I crossed over in 1994. Not against my will, mind you. No, none of us
ever crossed over against our will. It is something we must want,
something we must yearn for, something after which we must lust,
eternally, in the darkest depths of our soles.
Now, I am one of them: a creature of the night, shunning the ways of
light, condemned forever to a damned existence between twilight and dawn
where the harsh embrace of the sun can never reveal us, touch us, or give
away the fact of our existences.
I am now, one of them, without hope of ever going back. And I must feed.
Lord how I must feed. The hunger consumes me, eternally, born of a lust
which must be met but can never be fully satisfied. And yet I, like so few
of the others who have crossed, continue to retain something of my
God-given humanity. Though one of them, I am now neither wholly of them,
nor wholly one of you.
But I digress: my story. It's several stories actually, covering my last
four years. This, the first of them, starts at the beginning: How I came
to be.
My conscience, back when I still possessed a modicum of morality, was
torn. Maybe that is why I was there, why I encountered her.
The French Quarter, after sunset, is in and of itself, an aphrodisiac.
The people, the smells, the lights, the noise, the music: all sing a
syren's song, appealling to the baser instincts of the thousands who
wander the streets there each night, seeking within that tolerant and
hedonistic atmosphere, that for which they yearn, yet of which they are
afraid.
I was tired. A day of travel and four days of twelve hour work had left
me worn. Now, finally, the evening was mine to enjoy before the stagnating
hours I would spend tomorrow, returning to the loveless home in which I'd
imprisoned myself for nearly twenty years, far back north. I sought refuge
and relaxation in a bottle, staring out from the bar at the Hotel
Montelion, at the revelers on the street outside. One after another, an
exquisite, exotic female would meander through through the crowd, catching
my attention, that of the unaccompanied single men in the crowd, and of
the (apparently) married men whose wive's promptly took umbrage at the
attention they had paid.
Oh, how I longed to be...
But, no! I had worked too long, far too hard, to permit this abboration
in my soul to reveal itself. With all my heart, I hated, resented, loathed
this hidden imperfection which I had buried so far inside me as never to
never be revealed. After my fourth glass of chardonay I decided to walk
the streets, mingle with the crowd and find, perhaps, a companion with
whom to share a drink.
As I walked past the Old Absynthe House, I revelled in the mournful
sounds of the blues band within, singing of the injustices of life and
love gone bad. How little they knew of lost love. Let them live without it
for twenty years. Then let them sing a song.
Moving along, I watched the barker standing on the sidewalk in front of
a nightclub. A statuesque black haired beauty, heavily made up, stood
beside him. in neglige. Probably Cajun. A crowd had gathered and the
barker was urging them to come inside to see the other beauties, "just
like her." I stopped and studied her: tall, slender, small waist,
narrow hips, long and thin-though-shapely legs, large hands...it was a
drag show.
I studied her from afar. She was intoxicatingly beautiful. Sensuality
poured forth in her ever move, every mannerism, every gesture. From
amongst the hundred of people on the street, her eyes picked out mine. She
smiled at me. A cruel, wicked, seductive smile. I stood transfixed, my
eyes locked upon hers and hers onto mine. Slowly, ever so slowly, her arm
extended and her index finger slowly uncurled to point at me. The barker
ended his cacophony as the suddenly silent crowd turned to look, in
unison, in my direction.
"Come inside, sweetie," she said. on the barkers microphone. "Come
inside and join us," she purred seductively.
The crowd stared in my direction, all wearing an amused look on their
faces, curious as to my reaction. Embarassed beyond description, I hurried
away, melting back into the moving throngs on the street. "Too hot
for you to handle?" she asked into the mike. The crowd erupted in
laughter at my embarassment as I hurried back to the isolation of my
hotel.
I cancelled my flight for the following morning and re-booked it for
Sunday. I deserved a break. I'd worked like a dog for years and got
nothing for it myself except watching my wife spend it on the car she had
to have, the health club she just had to belong to and the daily "golf"
lessons that never seemed to improve her game. I was tired: especially so
after the fitfull night of sleeplessness I'd endured.
I'd dreamt, for inexplicable reasons, of her--the showgirl on the
sidewalk. In my half asleep-half awake dreams, she had come to me,
entering through the window of my antebellum room. Approaching the
canopied bed, she stood before me, allowing my eyes to drink in her darkly
intoxicating beauty. Then, as I recalled, she stood over me, moving her
hands in the air over the length of my body. Yet, though her hands were a
foot above me, I could feel her touch.
