances, expect you to go back into it and share your experiences

with me, just so I can live it vicariously through you. My fantasy is

more direct than that. It’s ME that would have to change. I don’t want

to HAVE a slut. I dream of BEING a slut,”

Kyra raised one eyebrow quizzically.

“Oh? I had a few of dates that liked to act out their own hooker fantasies with me. It was fun. Do you want to play dress-up and be my little B-movie hooker for me around the house?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean... this is REALLY complicated. Dressing up might be fun for a while, but it just wouldn’t be... enough. I would know it was still ME - a guy in a dress, pretending to be something he wasn’t. I think I’ve been watching too much Reality TV. My fantasies are all in High Definition and Surround Sound now. I don’t want to be some old, tired closet queen like those other guys you were with. I want MORE. God, I wish I could just clone you, climb inside your skin and be the ‘you’ you used to be.”

Open mouth, insert foot. REALLY MICHAEL, I thought to myself, YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP. In spite of what she had assured me BEFORE I had begun my little rant, I was deathly afraid Kyra would walk out in disgust, right then and there, and never see me again. She didn’t; far from it. She regarded me with her twinkling green eyes, smiled that knowing little smile of hers and snuggled up even closer to me.

“Sweetie, that is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me - in an ‘out-there’ kind of way. It is SO KINKY, too! That explains a lot of things - including why you are so damn good at oral sex. You already THINK like a slut when it comes to pleasuring your partner. In spite of what you might think, I was never quite THAT extreme, but I knew girls who were. You would have loved them. I did - but you already knew that, didn’t you? Do you actually KNOW anything about that lifestyle?”

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

“Not a damn thing. Look at me, how I live. I wouldn’t know where to go.

I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to hustle... JOHNS? TRICKS?”

“Dates.”

“DATES. See what I mean? I am completely clueless about all that. As far as living, even LOOKING the part, dream on, Bud. It exists only in my head.”

Kyra smiled and gently stroked my cheek.

“That is ACTUALLY a really good way to approach it. You want to see what it’s really like to be a slut like that? It’s nowhere near as impossible as you think. I hadn’t wanted to mention this, but you are a little... well, effeminate. Remember when I told you your stature made you perfect for ‘other pursuits’? Look at you. You are almost exactly my height and bone structure. You have that long-legged look that drives men crazy. Those long, slender fingers and perfectly-shaped nails are to die for! I think you would make a GORGEOUS woman with a little work here and there. As for the rest... well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Michael, ‘Society’ - as you think of it - is a sham. It’s all about pretense, image, and spin-control. We are what we PERCEIVE ourselves - and each other - to be. Believe me, I know. You may think you are worlds apart from a whore like that, but you are much closer to her than you could possibly imagine. It’s all about the right attitude and how you perceive yourself. If you project the right image, others will perceive you in the same light.

As it happens, you came to the right girl. You want to get inside a slut’s head? I know a little something about that lifestyle, Baby. You like the way I get inside YOUR head, don’t you? It would be no problem to help YOU get inside HER head, experience her thoughts, desires... her LIFE. Before I say anything else, I have to ask: Do you really love me?”

“I love you more than my life.”

“Do you TRUST me?”

“Implicitly.”

She kissed me tenderly and smiled her Cheshire smile.

“Then hear me out. I... have always thought the WHOLE IDEA of a man becoming a gorgeous, sexy woman was a real turn-on. I met a lot of T-girls in my time on the streets. They were among my closest friends. I mean, really close - catch my drift? Some of those girls were really into the ‘extreme’ look, like you and I are so crazy about. In fact, I had a ‘drag mother’ who taught me most of what I know about makeup, hair, and just being the kind of slut that drives men wild. Through her and the rest of my friends, I made contacts, met people, and learned the tricks and techniques used to transform them into the sexy sirens they became. Soon, I was HELPING them whenever I could. It was such a rush to help change a cute little man into a soft, shapely, sexy, beautiful woman - and from there into the cheap, trashy slut she wanted to be. I hate to admit it, but I got a little... POSSESSIVE. I didn’t mind sharing the girl with dates. Dates are dates; they show up, pay you, get off, and leave. What really ate at me was, as soon as the girl was ‘done’, she would dash off and find herself a ‘husband’.

Michael, do you want to know what I thought the first time I saw your picture? ‘Wow, with a little work, he would look GREAT in a tight little dress and sky-high heels!’ Now you tell me you have always dreamed of being a girl just like the ones I lust for? Oh, my dear, sweet JESUS.... The IDEA of transforming YOU into a girl like that for ME makes me WET. THIS TIME, dear ‘husband’, I’m going to keep you all to myself! Naturally, it helps that we enjoy... shall we say, UNLIMITED financial resources? Why not play with this a little, explore your ultimate fantasy - for BOTH of us? I love you so much - and this is just so wicked, we can’t NOT at least give it a try. This would be my way of sharing myself, my life with you on a level of intimacy few couples ever experience. It would also be a really kinky way of saying ‘Thank you - for everything.”

There are a couple of conditions, though. First, we can’t tell a soul; at least, not the people from YOUR life. That includes family, friends, neighbors, anyone who really knows you. They aren’t like us; they would not understand our desires or what we share. They CERTAINLY wouldn’t approve of the ‘nasty girl’ you are going to portray. I don’t know WHAT I am going to tell your dear, sweet parents, but I will think of SOME reason why they can’t see you. Maybe I will tell them you contracted Berri-berri or something. I can be pretty convincing when I want to be. Second, I will be in charge of EVERYTHING. After all, who knows more about girls like that than me? You must trust me enough to put yourself completely in my hands, without reservation. I crave ‘reality’ as much as you do. If I think there is something we need to do to make the experience more authentic, more pleasurable for us, then we do it. Baby, I can get you so deeply into a slut’s head, you will think you were BORN there. Does that thought appeal to you?”

How could it not?

The pills, diet and exercise came first. I wasn’t overweight by any means, but Kyra promised she would have me down to her own sleek one hundred fifteen pounds in no time. I missed my burgers and pizza, but the salads weren’t that bad and I wasn’t really starving or anything. She said the pills saw to that. She also began “figure-training” me. If I wasn’t hungry before she started lacing me into that corset every day, I sure wasn’t after. The crushing sensation was really uncomfortable, too. She said I would get used to that after a while.

To take my mind off my physical discomfort, she took me ‘back to school’ to focus my attention on something else. I began learning what she called “Street Speak”, that odd patois of slang, euphemisms, malapropisms and bad grammar that she claimed was the common currency of the life she had known so well. The vocabulary was simplistic, to say the least. The words tended to be slurred, run on, and had a kind of sing-song cadence to them. There seemed to be code words and buzz phrases for EVERYTHING. Everyone is “Baby”, “Honey”, or “Sugar”. She drilled me incessantly, chiding me good-naturedly whenever I slipped up, using a big word or phrase that would have been just as confusing for a street girl as all of this was to me. I was perplexed. It was all so... ALIEN to me.

“Honey, I don’t REALLY have to talk like this, do I?”

Kyra put it succinctly:

“Baby, do you KNOW how girls like that talk?”

“No.”

“Believe me, I DO; I lived it for six years. We agreed we want this experience to be authentic. Before you can experience a slut’s life and desires, a slut’s WORLD, you first have to understand what that world IS. Baby, the street scene she inhabits is, for want of a better term, a ‘Black Thing’, and this is the way everyone talks - even the White girls.”

“But we’ve seen African-Americans, both singles and couples, whenever we went out. THEY don’t talk that way.”

Kyra smiled sadly and shook her head.

“Michael, ‘African-American’ is a politically-correct term for a politically-correct segment of the population. The ‘African-Americans’ you have seen do not represent the world your slut lives in, nor do they want to be associated with it. Remember what I said about Perception? THEY speak the way their peers speak; that is, the people whom they PERCEIVE as their peers - and wish to be perceived as PEERS OF. THEY are on their way UP. YOU, on the other hand...”

She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“...are on your way DOWN. Your kind of girl is a GHETTO HO’, not some suburban ingenue. The ‘hood is still about flash, pretense, and spin-control - perhaps even more so than the world you know. But it ISN’T about country clubs, trust funds, and social niceties. It really IS a different world, with its own rhythms, values, and customs. The PEOPLE are different, too. Do you imagine the girls turning tricks on the streets are college graduates? Of course not; most of them are dropouts. I was. They know the streets, their own bodies, and that they can make money by making themselves attractive to men. They look cheap, think cheap, and talk cheap - and the men they date like them that way. In short, they are just like I used to be - like you WILL be when I am finished with you. The first step is to teach you how a slut talks.”

“But YOU don’t talk that way.”

She looked down - and far, far away. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.

“No, but I USED TO. If we had met even a year ago, you would have met a very different girl. I decided I wanted more from life, wanted to make something of myself. One thing I DID learn in my time on the streets is, a certain perception can make or break you, regardless of what kind of person you are. I realized if I was going to have any chance of escaping all that, I would have to change how others PERCEIVED me - and how I perceived myself. I worked very, very hard to UNLEARN the streets and re-learn THIS. Television and Internet chat rooms were my ‘classroom’ and you...”

She kissed me again, this time on the mouth.

“...and others like you were my teachers and role models. First I learned WHO to emulate; then I learned HOW. YOU were the prize at the finish line. Now, we’re going to have a little fun ‘deconstructing’ you and re-shaping you into ‘a girl like THAT’. Who knows? If I can show you what a slut’s life is REALLY like, you might have a better appreciation for THIS one. I know I do.

Now, try again. I want you to THINK in this language, just as any other ghetto ho’does. Lose yourself in the role. In fact, maybe we should work more on THAT right now. Perhaps we need to create a whole new identity for you. That might make it easier for you to get into the right frame of mind. Let’s see, what shall we call you? I know! How about... ‘Gigi’? Do you like it? I think it sounds scrumptious.”

“Gigi? Yeaaah, I like it a lot!”

She smiled at me bemusedly, a twinkle in her eyes.

“OK, GIRLFRIEN’, from now on, you are ‘Gigi’. ‘Michael’ doesn’t exist anymore. You are that street-smart slut from Uptown you have always seen in your fantasies. To a girl like you, this house, this world, this life might as well be on another planet. You are gorgeous, sexy, overdone, and not too bright. In fact, about the only thing you think about is Sex. You down wit’ it, Sugar?”

“ABSOLUMENT.”

Kyra sighed heavily and rolled her eyes upward.

“I never thought I would say this to any man, but you are too damn smart. Whether or not you are willing, your subconscious mind is fighting it. I’m gonna have to haul out the HEAVY ARTILLERY.”

She came home a few days later with a coy smile on her face. She had arranged with a local professional hypnotherapist to commission a series of subliminal learning CD’s that would aid me in my language study. Sheila Crane was willing enough and had extensive experience with subliminal learning, but knew nothing about this particular subject matter. In the end, a substantial sum of money had persuaded her to embark upon a collaborative effort - and a somewhat unorthodox method of delivery.

The initial ‘induction’ therapy was to be performed in person by Ms. Crane herself. She would implant certain ‘trigger phrases’ in my subconscious that would allow me to be ‘converted’ - returned to the induction (trance) state - easily. She recorded the introductions to the disks, speaking the triggers that converted me, then passed control to Kyra’s voice. SHE narrated the training portions of the therapy, owing to her extensive knowledge of the subject matter. Kyra promised they would not be harmful in any way. They would simply break down the subconscious barriers that prevented me from embracing this simplistic form of communication. We were both excited about the prospects of me learning to speak ‘properly’ and couldn’t wait to begin the therapy.

Ms. Crane came to our home consecutive evenings for a week. Each visit lasted a couple of hours, but seemed like mere minutes. I really don’t even remember being hypnotized on any of those occasions, but upon her final visit, she assured me my mind had been thoroughly ‘conditioned’ and was completely receptive to my new training. That night, after we made love, Kyra gave me a pill to help me relax. She popped the first CD into my Discman, placed it on my bedside table, then slipped the headset over my head. “Miss Thing, you’ll have this rap down cold in no time, “ she cooed in a sing-song voice.