Without warning, I had dreamt, she had brought her full, red lips to my
chest, nibbling each nipple in turn, then slowly down my stomach to my
groin, where her lips parted as she took my erect member into her mouth
gently sucking as she slowly, sensuously drew back my glans with her
supple tongue.
"Join me," she said. Then my recollections ended. She was
gone.
I got up, showered and walked to Decatur and Conti to have breakfast on
the patio at the Bienville House. The morning was a New Orleans rarity: a
cool, crisp late fall morning with virtually no humidity. The mid morning
sun was above the building tops, shining now down onto the streets and
sidewalks. It was as clear and bright as any morning I'd ever recalled
there. In fact, it was too bright, almost annoyingly so. I squinted as I
walked, stopping at the Woolworth store for a cheap pair of sunglasses.
My large breakfast, artfully prepared, was extraordinary in taste. It
left me over-filled yet unsatisfied however. Perhaps it was the lack of
sleep. Perhaps simply the job and marriage pressures I'd been
experiencing. I wasn't sure. I did know, however, that in view of the lack
of sleep and full stomach, a nap was in order. Returning to my room, I
drew the shades, lay upon the bed and immediately fell into a deep,
comforting sleep.
I awoke from my nap, with no recollection of any dreams, feeling better
and more rested than ever I could recall. Glancing at the clock, I saw it
was almost noon. Amazing what a 1-1/2 hour mid-day nap can do to lift the
spirits. I walked to the window, relishing the texture and softness of the
carpet squishing between my toes. Opening the window shade, I was
startled: it was pitch-black outside. Don't tell me an unpredicted storm
had moved in. Not on one of my few days off. I searched the sky for breaks
in the overcast and that's when I saw it. A full moon. A moon so full and
bright that even the stars were obscurred from view. I rushed to the phone
and called the front desk.
"Good evening, monsieur. How may I help you?"
The time, please, I asked.
"12:05, monsieur."
Night or noon?
"Monsieur, eet eez nightime."
I hung the phone up without replying. I had slept for nearly 14 hours! I
must have been tired. But what now to do? I couldn't possibly fall
back to sleep. I certainly didn't want to sit up in my room, alone, until
morning then be trashed for the entire next day.
I showered and shaved, recalling as I did so, the strange dream which
had filled my evening the night--no, now two nights--before. In my closet
hung a multi-colored, patterned silk shirt which my wife had bought for
me. Though I had never particularly cared for it, tonight it seemed
appropriate. I pulled it on without bothering for an undershirt and
buttoned it, following with my jeans. Dammit! After five days on the road,
I was without clean underwear. Sans undershorts, I zipped and buttoned the
jeans, walked to the elevator and boarded--the only passenger on it.
"Come to me," the voice on the elevator said.
I turned, startled. There was no one else on board. Soft impressionistic
music came from the lift's speakers. The voice had not. Perhaps, I
surmised, it had been a voice from a floor we passed.
I stepped out the front lobby door, directly onto the Bourbon Street
sidewalk. It was a relatively cool night. But as the temperature had
dropped, the relative humidity had increased and the air was now moisture
laiden. Fixtures on the street now covered with dew. At one half hour past
midnight, the streets were still jammed with people. I noted, curiously
though, several differences in the crowd. Few were capable of appearing
sober as they had, by this time, probably been drinking for several hours.
Also, the frumpy wives with their husbands in tow, seemed to have all
disappeared. The couples I saw now, generally appeared to consist of guys
in the company of some of the most exquisite women I'd ever seen, or just
groups of guys. Also, of the persons unaccompanied, it seemed there was
now a higher proportion of women than men, a fact I found curious as one
would expect the females to be off the street earlier than the "studs"
on the prowl.
Moving along up Bourbon Street, I looked across at the drag queen bar.
The barker was still there but the raven-haired beauty, who'd so captured
my attention the previous night, was not.
Without further interest, I wandered aimlessly on up Bourbon, away from
Canal as the crowds became increasingly sparce and the businesses and few
persons remaining became increasingly unique: a voodoo shop here, a
psychic's shop there, all male mud-wrestling at a corner bar. For reasons
inexplicable, as the few left in the diminished crowd moved further up
Bourbon, I turned left onto a side street, stepping aside to give wide
berth to the huge black man walking my way, holding hands with the
bleached blonde with "big hair" and the ultra-short vinyl
mini-skirt. As they passed, she puckered her lips and blew me a kiss. "Not
him, bitch," tha black man said indignantly. "Wrong type."
I wasn't sure if I was insulted or relieved.
Old-style, louvered swinging half doors opened into the bar across the
street. "Round Up," stated the sign above them.
I'd heard of it. A gay bar with about as eclectic a crowd as New Orleans
offered. Crossing the street, I entered, found a seat at the huge,
four-sided bar, and ordered a spritzer.
"Is that an appropriate drink for a big, strong man?" asked
the deep but feminine voice from behind me. Not recognizing the voice nor
wanting to risk intruding on a strangers conversation, I didn't reply, but
continued to look straight ahead as I sipped my drink.
"I am speaking to YOU!"
It was her!
It seemed as though an unknown force compelled my hand to slowly lower
my glass to the bar. With no seeming effort on my part, my bar-stool
turned and I was facing her. My eyes swept from floor to her face before
becoming locked in her gaze.
She wore black, thigh-high, patent leather spike heeled boots over
impossibly tight, black, stretch vinyl pants. Tucked in at the waist, her
diaphonous white poets blouse did little to conceal the view of her huge
breasts, clearly perched atop the shelves of a black demi-bra whice barley
covered her nipples. Over it, a zippered, glossy black ninyl motorcycle
jacket completed her outfit. She was tall. Much more so than I had
recalled from seeing her on the street. From my barstool, my eyes were at
the level of her breasts and I strained my neck painfully to look up into
her eyes, which I felt--somehow--compelled to do.
"Buy me a drink," she stated matter-of-factly. "Now!"
Yes, I said numbly.
"Yes, what?" she demanded.
Yes, Mistress, I replied knowing--somehow--that that was the expected
reply.
"Good beginning," she said without emotion. "You will
work well."
Strangley, I recalled little of our conversations. I knew she had
questioned me for hours and that I had provided answers which She had
deemed to be adequate; They must have been adequate for when I awakened,
She was laying in bed beside me. I definitely recalled that it was 6:00 AM
when we had gone to bed. And I definitely recalled the dropping jaw of the
last shift desk clerk as we walked through the lobby, Cassandra's spike
heeled-boots clicking on the tile floor.
I glanced at the clock: 5:00 PM--probably another half hour of light. I
couldn't believe it. For the second night in a row, I had slept throughout
the day and was now prepared to stay up all night. It would take me a week
to get my bio clock back in rythm once I returned home and work.
I stood, nearly stumbling. Despite feeling rested, I felt incredibly
weak. Not ill, just weak. Reaching out, I caught the corner-post of the
canopy bed in my hand, steadying myself until I regained my equilibrium.
Looking down, I noted with amusement, the lipstick covering my flacid
penis. I must have had a great time...too bad I couldn't recall it.
Groping my way from bed post to bed post, I found the outside wall,
drawing open the shades so as to get at least a brief glimpse of the
waining daylight.
The blinds opened and the remaining sunlight flooded through the
soutwest-exposed window of my room.
"STOP IT!!!" the voice shrieked from behind me.
Startled, I nearly stumbled as Cassandra streaked from beneath the
covers. In one continuous, imperceptibly swift motion, she dropped the
blinds then back-handed me across the jaw, knocking me across the room.
Regaining composure, I found myself sprawled on the floor, staring at her
stiletto heels and vinyl pants...she was still fully dressed, exactly as
she had been last night.
My eyes moved slowly up her body to meet hers. I recoiled in horror. Her
face! Her face was grotesque and terrifying. Dark circles under her
reddened eyes. Deep lines in her once smooth face now covered in grey
black stubble. Flaky crusts around her thin, parched-looking lips,
apparently from the pleasure she had provided me the night before.
"YOU BITCH!!!" she again screamed, kicking at me with her
right foot, catching me squarely in the temple with her pointed heel. "Don't
you EVER expose me to the sunlight!" As my sight dimmed and I drifted
into uncounsciousness, I saw her on her hands and knees over me, her face
contorted as she snarled like a mad dog, lowering her drooling jaws to my
crotch.
"Feeling better, my pet?"