It was a month or two later when I realized there was something wrong with my cock. I just couldn’t get it up anymore. I was so bummed! This isn’t supposed to happen to someone my age. Kyra was quick to reassure me.

“Baby, it’s nothing to worry about. You are going through some serious chemical and hormonal changes to make you feel more like the woman you have always dreamed of being. This is just an inevitable side effect of those changes. I won’t love you any less. In fact, I will love you MORE - because you are willing to put yourself through all this for US. It’s not like we won’t continue to have great ORAL sex, you know? After we’ve had our fun with this and decide to change you back, your full function will return, as good as it ever was. In the meantime, we’ll cope. Don’t dwell on it. Just enjoy the changes in you as they happen. I sure am.”

Did I say I wasn’t getting erections? Silly me! Oh, I was getting erect all right. My nipples were standing out firm and proud! My breasts were developing, too; AA-cup, A-Cup, B-Cup. My hips and tush were filling out just as prominently. Part of me was thrilled. There was still just enough masculinity within me to cause me to question if perhaps we were wrong to take this fantasy as far as we were. Kyra smiled and giggled.

“Wrong? Baby, from where I’m standing, everything is going wonderfully RIGHT! In fact, I think it’s time we ACCELERATE your hormone therapy. When I first agreed to do this with you, I wasn’t sure whether or not it would be as good with you as it was with the T-girls back in the ‘hood. You know what? It’s BETTER! I’ve REALLY gotten into it. Don’t stop now, Baby; not when you are just beginning to look REALLY GOOD. Let’s just go with it for a little while longer. You’re having fun, aren’t you? I’m having a ball with this! If not for yourself, do it for me - please?”

Well, when she put it that way.... I could tell she was pleased with my decision. She already had my first booster shot of ‘mones ready and waiting. I put my hands on my hips and glared at her in mock disgust. Kyra smiled impishly. She didn’t make me wait for it another second.

“Thank you, Baby. I can’t tell you how much this means to me - buuuuut... I can show you. I think this is the perfect time to take your fantasy to the next level. There is a whole new world of sexual experience and response just waiting for you to explore....”

She introduced me to her strap-on.

“It’s time for you to experience sex the way girls like you do. Relax. Let go of your hang-ups. Enjoy the sensations. Let me help you get in touch with your ‘inner slut’.”

She taught me the right way to pay oral homage to a cock, showing me all the little tricks she had learned to make a man gush buckets of cum. She also introduced me to the pleasures of being thoroughly, gloriously, exquisitely FUCKED. The first few days, I was SO SORE! While she had fucked my ass, she had stroked and massaged my limp, but sensitive cock (‘clit’, as she called it now). I came big time, more so than I had ever experienced as a ‘Michael’. She just smiled contentedly, knowingly. When we weren’t having sex, she made me wear a butt plug 24/7 to make sure my ‘pussy’ was properly stretched out - and that I became accustomed to having cock in me all the time. “After all, Sugar,” she chided, “that’s what sluts like you are for.” I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised the dildos she fucked me with got successively larger, as did the butt plugs.

I don’t know why I continued to put up with shaving. I hated the daily ritual, not to mention the constant nicks and cuts. She thought it was pointless, too - and set up a series of appointments to have my beard removed by laser. OK, it wasn’t a really HEAVY beard to begin with, but I was delighted it was gone forever, nonetheless. While she was at it, she had the clinic depilate the rest of my body - including the baby-fine, thinning hair on my head. I might not have gone THAT far of my own choosing, but Kyra reminded me of my pledge to put myself completely in her hands. She had a ready answer to calm my misgivings.

“Don’t even TRY to tell me you’re going to miss that yucky body hair, Baby. I know you too well. I can tell you for a fact, I won’t miss it at all. I like you soft, smooth...FEMININE. As far as the head goes, it’s not like you had a full head of thick, attractive hair to begin with. This will actually give us MORE options, not less.”

We ordered custom-made wigs with adhesive tabs that hugged my baby-smooth scalp securely. Blonde was the natural choice for my fair complexion and Baby Blue eyes. I soon became accustomed to managing my fuller, longer, thicker, more luxuriant hair. My lover spent hours teaching me how to wash, set, curl, tease, fluff, and shape my new tresses, then fix the ‘do in place with lots of sweet-smelling, sticky hairspray. “You have an advantage most of us girls don’t, Sweetie,” Kyra observed. “You can take your hair OFF and really see it from all sides. You can work with both hands, too, instead of holding a mirror in one and brush in the other.” My new hairstyle was not trendy in the sleek, straight, contemporary fashion that was currently en vogue. Kyra had dictated a slut like me looks best with a big, blowsy mane of teased and lacquered curls. She purred how much she adored that style on me, that it made me look deliciously CHEAP.

Kyra made an appointment for us to consult with Dr. Bruce Jensen, the plastic surgeon who had worked his magic on her. He revealed from the outset my girlfriend had confided in him about my desires. I was embarrassed she had ‘outed’ me to a complete stranger. She smiled breezily and squeezed my hand.

“Don’t be silly, Sweetie. First, he is NOT a stranger. We have known him for months. You like what he did for ME, don’t you? Besides, he has to know what we want in order to give you the best results - and only the best will do for MY baby. Dr. Jensen is the consummate professional. He is here to HELP you, not pass judgment. Please, hear him out.”

Dr. Jensen went on to say he was fascinated with my case. Although he had made many women beautiful beyond compare, he had not yet had the opportunity to work with a ‘girl’ like me. He relished the personal and professional challenge of such an “extreme makeover”. Like Kyra, he could already see intriguing ‘possibilities’ in my attractive features. The handsome surgeon hoped I would trust him enough to put myself in his hands and promised I would not be disappointed. I acquiesced.

“Ain’t no thang, Sugar. Do what ya gotta do. I’m down wit’ it.”

Kyra beamed radiantly.

Surgery is surgery, in spite of what you see on television. If you don’t believe it, go in for even a minor cosmetic procedure - and sift through the mountain of authorizations, disclaimers, releases and waivers you have to read, interpret and sign. I dutifully went over each one with Kyra and Dr. Jensen’s office manager. It seemed like they would never end! Kyra had mentioned she had found a business school she was interested in attending. If SHE wanted to spend the rest of her professional life doing THIS, more power to her!

Dr. Jensen and my lover coaxed me into having a brow lift and nose bob, plus implants to make my lips and cheekbones stunningly prominent. The fat pads in my cheeks were suctioned out, giving me that hollowed-out ‘Supermodel’ look and making the cheekbones even more striking. Shaved brow bones and a ‘tuck’ at each temple reshaped my eyes, opening them more and pulling them up and out at the corners for an exotic, doe-like appearance. After the incisions had healed, photo-facial treatments with bursts of high-intensity light rendered my hairless complexion soft, smooth, and flawless. Dr. Jensen referred me to an associate who practiced cosmetic dentistry. My already-straight teeth were bleached and capped, rendering my smile as dazzling as a thousand stars. In the end, my face was an exotic mix of the best features of both White and Black women. I was stunning - in a supernaturally, almost obscenely full-lipped, prominent-cheekboned, doe-eyed way. Extreme? Fo’ sho’. NO ONE from the world I grew up in ever dreams of looking like this - only SLUTS LIKE ME. Girrrl, when the time came, how would Dr. Jensen EVER put it back the way it was? I wasn’t even thinking about that right now. I was thrilled with my new face. So was my honey.

Kyra began teaching me to apply makeup. At first, it was just a little eye shadow, some mascara, a little lipstick. The little, light touches became more and more pronounced, provocative. My lover taught me how to achieve the right combinations of light and shadow, to make a feature boldly prominent or subtly recessive. More and more, she removed “subtlety” from the equation. My newly-altered features took well to the heavily made-up look Kyra desired me to affect on a daily basis. With my Big Hair, my appearance was not even close to the understated, minimalist style that was en vogue. It was DEFINITELY the right look to set me apart, mark me as “different” from polite society - and enflame a man’s lust. I knew. When I looked into the mirror, I was turning ME on! Kyra agreed.

“A girl has to know how to make herself attractive for her lover, Baby. Now, I want you to practice this every day, until it becomes second nature for you. I want you to be able to close your eyes and see yourself exactly like this. If you want to FEEL like a slut, you first have to know you LOOK like a slut.”

Of course, such a “look” required the appropriate compliment. My lover had delivered on her promise for my diet and figure training. My slender, long-stemmed body looked as good in Kyra’s tight-fitting dresses or miniskirts and tops as hers did. She insisted her clothes were too tame for me. I needed my own wardrobe; something flashier, more daring, tailored for my own unique style. We shopped several days straight, going only to the little specialty shops which she said catered to girls with our tastes. We found just the right foundations, lingerie, hosiery, clothing and shoes for the ‘new me’. My ‘couturier’ gleefully bagged every stitch of my male clothes and had Goodwill cart them away. She avowed that was just one more vestige of ‘Michael’ I needed to be rid of to submerge myself into the role of ‘Gigi’. Later - after we had had our fun and decided to return me to my masculine self - ‘Michael’ could shop for a whole new wardrobe. In the meantime, we filled the empty space in my closet and dresser with my provocative new finery.

Kyra had me wear stockings and high-heels (I mean, really high stiletto heels) to properly accessorize my vampish appearance. The stockings were a natural. I was already corseted 24/7, so attaching them to the garters of whatever corset I was wearing (I had about a dozen by then) just seemed the right thing to do. Soon, I became accustomed to wearing stockings, heels and slutwear every day, just as I was always painted and coiffed. I became very adept in strutting in short, sure-footed, gliding steps, one foot in front of the other, rolling my hips suggestively. Kyra cooed appreciatively.

“Lookin’ GOOD, Sweet Thang. You already do that so well. Nothing turns a man on like a pair of long, shapely legs like yours wrapped in stockings and perched on a pair of sexy high heels. You like the look on ME, don’t you? Don’t I deserve the same consideration? I like a sexy-looking babe, too - and you are EXACTLY that.”

“Do I REALLY look good, or are you just saying that to humor me? I mean...”

I extended my arms a bit and pivotted expertly on my heels.

“Would I make a good ghetto ho’?”

Kyra embraced me and kissed me warmly on the lips.

“Baaaa-by, you is SO FINE! A little Retro-80’s perhaps, but the boys will all go crazy over it. You would DEFINITELY fit in. Who knows? You might just be the Next Big Thing in the ‘hood.”

The only shortcoming to my daring new footgear was my aching feet, which became a constant, almost crippling annoyance as I strutted gracefully in my stiletto stilts.

Although Kyra dressed appropriately sexy too, the emphasis was on “appropriate”. She had earned her GED and begun her course of study through the University’s Adult Education program. She was starting slow, taking but a single night class twice a week, as she had with the GED classes. Because this was a professional program, she was required to maintain a style of personal grooming that would be conducive to the business environment. Her wardrobe, makeup and coiffure kept more to the current fashion trends. One evening, I asked her if she would like to ‘dress’ with me, knowing she knew what I meant. She giggled a little, but demurred graciously.

“ Baby, the look is fine for you. Really it is. I get wet just THINKING about you. You are already one hot little hussy and you will only get more so with time. I promise. But I have already DONE all that. It was right for me at the time, but now I’m ready to move on with my life. You made that possible and I will never be able to thank you enough to express the depth of my gratitude. That doesn’t mean I can’t still have fun with YOU. You are the ho’ in the family now, and I’m gonna make you the sexiest, sluttiest damn ho’ in the city!”

Kyra decided my look was not lurid enough; it needed a little more “drama”. I just never got the hang of applying false eyelashes. I may have possessed long, slender fingers, but I was all thumbs when it came to that fashion ‘necessity’. She clucked impatiently at my feeble attempts. Finally, she set up an appointment at her salon, observing it was time to take a more PROACTIVE approach. On the afternoon of my appointment, I was pacing back and forth across our marble foyer in a tight black kidskin miniskirt, black and white python-print tank top and python ankle-strap pumps with five-inch spikes. I thought nothing of dressing like a five-dollar whore at home, but I was scared shitless to go out in public for the first time, looking the way I did. I knew I looked pretty good, BUT.... As if my nervousness wasn’t bad enough, my feet were already killing me! Kyra pooh-poohed my petty inhibitions.

“Don’t be silly, Baby. You want to come out of the CLOSET, don’t you?

It’s time for you to get out there in this brave, new world of yours. Sluts like you are MEANT to be seen, to flaunt their assets for others’ appreciation. You live for the attention, the thrill, and you know it. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I GUARANTEE no one who sees you will think you are a man. As for the pain in your feet, it’s just one of the things we girls put up with to be beautiful. Still, we do know a few SHORTCUTS....”

She extended her hand to me, palm up. It contained a single pill.

“Take this, Sweetie. You will forget all about the pain in your feet - not to mention your nervousness.”

It was small and went down easily. A short time later, I felt a kind of glowing numbness. The pain in my feet faded away. I felt light as a feather - and beautiful, sassy, sexy, and invincible! I was ready to strut all the way from our house to the salon, undulating my hips like a slut should. Kyra popped a Li’l Kim disk into the stereo as we pulled out of the gate. Funny, it wasn’t as bad as I used to think it was. As we drove, I found myself really getting into the groove. Kyra couldn’t help but notice me waving my hands and moving my body in time to the infectious rhythm. In no time, we were chanting the lyrics in unison.

Kyra passed up several available parking places on the bustling street outside the salon, opting to drop me off at a corner two blocks down. “You go on ahead, Baby,” she cooed. “They are already waiting for you. I have to run a couple of errands. I’ll pick you up later.” I sashayed up the street proudly, shaking my bootylicious butt to and fro, still gettin’ down with that enchanting Li’l Kim rap. Baby, did I get the LOOKS. Kyra would have been so proud of me! As it turned out, she was. She told me later she had watched my little show from the car.

Kyra had confided in the girls at the salon, just as she had with Bruce Jensen. Gayle, the owner, and all her operators seemed to be entranced with the prospect of helping my girlfriend bring out the ‘slut’ in me. This time, high as I was on the pain medication, it didn’t faze me a bit. I surrendered myself to their attentions and relished every moment. Semi-permanent lash implants were applied to both my upper and lower lash lines. They were long, thick, curly and really black. The look was very ‘Las Vegas showgirl’ - or ‘Hollywood Whore’. Dita, the esthetician, read my mind.

“You really like the ‘Slut Look’, don’t you Sweetie? I knew you would. When Kyra told me what you wanted, I knew this look would be PERFECT for you. The effect really flatters you, too. It just looks sooo over-the-top. While we’re at it, lets try a couple of other little touches....”

My brow lift had already raised my eyebrows far above what could ever pass as masculine - and higher than all but the most extreme of women’s style statements. But they were still unruly, with no shape to them. Dita removed them completely with her electrolysis gear, then tattooed in perfectly shaped, pencil-thin, angled arches. While she was at it, she tattooed deep black liner along my upper and lower eyelids, a thick, dark red outline around my mouth, then filled in my plush lips with Softsilver Rose lipstick. As a final touch, she tattooed a ‘beauty mark’ just beyond the corner of my mouth. The permanent makeup would allow me to look fabulous with greatly reduced effort, while being flexible enough to enhance with more dramatic makeup for any outfit or effect. Then she multiple-pierced each of my ears. Consuela and Rachel, the two nail techs, applied acrylic sculptured fingernails and toenails. That’s right; sculptured toenails - with toe rings (“It’s all the rage right now, Gigi. Doesn’t it just make your feet look darling?”). What could I say? I DID like the look. It just didn’t deserve to be hidden away inside shoes....

Kyra took me shoe shopping when she picked me up. We went to three different specialty shops on the boulevard that catered to exotic dancers and others who desired more extreme, provocative shoe styles. We purchased over two-dozen pairs of open-toed pumps and sandals. We also found a dozen or so pairs of boots - ankle, knee-high, and ultra-sinful thigh-high - I just had to have. Of course, they all had ultra-high, stiletto heels; six inches, seven inches, and one pair of fetish sandals with nine-inch spikes. Some had platform soles; many did not. My slender, shapely five-foot-six-inch frame was perched high and proud on my stiletto stilts wherever I went. They made my legs look sensational. After all the time I had spent in them, the sky-high heels altered the way I carried myself - even thought about myself. Pain? Not anymore, Honey! I just popped a pill. I was good to go - anywhere, anytime, without a twitch.

I saw myself in the mirror, day after day, dressed and made up like a tramp. The subliminal disks and my girlfriend’s loving, but determined tutelage had done their work. My brain struggled less and less between the two distinctly different modes of communication - and thought. More and more, I talked as cheap as I looked, just as Kyra had promised. I knew I was different than before; one look in the mirror proved that. I was beginning to see the world around me differently, too. For the first time, I realized how phony and superficial the people were. I felt liberated, free to be the real me for the first time.

Kyra took me out often, whether to go shopping, to dinner, even to a movie. She developed a little game we both enjoyed playing in very public places. We would each dress our provocative best - she tastefully sexy, me in my sleazy ‘hooker chic’. Kyra always drove our SL500 (“No one would believe a slut like you could EVER own a car like this”). She would drop me off some distance away, then drive on to our rendezvous, valet the car and wait for me. I would sashay up the street, alone, under the collective gaze of everyone. Kyra strategically positioned herself to watch the show. She offered me incentives to do my best to convince my audience I was ‘working it’ on the boulevard. If men solicited me under her appreciative gaze, I got perks - lots and lots of perks - when we got home.

We had the script down cold. We ran into each other ‘by chance’. We were old friends from high school who had gone our separate - and very different - ways. Kyra reminisced aloud - for the benefit of those around us - about our school days, when we were together on the Pom-Pom squad. She talked about her business career downtown. Then, she would allude to the start of my ‘troubles’; my bad taste in boys, growing reputation as a ‘loose woman’, and, finally, the scandal involving drugs and the gym teacher. That episode had gotten HIM fired and ME expelled. I would go on to reveal my new life and ‘profession’ in a smug, self-satisfied tone meant to be overheard. I went on about how much I enjoyed doin’ the ho’ stroll, out on the street where everyone could see me, want me, have me - for the right price.

At first, Kyra would feign utter shock and astonishment (“No! Not you. You can’t be serious!”) Her uncomprehending reply was peppered with words like “hooker”, “whore”, and “slut”. She would try to keep her voice down, but her ‘emotion’ would get the better of her, causing her to speak up just loudly enough for the people around us to take it all in. At last, she would feign understanding - and reluctant acceptance. She listened intently, nodding sympathetically in all the right places, yet showing just a trace of sadness in her eyes for her former best friend - the good girl gone bad. Kyra was such a good actress, and I was playing my role from the heart. We would go home after an evening of ‘shock theater’ and have a good laugh at the expense of the people we had scammed. Then, we would fuck like bunnies.

Kyra had been eerily accurate in her assessment of Society and perception. She, dressed as the young, beautiful, oh-so-chic, upwardly-mobile socialite, was warmly accepted wherever we went; I was not - or only grudgingly so when I was with her. I was different now, not one of them. I saw the looks of scorn in the eyes of ‘proper folk’ as they recoiled from me. I also saw the covert glances of lust from a number of men who would not want others to know their innermost desires. The shady little pricks! What did I ever think I had in common with them? There they were in their fine, expensive suits, drinking their fine, expensive wine, eating their fine, expensive sushi, then driving back to their fine, expensive homes. They dissed me, talked trash about me to all their uptight friends - and all the while wanted to do me when none of their oh-so-proper friends were watching. Bring it on, Sugar! Just make sure you bring your fine, expensive WALLET, too.

I gradually retreated from my sense of belonging to the uptight, oh-so-correct culture that had sheltered and nurtured me all my life. At the same time, that culture was shunning ME in contempt. The more they glared at me in silent disgust and ridicule, the more contemptuous and defiant of them I became. Here I am, you sanc..., sancti..., little shits; right under your blue noses. And here I stay. You can hate me. You can disrespect me. But I won’t let you deny me! I became more and more comfortable in the persona of that cheap, trashy little slut I portrayed.

We continued with our strap-on play, doing it at any time of day, anywhere she felt the urge, and in more positions than I knew existed. Kyra didn’t make love to me; she FUCKED me, taking me, using me like the cheap little fucktoy she was transforming me into. She adored talking trash while she fucked me. She called me a slut, a tramp, a whore, a cheap little cum-catcher who lived to suck and fuck, the kind that belonged on a street corner hustling dates. She chided I had better get comfortable with that idea, because by the time she was done with me, that would be all I was good for - and all I cared about.

I adored that kind of talk. It was my perfect fantasy, like she had tapped into my very soul and was playing it back for me verbally. Her repeated, insistent ‘mind fuck’, in addition to my altered perception of my appearance and persona, gradually altered the way I responded to sexual stimuli. She was fucking me more and more, but stroking my ‘clitty’ less and less. That did not seem to matter. In time, she brought me to the most gut-wrenching orgasms without touching my hormonally-shrunken clitty-cock at all.

The more I experienced, the more I wanted. We checked out the girls we saw on the streets and in the adult videos we watched together. We both adored the tattoos and piercings many of them displayed so proudly. My lover had a beautiful piercing in her navel and a sunburst tattooed on her left ankle. I had always told her how attractive I thought they were. Now, she turned the tables.

“You know, Baby, since you are becoming this sweet, sexy young thing, it’s time for you to be ‘marked’, too. After all, you don’t want people to mistake you for Little Miss Pure-As-The-Driven-Snow, do you?”

I didn’t see how there was any danger of THAT, but the idea was appealing, nonetheless.

We made a series of trips to a tattoo parlor - with me dressed like I was workin’ it. I didn’t even give a thought to appearing that way in broad daylight. I just popped a pill, surrendered myself to that warm, wonderful glow, and set off atop my spike-heeled pedestals. Kyra always knew just the right words to say to put me in the proper mindset.

“Oh, yeah, work it, Baby! Work it GOOD. Isn’t this what it’s all about, Baby? You need to be SEEN, out in public where everyone can lust for you the way I do. You are the sexy, uninhibited slut you have always wanted to be. That’s what people see. That’s how people perceive you. Now, walk sexy for me. I just love to watch you strut your stuff in those high heels.”

When my “artwork” was complete, I had a scorpion on my left ankle, a ‘pole kitty’ in thigh-high boots on my right ankle, a barbed-wire band around my left bicep, an ornate scrollwork design across the ‘saddle’ of my hips, a large, blossoming red rose on my left breast, and the words “Fuck Toy” in flowing script across my right butt cheek. My nipples were pierced with gold rings. My navel had a matching ring. My tongue sported twin barbells. A delicate gold ring pierced my left nostril. The tattoo artist came on to me something fierce. Kyra encouraged me to flirt with him throughout our visits. At the end of our final visit, Kyra instructed me to ‘tip’ him for all his efforts while she ran an errand. She picked me up forty-five minutes later. I settled into the plush leather seat as she pulled out, a look of smug satisfaction on my face, a load of cum in my tummy, and another oozing out of my love nest.

My lover adored my new look - and taking me out to show off her ‘creation’. She changed the rules of our little ‘game’, too. She began taking me to dance clubs - and introducing me around. A lot of the clubs in the city’s nightlife district catered to a mixed-culture, hip-hop/rap/extended dance mix theme. The atmosphere was mostly singles; Whites, Latinos, Asians, and Blacks. It was my first introduction to the difference between ‘African-American’ and ‘Black’. She had been right; there was nothing ‘politically-correct’ about many of the Black men we met and danced with. Kyra made certain they knew I liked to ‘party’ and insisted I act the part. If a man came on to me, offered me a drink or dance, or copped a feel of my body, I was not to refuse. Once I discovered how pleasurable it all was, I lost my inhibitions. On more than one occasion, I returned from the dance floor or Ladies’ room to discover she had left without me - with some other man. Was I mad? Jealous? ‘Michael’ probably would have been. ‘Gigi’ was too busy with her own pleasures. I just got a ride from one or another of my admirers. If I liked him, HE got a ride, too - if you know what I mean.