I was on the bed, my head splitting from the pain inflicted by the kick.
Casandra was over me, her fingernail gently, lovingly tracing a line down
my spine from the base of my neck to my tailbone as I lay upon my stomach.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I lost my head. The light hurts me
because I'm not used to it. I shouldn't have been so rough with you."
I wanted to turn over to say something but was afraid of what I might
see. I couldn't bear the possiblity of looking upon that hideous face
again.
She seemed to sense my reluctance. "It's OK, pet, let me help you."
I was even weaker than before. Without her assistance, I probably
wouldn't have been able to turn over.
She rolled me over. Fearfully, I slowly opened my eyes to look at her.
She was radiant, glowing, with skin as smooth, perfect and pale as
Disney's Snow White. I sighed with satisfaction. How long had I been out?
"You were out for nearly five hours. We need to leave soon. We've
an appointment at the bar. Let me help you to the rest room."
Cassandra took my arm, helping me to my feet, then steadied me as she
accompanied me to the bath. I was barely able to stand unassisted. She
helped me to sit upon the covered toilet stool.
"You know what I am, don't you?" she asked incongruously.
Yes.
"Yes, what?"
Yes, Mistress Cassandra.
"Yet, still, you find yourself attracted to me. Overwhelmed, in
fact by my very presence, unable to separate your thoughts from me. Isn't
that so?"
Yes, Mistress.
"What am I?"
You're a transexual, I muttered. Cassandra laughed.
"Oh, my pet, I am that but I, and those like me, are much, much
more. We have traded off our God-given form to replace it with one in
which we could find ultimate fulfillment--that of the ultimate seductress.
Do you doubt me?"
I found it beyond comprehension.
"You, yourself witnessed my metamorphosis. We, and those of my ilk,
can never expose ourselves to the light of day. You saw what the sunlight
did to me. Only a meal can return me to my real form. Do you disbelieve?"
"Irrespective of your acceptance or denial of what you have seen,
you DO find me irresistably attractive, don't you my pet?"
Yes, Mistress.
"Good. Now look into my eyes. Look directly into my eyes. Do not
think of anything other than looking into my eyes and relaxing. You ARE
tired aren't you. You ARE at peace as you look into my eyes. Are you
relaxed?"
...yes, Mistress
"Good. I am going to ask you some questions. You will be fully at
peace as you answer me because as long as you answer me honestly, you have
nothing to fear. Lie to me and you will rot in Hell, because I will send
you there."
...yes, Mistress.
I was fully conscious, aware of everything she or I said. Yet, somehow,
I was incapable of being anything but completely honest with her.
"Do you find me irresistably attractive?"
...yes, Mistress.
"Do I epitomize all that is sexual and seductive to you? Does
simply being near me bring you sexual pleasure?"
...yes, Mistress.
"Are you willing to totally surrender yourself, mind, heart, body
and soul to me in order to continue be near me?"
...yes, Mistress.
She paused. "Why, when you know I was once a man, do you admit that
I am the embodiment of all that is sexual, all that is seductive, all that
is lust, all that is feminine, and all that is evil? Why do you find
yourself willing surrender to me in order to be near me? Normal, mortal
men do not feel this way? Why do you?"
I hesitated, confused, trying to overcome whatever spell I was under.
"WHY?!"
...I, uh, I..I couldn't bring myself to say it.
"WHY?!"
I am not a normal man...I...I am a...
"SAY IT!"
I am not a real...
"What ARE you? What should you be?"
I should have been...
"NOW!"
I should have been a woman...
Soothingly, she stroked my forehead, comforting me as I began to weep. "Yes,
my pet, you should have been. I know that. I knew the first time I laid
eyes on you. I know the torture you endure. It was simply a cruel twist of
nature that forced you to live in a male body and have to satisfy the
expectations of a male role. You've tried so hard to fight it, all of
these years, that it has worn you down, slowly but surely destroying you."
"What do you want to be?"
I want to be just like you.
"Tell me again."
I want to be just like you.
"And again."
I want to be just like you.
"Three times," she said, that is all that is required."
She drew bath water for me. Helping me to my feet, lifting me by the upper
arm, her fingers nearly encircling my loose, fleshy limbs, she assisted me
to the bathroom.
What is happening to me, I asked.
"As you bathe, I will explain."
I slid into the water, unable to support my weight on the sides of the
tub.