Soon, Kyra decreed it was sinful for a slut like me to be home, alone, just because SHE had to go to school. She gave me a ride to one or another club on her way to class. As always, she dropped me off down the street, leaving me to sashay up to the club alone (“It’s for your own good, Sweetie. Sluts like you don’t get dropped off at the door by their mommies”). She made it clear I was a “big girl” now. I was under explicit instructions to stay out late, be ‘nice’ to all the boys who came on to me - and find my own way home. In addition, she frequently called me on my cell phone to inquire about what I was doing at the moment - and to present me with my nightly ‘challenge’. The challenges ranged from giving some lucky guy a blow job in a public place, to not returning home until at least noon the next day - requiring me to arrange ‘alternate accommodations’ until then. Of course, when I DID return home, I would have to tell her everything. She was really cool about my lovers, noting “That is what sluts like you do.” Kyra was the one attending classes, but I was getting quite an ‘education’ myself; learning how to manipulate the men who came on to me, getting them to do what I wanted. In return, I had to give them what THEY wanted - not that it was any great sacrifice on my part. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Well, maybe a little....

Kyra had told me in the beginning to put myself completely in her hands, that she would do whatever she thought necessary to make the experience “more realistic, more pleasurable”. It certainly had been that so far. The surgical procedures, artwork, piercings, hair and cosmetic artistry had made me beautiful - in a distinctly sleazy way. Months of being “pickled” by intensive hormone therapy had filled me out to a D-cup bustline, with hips and tush to match. My whole body was soft, smooth, and supple to the touch. My male appendage had shrunken to a tiny little nub. My balls... well, I could barely find them anymore. I had mixed emotions about that. I didn’t really miss them, and my diminished genitalia certainly made my new identity more convincing to everyone - including myself. My well-trained shemale pussy tingled in anticipation of being filled by a big, fat cock. When we finally decided the thrill of it was gone, it would take a long time for ‘Michael’ to return. I wasn’t ready to think about that just yet. I was having the time of my life.

One evening, we were snuggled up together on the sofa, indulging in one of our favorite mutual delights; admiring photos of our favorite busty female porn stars. In addition to purchasing adult magazines and videos, we kept several scrapbooks filled with color printouts of JPEGs we had downloaded from the Internet. We were browsing one of those notebooks at that moment, checking out a new batch of JPEGs Kyra had just printed. In spite of my prominent curves, I looked positively FLAT compared to some of our favorite foxes. Secretly, I was... envious.

“You know, Baby, you would really look good if you were...BUSTIER.”

Oh, God, did that thought make me wet! I looked at the print of the current object of our mutual affection, held pristinely within its protective plastic sleeve. ‘Endowed’ didn’t begin to describe her amazing pulchritude. That is was so obviously, blatantly, gloriously FAKE made it all the more alluring to Kyra and me. I looked back at my kinky lover.

“You thin’ so? Gee, I dunno. I mean, yeah, I loves th’ look, but...

I mean, should we?”

She jabbed me playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

“Don’t even go there with that ‘should we’ crap. You KNOW you would love it. I’ve been really good about making your fantasy come true, giving you what you have always wanted. This is something I want. You know I adore girls like these. I want the real thing, right here next to me - to ogle, fondle, drool over. Remember, you put yourself COMPLETELY in my hands. I have decided; you NEED a bust like this to really understand what it is to be a slut. I told you I was going to make you the BIGGEST damn ho’ in the city, didn’t I? My cunt is dripping already!”

Mine too. I had a vague uneasiness I had to put to words.

“Wud we stil’ b’ able t’ go out together? I mean, even if I’s only has double-D’s, I’s still gonna be a real sight. Wud’n’ you feel uncomf’table bein’ seen wit me? Wud’n’ people stare?”

She started laughing - and kept laughing until big, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She finally composed herself sufficiently to utter a coherent reply.

“ONLY double-D’s, huh? I like the way you think. Actually, I had something a little BIGGER in mind. As for people staring, that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? Think about how people stare at you NOW. I know you are living for it. You WANT to be admired, lusted for. That is what being a slut is all about. Don’t you DARE worry about me being ‘uncomfortable’ about being seen with you. Weren’t you listening to me a moment ago? I LOVE big titties. I only wish I could get them for myself, but that just wouldn’t be compatible with a career in Business. The thought of making YOU the big-boobed bimbo of my dreams is making me CREAM. So, I’ll call Bruce - Dr. Jensen - in the morning. Just think of it as ‘one small step for Man’ - and one giant leap for me!”

Here we go again with the damn consent forms! There seemed to be TWICE as many this time. I really, REALLY hated this part. This time, I just signed the damn things as quickly as Kyra and Diane, the office manager, handed them to me. There - DONE! Then, there was the procedure itself. Dr. Jensen told me what to expect. The incisions would be barely noticeable after they healed (the bags would be empty when inserted, then filled once they were in place), but he would have to hollow out some pretty big pockets under my chest muscle to accommodate implants that size (WHAT size, dammit? I still didn’t know). Due to the extreme nature of my implant surgery, Dr. Jensen preferred I receive a general anesthetic. I knew him well enough by that time to trust his judgment. What the Hell; I had already signed THAT consent form. He really was an attractive man. Maybe....

I awoke in the recovery room, expecting what the doctor had foretold. I knew there would be a stout, long-line surgical bra fastened around my chest. I knew Kyra had chosen something big, but THIS.... My new boobies tented the sheet like twin pyramids, blocking my view of the lower half of my body. I hadn’t counted on the soreness in my waist and tush. Although I could not see it, my waist felt like it was tightly corseted. My hips and ass burned. Even my throat was sore. For all the discomfort I was feeling from neck to toes, I swore there was a dildo in my love nest, filling me beyond full! I couldn’t move. I could FEEL, but my arms, legs, and torso would not so much as twitch. That was scary. Had something gone wrong? Kyra was leaning over me, holding my hand. She smiled and was quick with her response.

“Hi, Baby. Don’t try to talk. I had Bruce do a little work on your vocal chords to make you sound more feminine. He says you may have to work with a vocal coach to get full function back. In the meantime, you should rest your voice and let it heal. As far as the rest of you... everything went PERFECTLY. With your new bigger boobies, we thought you needed a little ‘enhancement’ in other places to heighten the effect. You got implants in your tush, too; the biggest available. I had him remove a pair of ribs and suction out the remaining fat around your waist. He injected your hips with a new inert dermaplast material that filled them out a lot. You are going to have a killer ‘hourglass figure’ and a big, beautiful bubble butt, Baby! The orthopedic team worked on your feet and ankles, too. When the casts come off, high heels won’t bother you ever again. We thought you would like that. In fact, I think you will love ALL the results. I know I will!

There are a couple of post-op complications I have to discuss with you. No, you are not paralyzed. You have had so many procedures done at once, they have to keep you on a powerful muscle relaxer for a while to make certain you don’t move the wrong way and accidentally rip something open internally. That’s why you can’t move. It’s for your own good, Sweetie. Of course, that hasn’t robbed you of sensation, has it? That brings me to the best part. You have already felt the fullness in your love nest, haven’t you? Well, it turns out they have to keep you that way after the surgery on your tush. They don’t want to risk scar tissue forming around your rectum and strangling it off. Normally, they would just use a surgical stent. I pulled a few strings with Dr. Jensen and got him to use something a whole lot better. Wait ‘til you feel THIS.”

Kyra pressed a button on a small remote-control device. The fullness in my love nest began vibrating. Then, it started to move! It plunged deeply into me, then withdrew, in and out, in and out, again, and again, and again! I would have gasped - if I had been able to. My lover smiled bemusedly as she beheld the glazed-over look in my eyes.

“I thought you might like that. We will just keep that our little secret for now. You will have to stay in the hospital a few days, so they can be certain everything is healing the way it should. Then you will spend the rest of your recovery time in bed at home. But that won’t be so bad, will it? Just think; you will be lying there, all day and all night, getting fucked and feeling every delicious thrust. Now, just lie back and relax. The nurse is going to give you a shot that will make you feel REAL GOOD.”

They kept me on a nice, dreamy Demerol high, oblivious to everything, for my entire stay in the hospital. I was vaguely aware of Kyra being with me the day of my surgery until visiting hours ended. She returned the next morning, arriving around the same time Dr. Jensen checked in on his morning rounds. She brought the CD player and my subliminal learning disks with her. Dr. Jensen had given her permission to use the technique as a further aid to help me pass the time and take my mind off any discomfort I might feel. She slipped the headphones over my head, turned on the player, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then, unseen by any of the nursing staff, she activated the phallus inside me. I sensed, rather than heard, the soft drone of a Hip-Hop beat and Kyra’s voice in my head. It was like she was there 24/7, whispering in my ear, comforting me. Her voice spoke to me in that warm, lazy, comfortable dialect that seemed so natural to me now. I responded in my head in that same comforting patter. All the while, that huge, wonderful rubber cock plunged deeply into me over and over....

While I was recuperating at home, my lover made sure I was as comfortable as possible. Dr. Jensen was generous with his prescription for Demerol tablets. Kyra kept me high on the powerful pain-killer to keep the pain under control and make the time pass quickly. She was really apologetic that she had to leave me alone in the evening, but she HAD to go to school. With notepad and paper, I assented graciously, admonishing her to go to class and not worry about me. She made sure I was really well-medicated before she left. She professed I would not even be aware of her absence. Sure enough, in my drug-fueled stupor, I couldn’t tell when she left - nor when she returned. I was barely aware of her slipping the headphones over my head, activating the dildo, and softly kissing me before she slipped out the bedroom door. There were times I would wake up early in the morning, thinking I heard the sound of her just coming in the front door, as though she had been gone all night. Then, she would be right there at my side, rested, cheerful and glowing all over. I dismissed my misgivings as drug-induced hallucinations.

There were times, in-between doses of drugs, when I was really trippin’ that she had had all those additional procedures done without so much as asking me about it. If I had been able to speak, I probably would have ‘read’ her up one side and down the other. Yes, she had assured me we could reverse it all when we decided it was time for ‘Michael’ to return, but all this? I mean, sure, I was thrilled with ‘all this’, but.... I stewed with it until the casts and bandages came off. The post-surgical bruising and swelling had largely faded, and I was able to see myself - the new me - for the first time. My new titties were HUGE! My full, rounded hips and firm prominent tush were just as gorgeous. I now had the proverbial ‘hand-span waist’. My feet had been narrowed and shaped into high, curved arches, perfectly suited to wear my highest heels. I felt comfortable all day gliding around in my stiletto stilts. It never occurred to me to wear anything else anymore. That was probably just as well; I was no longer physically able to wear flats or walk barefoot.

I still hurt - a powerful, all-over ache, with tremors and sweats I couldn’t pin down to any particular place or cause. All of that made me really bitchy. Kyra said that was an unfortunate consequence of the kind of radical surgery I had undergone and would last for quite a while. The doctor had offered to extend my prescription for meds and she suggested I take him up on it until I had fully recovered and the pain stopped. I did. The symptoms went away almost immediately! With Kyra’s understanding and encouragement, I maintained a nice, comfortable high most of the time. I had to medicate myself two or three times a day, but it certainly kept the aches and pains away - and then some!

I was amazed at how... plastic-looking I had become. I was easily equal to, if not better than, even the bustiest, most provocative of our porn idols. My body measured 42-24-38 without corseting. My bustline was a full eight inches larger than my ribcage. Even with minimal additional makeup, my tightened, refined face was that of “Slut Barbie”. Taken as a whole, I had become a walking wet dream, the kind of ultimate bimbo my girlfriend and I - and more men than would ever admit - lusted for. Kyra teasingly pointed out my name - Gigi - was now “truth in advertising”, in light of my prodigious pulchritude. She observed out loud it would now be obvious to everyone I had been altered, MADE to look like that, - and for only one possible purpose. “I hope you like the ‘new you’ as much as I do, Sugar,” she cooed. “You won’t EVER be able to hide what you have become. You have become that slut you have always dreamed about.” I warmed to that thought as never before. Staring at - lusting for - myself in the mirror, I couldn’t even visualize the man I had once been, or that I had been a man at all. It didn’t even faze me that my shrunken little balls, so difficult to find before my surgery, seemed to have disappeared altogether....

My voice was a real trial. I DID have to work with a speech therapist. In fact, I had to learn to speak all over again. Kyra found a specialist - a Black woman with impressive credentials for working with film actresses to perfect dialects for their movie roles. Keisha may have had a Masters Degree in Speech Pathology, but she came from the streets and wasn’t ashamed of it. She RELISHED the assignment Kyra had given her and threw herself into it with all her passion. It took weeks and she worked me HARD. To my delight, she coached me to speak only that slow, lazy dialect we both knew so well. In fact, that was all we spoke in our sessions together. When she had finished with me, my voice was nothing like it had been; higher by a full octave, hushed, breathy (YOU try resonating when a corset is crushing your abdomen!), giggly, almost child-like. When I heard my practice tapes, I thought for all the world I was listening to Marilyn Monroe talkin’ trash, like a good little ho’. My lover was thrilled.

“That is so you, Gigi! It is the perfect compliment to your new look. You are such a bimbo now. I just LOVE the ‘new you’! Don’t you just adore it, too?”

I had to admit; I did. If I had been able to get hard, I would have. Of course, I WAS hard; my nipples were constantly erect now, fully a half-inch long. Kyra took me shopping again - this time for an extensive, custom-made wardrobe of slutwear that screamed: “throw me up against the wall and fuck me RIGHT NOW!” The fashions I wore were designed to reveal, not conceal my big titties, erect nipples, lush, rounded tush. Long, shapely legs, piercings, and body art to maximum effect. I, in turn, was proud to flaunt my considerable charms. I caused near-riots wherever we went. Kyra made the most of her little ‘fucktoy’, too. Our sex life was better than ever.

Then, it stopped. Kyra had begun a new school term and was

taking a full course load. She was gone almost every evening. So was

I. She insisted I go out, make friends, have a good time, and get better known around town. I didn’t know how I could get better known at the clubs we frequented, but assented readily. The answer to my question came quickly. Kyra began dropping me off at DIFFERENT clubs than we had gone to before. These clubs were Uptown, instead of the trendy nightlife district we had frequented in the past. The mixed crowds were gone; the clientele at these clubs was mostly Black. There were a few white girls, but rarely any white MEN. Still, I loved the heavy Hip-Hop and Rap mixes. I was an immediate sensation with all the men, although there was some initial frostiness from the other bitches. When they realized my attitude and manner of speech were really ME, not just some suburban-MTV-wannabe pose like Carson Daley, I began to feel more welcome.

Baby, did I ever make a name for myself on that scene! Everyone knew me as Gigi, the big-boobed midnight angel of the bathroom stall, dark hallway, back seat, or alley out back. I danced real hard, up on a riser where everyone could - and did - see me. There was never a shortage of helping hands to get me down from my perch. Of course, those helping hands helped themselves to more than a casual feel of my spectacular body - not that I dissuaded them at all. Nor was there a shortage of horny guys who wanted to go someplace quiet and “party.” Ecstasy was easy to come by. I loved the feeling of ‘rolling’ ‘til Dawn, with men’s hands caressing my body, touching all the right places that the drug and mood rendered hyper-sensitive. There were so many men, I couldn’t remember all the faces, let alone the names. I was getting off a dozen times a night or more. I was getting THEM off in quarts. I wanted to make Kyra proud of her little fucktoy.

After more than a month of no sex with Kyra, I was getting nervous that she might be having second thoughts about the direction our relationship had been taking. A few more days passed and I decided to bring up the subject.

“Baby, iz sumpin’ wrong?” I asked.

“No, why? What’s up?” she replied.

“Well, iz jes tha’ we hasn’ ... you know ... for awhile,” I stammered out.

She got this coy look and feigned ignorance, “We haven’t what, Baby?”

“We hasn’ had sex fo’ weeks and I wuz worried y’all might be turned off or sumpin’ like that.”

I was nervous about what her response might be. She gave me a long passionate kiss gently massaging my clitty the way she used to do.

“Now, WHATEVER would make you think a thing like THAT? I ADORE the way you have turned out - and intend to prove it to you. You remember what this Friday is, don’t you?”

“Fo’ sho’. Iz our annivers’ry. We been t’gether one ho’ year. Iz my birfday, too. I’ll be a twen’-two-year-old bouncin’ bimbo babe.”

“You are so funny. No wonder I love you so much. Now, I’m gonna keep you away from the boys for the rest of the week. I want you really horny for Friday because I have a surprise for you.”

I was getting aroused as she groped my ass and ran her tongue up the side of my neck.

“Wha’s th’ s’prise?”

She whispered, “If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Just know it’s going to be the wildest, most exciting experience of your life. Now, no partying at the clubs, no sneaking out to visit one or another of your ‘boyfriends’ - and no masturbating. Promise?”

I nodded in agreement.

By the time Friday came, I was so horny I couldn’t stand it. Kyra dodged my questions all day, building the tension and relishing my ever-increasing anguish. Around 5:30 PM, she hustled me out to the car without the slightest warning.

“Let’s go, Sweetie. You have an appointment at the salon at Six.”

“What’s th’ rush? Th’ salon closes at Eight on Fridays!”

She grinned cattily.

“Not tonight. This is the first part of your birthday surprise. Gayle is closing the salon early. She and the girls will be giving you a private “evening of beauty” to get you ready for what I have planned next. I’m so excited, I could burst!”

“But I’s not dressed or nuthin’. I don’ even has my purse.”

She gave me the once-over, noting my long-sleeved, deeply-plunging, four-way stretch purple spandex micro-dress and matching calfskin pumps and smiled.

“Don’t worry about it, Sugar. Everything you need for tonight is already waiting for you at the salon. All you have to do is show up.”

I had managed to take a hit of X before she hustled me out to the car. I was rolling by the time she let me out.

“Have a good time, Sweetie. The girls already know what to do. I’ll see you later. I can’t wait!”

She kissed me warmly, then shooed me out of the car and pulled out into the evening traffic.

Gayle was hustling the last of her regular patrons out the door as I entered. She locked the door behind me, then lowered and closed the mini-blinds on the door and windows. Gayle, Dita, Rachel, and Consuela all sang “Happy Birthday” to me, offered a champagne toast to their “favorite slut”, then hustled me onto a stylist’s couch. I lay back in detached amusement as they went to work on me.

Consuela and Rachel re-did my fingernails and toenails, respectively. Dita spent almost three hours making up my face. She began by completely re-doing my eyelash implants. As she worked, I could tell my lashes were going to be even furrier than before. In the months since I began my lash treatments, I had been plagued by shedding lashes, requiring me to come back for fills one or two times a week - not that I minded being ‘high maintenance’. The attractive cosmetologist assured me, although I could continue to be as ‘high-maintenance’ as I desired, the shedding problem was now a thing of the past.

“I’m using a brand-new polymer bond, Gigi. These lashes are guaranteed to last for six months! They will look so good with the makeup job I am giving you tonight. Your eyeliner seems to have faded a bit. Let’s touch that up first.”

The “touch-up” with her tattooing equipment lasted over an hour. She followed that with a session with brushes, powders and paints that lasted nearly as long. I was not allowed to see it, nor the work the other girls were doing. They wanted me to wait until they were done, so I could see the entire effect at once. “It’s just like Extreme Makeover on television, Honey,” Dita cooed. “In fact, it doesn’t get any more EXTREME than this.”

Gayle applied some kind of gel to areas of my bare scalp. Then, a new wig was fitted in place. From what I could see at the corners of my eyes, it was a shimmering Platinum Blonde. I could tell by the heft it was long, but I couldn’t tell how long. It was permed, too; I could tell THAT by the way it swished and rustled when I moved my head. After a while, she gave it a firm tug; my head jerked, but the hair didn’t budge. Gayle beamed her approval.

“Wait until you see it. It’s gorgeous, just like you. I had it custom-made for you. I’ve attached it with the same bonding agent Dita uses. It won’t come off until I take it off. Do you see how completely natural the hairline looks? No, of course you can’t; not yet, anyway. But you will, soon enough. Baby, this is your own hair now, just as if it had been growing from your head all your life. Aren’t you thrilled?”

My hairdresser hovered over my glittering tresses for a long time with a brush and styling comb, lifting, fluffing, shaping. Then, she set the whole of it in place with lots of sweet-smelling spray.

By that time, the anticipation was killing me. My mouth was dry, too; Ecstasy always makes me thirsty. Dita stepped into the back room while Gayle was working the final touches on my hair. She reappeared with a wine glass in her hand, winked, and offered it to me.

“I’ll bet you’re really parched about now. This will help.”

I was so grateful! It was fruit juice, not champagne, but it was just right.

“Baby, you got no idea how much I needs this right now.”

Dita just smirked a little.

“Yes I do. I’ve been there.”

The four estheticians helped me up from the chair and stripped me

naked. They confided that part of my surprise was a new outfit Kyra had

selected especially for my birthday. My four attendants had been

awaiting this moment all week. They couldn’t wait to dress me for my

‘big night’. The first article of clothing was a black patent leather

corset. Dita slipped it around my torso, fastened the front busk and

buckled the five buckling straps. Next, she had me brace myself against

the wall and told me to suck in as she cinched me up tightly. She

stepped back and admired her handiwork

“Wow, this is your best shape yet. Kyra had it custom-made for you. She told me they promised it would give you a twenty-inch waist. They weren’t exaggerating. I love how it flares out your hips and ass, too.”

The corset had heavy steel boning and heavily-underwired shelf cups that lifted my big boobs high and put them on prominent display. The ornate, interwoven design of the cups created a kind of peek-a-boo effect with my nipples and areola, rather than concealing them entirely.

Next came sheer, jet-black stockings with back seams and French heels. I lowered myself gingerly to the edge of the chair, bunched up one stocking into a nylon doughnut, slipped my right toe into it, then slowly, carefully, rolled the stocking up my right leg. I had to be careful with my new, longer talons. They would take some getting used to, but the girls helped me that first time and instructed me how to handle myself with my new crimson claws. The process was repeated for my left leg. I stood, checked and adjusted the stockings so the seams were arrow-straight, then fastened the stocking tops to the corset’s garters. A tiny black patent buckling thong completed my lingerie. My tiny clit tucked snugly away without a trace of a bulge.

Gayle held a skirt open for me to step into. It was real patent leather, identical to the corset; heavy, and as black and shiny as polished obsidian. The back- well, there was no back. Instead, there were three pairs of black patent leather straps which began just below my tush and buckled horizontally, holding the skirt in place. The thong had been cleverly designed to appear part of the intricate series of buckling straps. The skirt was TIGHT. Even with the scanty expanse of material, it hobbled me to short, mincing steps. That caused me to sway my hips and tush even more. When laced, buckled and snapped in place, the corset and skirt looked like a single, continuous fetish garment. My breasts were mostly exposed. My tush was fully exposed. I might as well have been wearing nothing at all! As tight as it was, the heavy patent leather creaked seductively as I moved.

Raising each of my feet in turn, Rachel slipped a black patent sandal on the foot, then buckled the ankle strap. My sculptured toenails and golden toe rings were plainly visible through the reinforced toes of my stockings. The sandals had the thinnest, spikiest seven-inch stiletto heels I had ever seen, mated with two-inch platform soles. These were classic “fuck me” shoes, the kind I now lived for. I was breathless in anticipation that when Kyra saw me, she would immediately take me home, lay me back on the bed and ravish me.

The girls were not to be rushed. Jewelry came next. There were several pair of gold earrings for my multiple-pierce ears; small loops down the edge of my ears, ending in huge golden hoops in my ear lobes. There was a cascade of golden neck chains, a ton of bangle bracelets, rings on each of my fingers, and a single slender golden chain double-wrapped around my left ankle. As a finishing touch, Dita sprayed me liberally with Obsession.

Then, my four companions helped me to my feet and escorted me to the salon’s full-length, three-way mirror to see myself in all my newly-minted glory. I was stunned speechless. My hair was, indeed, Platinum Blonde; a thick, full, fluffy, blowsy layered mane of very-80’s big, loose curls, draping over my shoulder and down my back, almost to my waist. My fingernails were transformed into exquisite blood-red talons, two inches long from cuticle to tip, square-cut with gently-rounded corners, an equally-gentle downward curve, and lots of flashy gold nail art; slut nails. My toenails and gold toe rings perfectly complimented my new talons. My eyes glittered from deep within overdone dark shadow, furry lashes, and dramatically broad swaths of permanent eyeliner above and below that tapered into narrow points extending well beyond the outer corners. The hollows of my cheekbones glowered in a deep rose blush. My plush, beestung lips glistened in the same wet-looking deep crimson of my talons. The layers of gold costume jewelry added the right tawdry touch to a girl who was begging to be seen, lusted for, fucked. No self-respecting woman of any color or culture would be caught dead affecting the kind of extreme, over-the-top look I now presented; it was the exclusive province of sluts like me. It all just seemed so much sexier on my Ecstacy high. I was getting REALLY horny! Dita was the first to speak.

“Wow, you are soooo sexy. Gigi, you look really HOT! I think I’m jealous of Kyra. I wonder what she has in store for you?”

So did I. I expected her to be here by now, but there was no sign of her. Gayle might as well have been reading my mind.

“Kyra told me to tell you go to the corner of Sixth and Main and wait.

You will receive the next part of your birthday surprise there.”

“But thas’ fo’ blocks from heah! I has no money fo’ a cab. How’s I git theah?”

Dita smiled coyly.

“We would LOVE to drop you, Sweetie, but we’re all going out to Temptations tonight, and that’s in the opposite direction. I guess you’ll just have to WALK THE STREETS, Sugar. But that shouldn’t be anything new for a slut like you, should it?”

This was getting more exciting by the minute. Dita helped me into a snug-fitting, waist-length black patent motorcycle-style jacket to ward off the evening chill. It perfectly complimented my black patent outfit. There wasn’t a prayer of getting it zipped up over my titties, but the effect looked even more spectacular unzipped. Consuela had already packed my new purse with lipstick, lip brush, blusher, perfume. Since Kyra had hustled me out the door so quickly, I had nothing else to put in it; cash, credit cards, or even my I.D. Of course, I never showed my I.D. anymore. Who would believe I was ‘Michael’? I only carried it out of habit - and in case I absolutely, positively had to show SOME kind of identification. Well, Kyra was certain to have noticed my purse lying on the table by the door and bring it with her when she picked me up. I gathered up my new purse, blew everyone an air kiss, then was out the door.

It was already Eleven o’clock. I couldn’t believe my ‘evening of beauty’ had taken FIVE HOURS! Baby, did I EVER stop traffic on my way to Sixth and Main. I was completely caught up in myself and the moment as I click-click-clicked down the sidewalk towards my rendezvous with - who knew what? My big titties jiggled sweetly with each step. My full, rounded hips and tush smoothly undulated to and fro as though they were mounted on rails. I felt so good, so right. I wasn’t a Bad Girl; I was THE Bad Girl, the baddest, sexiest, sleaziest slut to ever ‘work it’ on the streets of this town.

The streets were far from empty. Cars whizzed by in dizzying succession as their occupants hurried on their way to enjoy their Friday evening revelries. Horns honked at me and men whistled out their windows as they drove by. More than a few slowed and pulled over, motioning me to step over to the curb and talked to them. I smiled at them coyly, but responded I already had a ‘date’.

I arrived at the corner, expecting to see our silver Mercedes waiting there. It wasn’t. I looked up and down the street in vain. The flashy little Benz was nowhere in sight. I waited, pacing up and down the sidewalk, watching for her. A huge black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb right in front of me. The passenger window rolled down noiselessly.

“Yo, Gigi, how ya doin’?”

I was startled at the sound of my own name coming from this unknown vehicle. I just had to strut over to the big SUV and check it out. The driver was a tall, impressively-muscled Black man with a shaven head and single gold stud in one ear. He was a hunk!

I flashed my sexiest, come-hither smile and my big titties.

“Yo Baby, ‘sup? How you know my name?”

He grinned, flashing an impressive expanse of perfect white teeth.

“Ain’t nuthin’. I’m Darius. Kyra aksed me to come git you. She said you wuz real fly, but I never ‘spected this. Now, git in. We gotta git uptown fo’ yo’ s’prise.”

Lost in the moment, I agreed without protest. That devious little hussy! She had set this up, knowing how much I would adore the perverse thrill of being picked up on the street, dressed as I was, as if I was ‘workin’ it’. My heart was pounding as I climbed up into the plush, cushioned leather seat. I closed the door with a resounding thunk. Darius pulled out into the night traffic. He reached over, put his right arm around me, and pulled me closer to him. I was thrilled. I could almost hear Kyra whispering in my ear.

“Give him whatever he wants, Baby. You know you want to.”

I yielded to him willingly, sliding over and snuggling up against this big Black hunk. I was enjoying being his slut. Curiosity got the better of me.

“Hey, Baby, how you know my girlfren’?”

Darius smiled broadly.

“Oh, she ‘n I go way back. We keep in touch from time t’ time. She been tellin’ me all ‘bout you, sayin’ you wuz one hot little bitch ‘n just my type. She wuz right.”

Way back? She’s only been here a year. What’s up with that?

The bright lights and wide boulevards were soon left behind.

Before long, we were driving uptown through a seedier neighborhood. There was still traffic on the street, but it was traveling much slower than downtown. The drivers were taking their time, checking out the sights, as a tourist would. There were people on the street, too, though they were definitely not tourists. Most of them were attractive, provocatively-dressed women - like me. They stood alone or in small groups, sauntered up and down the sidewalk, or leaned over the sill of a pulled-over car and chatted with the driver. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they were about. For all my fantasizing, this was the first time in my life I had really, truly seen women like that with my own two eyes. Most of them appeared to recognize the big black Navigator and waived. A few spied me, smiled, and winked. My heart pounded. I turned to speak to my escort.

“Wher’ we goin’ Baby?”

Darius just smiled.

“Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, Baby Girl. We’ll be there real quick.”

I nodded. I didn’t mind being patient a while longer. In truth, the ‘scenery’ could have been ripped from the pages of my fondest dream.

We arrived at a questionable looking hotel. He parked the truck in the lot next door and announced: “We’s here, Sweet Thang. Let’s go.” We got out of the big Lincoln. Darius strode purposefully through the lobby, past the front desk, and directly to the elevator with me on his arm. We exited at the top floor and made our way down the corridor. He stopped before a door, produced a key and let us in. It was comfortable, I guess, but it wasn’t exactly Disneyland. Then again, it was my ‘Fantasyland’. There was a kitchen, dining area with table, separate living area with couch, coffee table, lamp and television. The carpet and draperies were nice enough and were at least freshly cleaned. There was a separate bedroom with large, functional-looking bed, dresser, closet and attached bath. On one side of the room, there was even a vanity table and jewelry armoire that closely resembled the ones in my bedroom at home. So much for exclusivity.... Even in my dreamy, drug-enhanced state, it looked to me like a slightly seedy residential hotel room.

My heart was pounding, actually causing my big titties to jiggle rhythmically. Scenes flashed through my head. The neighborhood. The girls on the street. Me, the way I was dressed and made up. Darius, that big, beautiful hunk of a man standing before me. Now, this cheap, sleazy hotel room. I happened to notice the only decoration on the coffee table was a large tube of K-Y jelly. This was just perfect, the fantasy that had inhabited the inner reaches of my mind for as long as I could remember. Kyra HAD to be here, somewhere. She couldn’t possibly have gone to all the trouble of setting up this ultimate birthday surprise and not be there to share it with me. I imagined her hiding somewhere out of sight, perhaps in a closet or the other room. She would want to remove herself from the scene, of course, believing her presence would detract from the erotic tableau. Still, I could feel her presence, watching me, willing me to do what came naturally - at least, ‘natural’ for me now. Dressed as I was, feeling as randy as I did, I felt ready for anything. I let go completely, allowing all remaining thoughts of who I had been, where I had come to slip away. It was time to let the fantasy take over. This is going to be fun! Darius broke the ice - as if there was any ‘ice’ that needed breaking.

“You likes t’ party, Sweetness? Girls like you always likes t’ party.”

“Yo, Baby, I luvs t’ party. You all got any party favors?”

I had meant that huge bulge snaking its way down the inside of his pant leg. He took it to mean something else - at least, for now.

“You waits right here, Sugar. Makes yourself comf’table. I’ll be right back.”

Darius went into the kitchen for a moment. I removed my jacket and laid it over the living room chair. He glanced at me. I smiled, spread my feet slightly, placed one hand delicately on my hip, and flashed him a much better view of ‘the goods’. I winked, flashing my best come-hither smile. He grinned back. He returned, carrying a smallish tray in both hands. As he approached, I settled delicately on the sofa, slowly crossing one leg over the other with the delicious, prolonged audible rasp of stocking-on-stocking.

Darius sat next to me and placed the tray on the table between us. It was a mirrored tray with a pile of white powder slightly to one side. He took a single-edged razor blade and began drawing out some of the powder into a series of parallel lines, four in all. I was amazed. I had seen this in the movies and on television. ‘Michael’ had never been tempted to try it. Now, in this place, under these circumstances.... After almost six hours, I was beginning to come down from the X. My stash was in my purse - my old purse, along with everything else. I wanted to keep the feeling going - and the temptation was right in front of me. I knew what Kyra would want her ‘bad girl’ to do. This one time wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?

My companion rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me. Mimicking the scenes I had viewed on the big and small screens, I accepted the improvised ‘straw’, leaned over, held it to one nostril, inhaled two lines, then switched and did the other two in my other nostril. For effect, I daintily tapped the edges of my nostrils with an elegantly manicured pinkie nail. My nose felt tingly, then a little numb. My head - oh, wow.... My ‘caterer’ gently pushed my legs apart. At the same time, his other hand began fondling my massive mammaries. I spread my legs wide and thrust out my chest, allowing his probing hands free access. At the same time, I began massaging the monstrous meat imprisoned inside his slacks. I could tell we were on the same wavelength and transmitted that fact to him with a low moan and knowing glance.

“Ya know, Baby Girl, bitches like you makes a lot of money just being nice to men the way I know you like to do. A guy like me has friends, contacts, men who’s always lookin’ for a good time.”

He glanced at the tray on the table.

“There’s perks, too. Lots and lots of perks.”

It was almost as if the words had come from Kyra’s lips, not his. I knew she had put Darius up to this. For this little stage play, he was to be my ‘pimp’ and... boyfriend? Wherever she was watching from, I knew she had to be enjoying every moment of it as much as I. Well, Darius had his role to play and so did I. I wuz gonna make this good!

“Baby, you know what a ho’ like me wants. I wan’ cock. I wan’ be used. I wan’ be FUCKED! I wan’ take care of bus’ness. I wan’ men t’ pay me to suck their cocks and fuck ‘em. I’s gots what all the boys want. You think so, don’t you, Mistah Darius?”

He nodded smugly.

“But what about you ‘n Kyra?”

“Fuck Kyra! That bitch ain’t even laid a hand on me in o’er a month. Can you believe dat? Besides, she ain’t even here! I’s here. I belongs here. Check out these goods. You want a piece o’ dis, don’ you Mistah Darius? Don’ you think the other boys will, too? I’s the ho’ here, not Miss ‘My Shit Don’ Stink’ Kyra. Thas all I wan’. Thas all I ever wan’. You down with dat, ain’t choo, Mistah Darius? You wan’ me t’ be the ho’ I wuz meant t’ be, don’ choo?”

He beamed.

“Whatever you say, Sweetness.”

Just then there was a loud knock at the door. I heard him mutter under his breath.

“Oh yeah, right on time, Baby Girl. Here we go.”

He went to the door and opened it. I heard voices but sat dazed, not even turning my head in my dreamy stupor. My head was spinning. I felt so high - and so horny! Darius reappeared in front of me. There were other men, too. My ‘boyfriend’ grinned broadly.

“Here she is, just like Kyra promised. Ain’t she a sight? The bitch is well-trained, too. She says she WANTS it. Let’s give it to her real good. Kyra says she likes that.”

I was in a surreal dreamland, relaxed and very aroused. I felt hands all over my body. The tray was removed and I was bent over the table. Fingers probed my tits and ass. One slippery finger invaded my shemale pussy, once, twice, three times, getting it good and slick with generous globs of lube. I let out an involuntary moan like the eager slut I was. I heard someone say, “C’mon bust that white ass!” I felt pressure, then something big - really big - thrust into my ass. I arched my back and let out a whimper. A long, slow push forced every inch into me. I felt it bottom out and the tingle of pubic hair against my asscheeks. I clamped down hard on the large intruder with my rectal muscles and heard a man’s voice.

“Son-of-a-bitch! This cunt is milkin’ my dick wit her ass muscles. You likes dat, don’ choo, Bitch?”

I felt a hard slap on my ass and responded by wiggling my butt around.

The next memory I have was straddling a muscular black man. I think it was Darius, but things were a little fuzzy just then. I was bouncing up and down on his long cock. He pounded my ass hard. I had never had that much inside of me before - and it was real, too. Just then, another hard cock was rubbed across my lips. I opened wide and sucked it down greedily, like a kid with a lollipop. I couldn’t have stopped even if I wanted to - and I sure didn’t want to. The rest of the night was a kaleidoscopic whirl of surreal images: big Black men with big Black cocks, taking me again and again and again. There were images of me doing more lines of coke, too. I dozed off as the first rays of light peeked between the buildings outside the living room window....

I woke up alone, in bed, with a splitting headache body ache, and chills. My cell phone was on the bedside table. I hadn’t remembered seeing it there the night before, but there wasn’t much I DID remember. I staggered to the bathroom and perched myself gingerly on the toilet. After a long pee, I discovered a note taped to the mirror above the sink. It was from Kyra.

I hope last night was as good for you as it was for me. The best is yet to come. Your clothes are in the closet and your makeup is in your vanity. Get cleaned up, do your face and hair like the slut you are, get dressed, then give me a call when you are ready. Be sure to wear something HOT!

I KNEW she had been watching from somewhere! I remembered brief flashes of the night before. I clearly remembered surrendering myself to cock, cock, and more cock - and overwhelming pleasures of the flesh. I felt more submissive than I had ever felt before in my life - and a thirst for more. It looked like Kyra had ‘more’ in mind. This wasn’t going to be a single-night birthday surprise, after all. After a night like THAT, I couldn’t imagine what she would come up with next.

My head really hurt. I was thirsty, too. There wasn’t any aspirin in the bathroom, so I went to the kitchen to find... something, anything. There was juice in the fridge. There was no aspirin, but Kyra had thoughtfully left my bottle of Demerol. I had never taken one for a headache, but pain was pain, ya know? I popped one, then chased it with a glass of juice. The juice was cold and tasted good.

It would take a while for the painkiller to kick in - if it was going to help at all. I needed something NOW. I glanced towards the living room and noticed the tray of cocaine was still there, though somewhat depleted from the night before. I wonder.... I drew out a couple of lines as I had seen Darius do, then snorted them. Oh, yeah, that did it! Feeling much better, I returned to the bathroom.

I followed Kyra’s instructions explicitly. I douched to clean my shemale pussy out. Then I showered, brushed my teeth, and gargled with mouthwash. There was a second tube of K-Y and self-stick pantyliners in the cabinet under the sink. Actually, there were several jumbo-sized tubes of the slippery lubricant. Had she bought a case for my birthday? Just what DID she have in mind? I lubed my love nest thoroughly because it felt like the right thing to do. I tucked, then pressed a pantyliner in place to hold everything in. Then, I returned to the bedroom to begin the long, loving process of making myself beautiful.

Kyra hadn’t been kidding when she said my clothes were in the closet. It appeared my entire wardrobe of slutwear was hanging there, awaiting me. All my lingerie, corsets, and stockings were neatly folded in the drawers of my dresser. My shoes were arranged in racks. My boots all hung neatly on hangers. The vanity table and jewelry armoire I had thought resembled mine WERE mine. Every bit of my makeup and all my jewelry were at my disposal. My wife had gone to an extraordinary amount of trouble to make my birthday memorable. ‘Overkill’ would be an understatement. I would have to change outfits over two dozen times to wear everything that was hanging there. Was this all to create the right atmosphere to make my fantasy seem all the more real? Would Darius and his friends be willing to help us move all of it home again?

I was still learning to deal with my new, longer talons. This time, I would have to paint and dress alone. It was awkward at first, but I was inspired and learned quickly. The permanent makeup helped a lot. I didn’t need that much, but I took my time; I wanted to make it PERFECT. When the job was complete, my practiced eye decided I looked just as trampish as with Dita’s handiwork, if not more so. The pain pill had long since kicked in on top of the cocaine. Everything was in soft-focus, kinda dreamy. I laced myself into a red satin corset with black lace insets and borders, reducing my torso to the wasp-wasted elegance that looked so good on my physique. I rolled sheer, jet-black stockings up my slender legs, adjusted them to make sure the back seams were arrow-straight, then fastened the tops to the corset’s eight garters. I eased the ruffled red satin thong panty up my legs and positioned it over my hips, making certain everything was tucked in just so.

I slipped into a deep red satin minidress with long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and plunging neckline, front and back. This dress was really tight. It hobbled me to a twelve-inch gate and revealed more than it concealed. The matching red patent sandals had open toes, ankle straps, and six-inch stiletto heels. I donned gaudy, eye-catching red lacquered pendant earrings, matching beaded necklace and oversized wrist bangles to accessorize. I double-wrapped that same single slender gold chain around my dainty left ankle. I had some trouble manipulating the spring clasp with my talons, but it was something I had to learn. I got it eventually, and my outfit was complete. Some generous spritzes of Obsession, a final fluff of my hair, and I was DONE, Baby! If this was what my sweetheart wanted, I couldn’t be happier. Still, I wondered how today could possibly match the thrill of the night before. I perched delicately on the edge of the bed and speed-dialed home from my cell phone.

“Good morning, Baby! Are you dressed and made up really slutty for me today?”

“Like I’m workin’ it out on th’ boulevard. You’d be proud o’ me.”

“Oh, I am proud of you, Baby! So, how are you this morning?”

“Wonderful. I had a headache ‘n chills earlier, but I found sumpin’ t’ take care o’ it.”

“I’ll bet you did. Now, tell me all about last night.”

“But you was here, watchin’, wasn’t you?”

“Of course I was, Sweetie. I want to hear about it in your own words.

It seems so much more intimate that way.”

I related everything I remembered about the night before. There was one question I had to ask.

“How many was there?”

“Baby, you took on five well-hung Black men last night. Not a single one of them was less than nine inches. I personally made certain of that. You know what they say: once you go Black, you can never go back. How do you feel now? Sore, or what?”

“No, not sore at all. I guess you done a good job o’ breakin’ me in. At th’ time, it was a high I ain’t never felt b’fo’ - even wit’ yo’. I ‘member feelin’ well-fucked when they wuz done wit’ me. Now, I feel kinda dreamy - and horny again.”

“Things go better with Coke, huh? It’s OK, Baby; I know you are doing drugs with them. It’s all part of the EXPERIENCE. In fact, why don’t you do a couple more lines right now? Just take the phone with you and describe it to me step by step. It will be like we are doing it together - like we have done everything together since we met.”

I kept talking to her as I sashayed into the living room. I relayed the process of drawing the coke into lines, describing the rush it had given me the night before.

“Did you like it?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How many lines did you do last night?”

“Fo’ at fust. I thin’ I did mo’ later, but I cain’ be sho’.”

“Then do four now.”

“Now?”

“Yes, Baby. I want you to share the experience with me again, just the way you experienced it last night. Tell me when you are ready.”

I drew out the additional lines.

“Ready.”

“OK, do them.”

I inhaled deeply, doing two lines in each nostril, then tapping each with my pinkie to make sure I got every crystal, just as the night before.

“Verry nice, Sugar. Isn’t that sensation EXQUISITE? All us working girls know that feeling. It’s kind of a ‘rite of passage’ for us. There is only one more little step to go to make your fantasy complete.”

“Wha’s tha’?”

“Why, you have to go out and DATE of course!”

“Date? Yo’ mean, turn tricks - fo’ money? Like a pros’tute?”

“That’s EXACTLY what I mean. That is what all of this has been about, right? This is Saturday morning - oops, well, afternoon now. The room is paid up until check-out time Monday morning. For the rest of the weekend, you ARE a prostitute, just like you have always fantasized about. Just think of me as your ‘Madam’. Now, I want you to sashay that gorgeous ass of yours out on the street and turn tricks for me. You will charge fifty dollars for a blowjob and one... no, TWO hundred dollars for a fuck. A girl who looks as good as you can get that easy. When I see you Monday morning, you will pay me twenty-five hundred dollars for the privilege of workin’ it for me. After all, I went through a lot of effort setting you up as a hooker. If you don’t have the money for me when I arrive, I may just have to keep you out there until you do. Of course, that would mean renting the room for another day - or more - and that much more expense for YOU.”

I gulped.

“I’m a... hooker? Can I do tha’?”

“Sugar, you are GOING to do that. You know you want to. You have always wanted to. Every moment of your life, everything you have struggled for and endured in the past year, has been leading to this moment. You are in EXACTLY the right place, too. Look out your window.”

I did. In broad daylight, there were at least a half-dozen brazenly-dressed girls strutting their stuff on the street - just as they had been the night before when I had first arrived. As overdressed as I felt for daytime, I would still fit right in with that group. I watched as one chatted with a man in a car, then got in. They drove away right before my eyes.

“Oh, my God!”

“That’s right, Sugar. That neighborhood is notorious as THE place to go in this city to pick up a working girl. Even with all that competition, a gorgeous blue-eyed blonde with big tits and ass can pretty much write her own ticket - unless someone else is writing it for her. Face it; you are located smack dab in the middle of Hooker Central - exactly where a slut like you BELONGS. Now, no more talk. Hustle your sweet ass down on that street and make me some money!”

I remembered that girl, that... hooker getting into the car and driving away - to have sex with a complete stranger for money. The image in my head blurred a bit, then refocused. Suddenly, it was ME in that car, me accepting his money, me going down on him in some deserted alley - or bending over, exposing my sweet shemale cunt to his throbbing fuck pipe. I shivered - in pure, wanton lust.

Riding down in that elevator, strutting across the foyer, stepping out onto that street, head held high, stiletto-clad feet tapping “click-click-click” down the sidewalk, was the most profound thrill in a seemingly endless string of thrills that had punctuated this latest, best year of my life. I didn’t care what other people would think when they saw me. I KNEW I looked DAMN GOOD. I KNEW no man would be able to resist me. I KNEW, at long last, I had ARRIVED! There were no words to describe the overwhelming gratitude I felt for my beautiful wife, who had made my dream come true!

The other bitches were wary of me at first, protective of their ‘turf’. It was just like my experiences in the dance clubs. I knew how to approach them, what to say, how to say it, how to blend in. As Kyra had predicted, my easy familiarity with their language was disarming. My connection with Darius was the key that flung the door wide open. In no time, it was like we had been ho’in’ together all our lives. I hadn’t realized how many of those gorgeous girls I had seen the night before were T-Girls like me. More to the point, they were all DARIUS’s girls. He and his crew ran all the action in this part of town. The girls each paid him a percentage of ‘the take’ for the privilege of workin’ the ‘hood, unmolested by cops or other thugs.

The next two days were a nonstop orgy of cock and coke. I hardly ate. I slept but a few hours Sunday morning, after Dawn, when the dates had returned to their homes to sleep it off. Dating was one long, sustained thrill ride. As I expected, the men couldn’t keep their eyes - or hands - off me. Between Midnight Saturday and Three AM Sunday, I was spending more time in cars than struttin’ my stuff on the sidewalk. I raised my prices to discourage the ‘tourists’ and give myself a breather. They paid it. I raised my prices again. They were willing to pay THAT. Darius checked up on me every couple of hours. He filled me up with his huge cock, taking his pleasure - and mine. I think he wanted me to know that no matter how many men I dated, he would always be the biggest and best. There was no danger of me ever losing sight of THAT. His mammoth manhood felt so good, so right, buried to the hilt inside my love nest. He kept me well-supplied with Blow, too. Darius made sure I stayed on a nice, sustained high all weekend. He gave be a beautiful present; an ornate silver vial with screw-on lid. The lid had a small, long-stemmed silver spoon built into it. That way, I could carry my Blow with me in my purse, instead of having to rush back to my room between dates for my next hit.

When he showed up Sunday evening, Kyra was with him. I was more surprised than upset.

“I - I wasn’t ‘spectin’ you ‘til t’morra. I don’ has all th’ money yet.”

“Give me what you have, Sugar.”

My girlfriend collected the money I had made. I was about $500 short. I knew I could make THAT Sunday night, easy. Kyra just smirked at me, tsk-tsking and shaking her head with distain. Instead of putting the money in her purse, she turned and handed it to Darius.

“A promise made is a promise kept. You were good to me, good for me.

Thank you - for EVERYTHING.”

I thought she was thanking him for helping her set up my perfect fantasy weekend. Considering the amount I had just handed her, it seemed like a pretty outrageous ‘tip’ for two days. Whatever.... I was really enjoying all of this. We sat down on the couch - them on either side, me in the middle. Kyra winked and smiled approvingly as I did more lines of coke, then snuggled up with my muscular boyfriend. Then we watched two videos.

The first was a compilation of candid footage chronicling my entire transformation, starting with my earliest attempts at dressing up and makeup, through my surgeries, trips to the salon and tattoo parlor, everything up to and including my exit from the beauty salon Friday evening. There was nothing left to the imagination, no doubt whatsoever who “Gigi” had begun life as. The only thing missing - carefully edited out - was Kyra’s guiding hand in my metamorphosis. Instead, reaction shots of her were craftily edited in. She appeared unsure, upset, but putting on a brave face. The overall impression was, this wasn’t something she had wanted to do; she had done it to please me. She really was a good actress. If I hadn’t been there, I would have believed her.

The second tape included my arrival at the hotel, my ‘deflowering’ at the hands of Darius and his crew, plus footage of me all day Saturday and Sunday. There had to have been video cameras hidden in every room of the apartment. There I was, popping pills, doing endless lines of coke and being fucked by the amazingly-endowed Darius. There were also scenes of me in my hotel bedroom, sucking and fucking men, accompanied by every whine, moan, and shriek. I was most astonished to see the outdoor footage. They - whoever “they” were, had taped me clandestinely as I stood on the corner, conversing with the other working girls and soliciting my dates. There was even a soundtrack, with me asking the tricks if they were dating, and offering them a “real good time” for the price I had judged them to be good for. I dimly remembered the two phrases “zoom lens” and “parabolic microphone”.

I realized Kyra had bankrolled a really first-class professional surveillance to record my entire debauchment for posterity. They caught a good shot of me climbing into a convertible, accepting money from a date, then going down on him and making him come in my mouth. The camera had zoomed in to capture my face clearly, leaving no doubt it was me. There were several ‘money shots’; cum shooting all over my face, oozing out around a fat cock stuffed in my ass - and me obviously loving every second of it. There were other ‘money shots’, too - of me accepting the money up front, like the good little whore I had become. I certainly enjoyed watching all our ‘home movies’, reliving the highlights of the most eventful year of my life. I was greatful Kyra had gone to the trouble and expense of recording it all. When the time came for ‘Michael’ to return, it would be wonderful to have this souvenir to remember the most exciting time of my life.

I was flying high and very giggly as we watched. Darius had his hands all over me - and I was encouraging his advances. He was really turned on by the whole scene; the videos, me sitting right up in his business, and Kyra watching it all. Finally, he just pushed up my skirt, ripped away my panties, lifted me bodily off my tush, onto his lap and impaled my cunt on his raging fuckpole. I rode that man-meat like a bitch in heat, wimpering, moaning, and crying out with reckless abandon, oblivious to everything but his pleasure and my own. When he flooded me with his cum, my orgasm went off like a Roman candle, engulfing me with explosion after explosion. Kyra snickered impolitely.

“ And you asked: ‘Can I do that?’ That looks like a pretty good imitation of a whore to me. Are you lovin’ it as much as I am, Baby? This is all a real turn-on for me.”

How could I argue otherwise? This was way beyond anything in my fantasy, yet it was better than anything I could have dreamed. I searched in vain for the words to express my gratitude to her. She spoke first, startling me with her words.

“Baby, I’ve been thinking. You are obviously having the time of your life. I’m really happy about that. In fact, this has all worked out so well, I think we will just continue this little... arrangement. Yes, I really like the idea of that.”

“Y’all mean, ‘til I’s can make up th’ other money? I’s can do that t’nite!”

Kyra pursed her lips, smiled, and slowly shook her head.

“No Sugar. I meant PERMANENTLY. You won’t mind if I just... GIVE you to Darius, will you? It wouldn’t take any effort to get you moved in; all your clothes, makeup, jewelry and furniture essentials are already HERE. It’s not as though you don’t ‘fit in’. I mean, you are the perfect little ghetto ho’ now. Just look at you. You are so plastic-looking from all your surgery. Then, there is the makeup and hair, the scandalous outfits you wear, not to mention all the tattoos and piercings. Your mind and mouth are in the gutter. You are thoroughly, shamelessly hooked on drugs and sex. You are exactly his type of woman now - and he is exactly your type of man. Don’t try to deny it; I have just seen the look of ecstasy on your face while he is fucking you. Actually, I have known all along....

Sweetie, I have a little confession to make. You see, I’m not really from out of town. I have lived here all of my life, just like you. Of course, I never enjoyed the kind of wealth and status you were born into. When I met you online, I lived right here, in this room. It kind of makes me nostalgic to see the old place again. I have known Darius since I began hooking seven years ago. Yes, I was one of his girls, just like you are now. He was, has always been, really good to me. I REALLY owe him. But I could never give him what he really likes. Darius needs to POSESS his girls totally. I have always been my own person and won’t submit to any man that way. Without meaning any disrespect to him, I have always wanted, DESERVED more from Life than all this. Finally, he came to respect me for that. Then, you came along and made ‘more’ possible. You dropped tantalizing little hints in the chat room. It wasn’t so much what you said as the way you said it that led me to believe you came from Money. When you finally told me your name, I went down to the library and looked you up in Forbes. Was I ever thrilled to find out you were loaded - and single! I made up my mind, right then and there; the only slut that was going to get her hooks into you was ME!

When the time came, Darius was really nice about letting me go - and helping me snare you. He had originally hooked me up with a computer and Internet access. When the time came, he helped me pack, then drove me to the airport - so I could be there, waiting for you when you arrived. In return, all he made me do was promise to find a girl to take my place - HIS type of girl. I didn’t know how I was going to make that happen, but I knew, somehow, I would. You know me; I ALWAYS keep my promises. I was even entertaining random thoughts about you being that girl. You see, Darius LOVES T-girls; the sleazier, more outrageously-proportioned the slut, the better. When I first saw your picture, I said to myself: ‘You know Kyra, I can just see dear, sweet Michael with boobs and buns, made up like a little whore, poured into some super-sexy next-to-nothing little slip of a dress, getting fucked six ways to Sunday - and loving it. It was just an idle thought, but....

I thought I had died and gone to Heaven when I experienced your world for the first time. Every day was a new experience in what Life is supposed to be all about. I felt I had come Home - to the home I SHOULD have been born into. AND you were incredibly kinky. AND you knew how to eat me to one mind-blowing orgasm after another, all night long. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. I really DID love you, you know.

Then you dropped YOUR little bombshell about always having dreamed of experiencing the very life I had just escaped. I know this sounds really petty of me, but I lost respect for you at that moment. How could anyone possibly consider giving up all of THAT to be a slut? At the same time, I felt I had just been handed the answer to my prayers. Thank you, God! So, I promised to help you. I have to admit, I felt REALLY GUILTY at first. You had been so good to me, so good FOR me. All the while, I knew I was preparing you, getting you ready to be whored out to Darius to fulfill my promise to him. I kept telling myself it was what you really wanted. I told you the honest truth about one thing, though; the farther we went, the more pronounced the changes became in you, the more I really WAS getting into the whole idea of you as a wanton little whore and Darius’s personal fucktoy. You were just SO PERFECT.

I recognized right away that you were very weak-willed, susceptible to suggestion. That is exactly the kind of dependent personality that is ripe to become the kind of submissive slut Darius craves. You see, he has this darling little way of keeping his bitches in line. He likes to get them hooked on cocaine and that great big cock of his, so they can’t even DREAM of leaving him. I don’t do drugs myself, - that was another reason I was not the right girl for Darius - but I always thought it was so amusing to see that glazed look of utter surrender in the other girls’ eyes; surrender to the drugs and Darius’ man-meat.

I can’t believe how willingly you allowed me to slip you into a life of chemical and psychological dependency. You couldn’t wait to undergo the hypnotherapy, could you? After Sheila Crane implanted your ‘triggers’, it was child’s play to digitally sample her induction lead-in and record new disks even SHE didn’t know about - disks that did a whole lot more than just teach you ‘Street Speak’. I changed the WAY you think, Baby. I broke down twenty-one years of high-class education and social conditioning, reducing you to the intellectual level of those drop-out bimbos you admired so much.

Then I introduced you to OXY to relieve the pain in your feet. You found out right away it was also a really nice ‘mood-enhancer’. You began taking more and more of it because your nightly ‘training sessions’ taught you to love the high. After your surgery, I made sure you were pumped full of Demerol; dose after dose, day after day. I kept you right on the edge, Sugar, just like sex; just enough to keep you in Dreamland without pushing you off - for that long, long fall. I was saving THAT for later. And all that time, I was in your ear, in your HEAD, via the conditioning disks. I was in your PUSSY, too. Every moment of every day, I was right there, comforting you, encouraging you, convincing you it was all right to LIVE FOR being fucked and being high.

Those aches, chills, and tremors you felt later were the first little symptoms of withdrawl. You COULD have kicked it, gotten clean, but I offered you a chance to stay high and like a good little junkie, you took it. By this weekend, I had you ready for your ‘coming-out party’. You graduated to a full-fledged COKE WHORE as naturally as you please, without so much as a whimper. All I had to do was TELL YOU to do it.”

She gently cupped my chin and gazed intently into my vacant, glazed-over eyes, a satisfied expression on her face.

“Oh, yes, I think we have broken down your higher intellectual processes quite nicely. You have The Look now, Sweetie. Darius OWNS you, body and soul - and after only two days. That must be some kind of record. With your oh-so-willing cooperation, I have now fulfilled my promises to BOTH of you. Darius adores my little ‘gift’ and says my debt to him is paid in full. He will take good care of you - as long as you are nice to him and give him what he wants.”

“But I thou’ we wuz gonna go home ‘n fuck ourseves stupid?”

She smiled at me coyly.

“Oh, I think you are fucking yourself stupid RIGHT HERE, Baby Girl. Why ruin a good thing? Besides, it would be... awkward to have you d