The warmth of the water supporting and soothing my body, my headache had
gone away but still yet, I felt weaker.
"Tonight," Cassandra began, "you will become like me. The
process has already begun."
I asked if that is why I felt so weak.
"Yes," she offered, "and why, for that matter, I now look
so glorious (if I do say so myself). I've been using you for nourishment."
How?
"I've been drinking your fluids," she said, "your semen.
I and those like me can only survive on a steady diet of semen. Without
it, we die. With it, we thrive. There's only one problem. Each time we
nourish ourselves on an individual, we suck out not only a bit of the
fluids we require but, with it, a portion of the essence of his male. life
force. Haven't you ever noticed that, in time, every man--no matter how
macho--who is regularly serviced by one like me, eventually begins to
exhibit some feminine tendencies of his own? Over the course of time,
there are three options: abstain, transition, or die. Most find
abstainence impossible. A few transition. The majority simply wither away
and die."
I asked her if I was dieing.
"Yes, my pet," you are. "It's part of the process. I have
to take you to near death before bringing you back, in order for you to
transition. Let me help you from the bath."
Placing her hands beneath my armpits, Cassandra lifted me to my feet. My
knees nearly buckled as she assisted me from the tub.
"Behold," she said, turning me towards the mirror.
I gasped at my own reflection. My maleness, save for the shrivled
useless appendage between my legs was gone. My body hair had totally
fallen away revealing pallid loose skin covering a thin frame with little
or no muscle definition. My face was withered and wrinkled, my eyes
sunken.
I began to cry. Please, Mistress, don't let me look like this. I don't
want to look like this. Give me back my maleness or let me die.
"What is gone, is gone," Cassandra said cooly. "Unfortunately,
more must go."
No, please, it will kill me.
"Perhaps," she said, laying me helplessly weak upon the bed. "But
does it matter? she asked, looking straight into my eyes. "Answer me!"
No, Mistress, it does not.
"You are powerless to resist me; correct?"
Yes, Mistress, I replied. She was right. I gazed into her eyes, weakened
to near death, yet still my cock tingled and swelled to its fully-erect
position.
Cassandra dropped to her knees beside the bed, the light of the one
table lamp glinting and shimmering off her vinyl mini-dress as she moved
toward me. She lowered her mouth to my member and I felt the moist warmth
of her mouth sorround it. I swooned as I began to pulsate, loading her
with the nourishment she required, even as a darkened veil descended over
my eyes.
"I've laid your clothes out for you. Don't expect that to ever
happen again. You've 45 minutes in which to be ready."
Where was I? I looked about the room, a contemporary bedroom in pink and
lime, lacy white curtains covering the windows.
"You're in your new room, now, Pet. It's my house. You'll be living
with me from now on. Your hotel extension ended yesterday."
But what about my job, my family?
"Your family doesn't need you and you won't need your job. You'll
be making more in tips than you would have earned in your career anyway. A
missing persons report has been filed. You will never be found and will be
considered deceased. Now hurry up and put on your uniform."
At the foot of the bed, beneath the turned down comforter, I found my "uniform:"
a long-sleeved, red vinyl "mistress" mini-dress. A 36-C 1/2-cup
bra, black lace thong panties, matching garter belt, dark, seamed nylons,
and impossibly high-heeled black patent fuck-me pumps lay beside them. As
I sat, the sheet pulled up over my neck, I leaned forward to inspect the
clothes more fully. The sheet falling, I looked down to realize the 36-C
bra was going to be a tight fit.
How....
Cassandra sat next to me on the bed. "Don't be worried hon, you'll
get used to them. It shocked me when I first transitioned."
But, how...?
"I'll explain. You took in my body fluids, just as I took in yours.
Only mine, as yours now are, are transexual vampire fluids, carrying with
them the amassed femininity of my 253 years as a woman. Yes, dear, you are
now, for all practical purposes but one, a woman--and an immortal one at
that. Look into my eyes. Good. Now feed yourself on me."
Bending from the waist, my breasts swung pendulously, my pointed, erect
nipples brushing up against Cassandra's thighs as my mouth engulfed her
small but perfectly shaped penis. In moments, she began spurting her jism
down my throat, so fast that my swallowing couldn't keep up. Still she
continued to cum: easily a pint. I swallowed hungrily until she stopped,
then licked the remainder from the head of her shaft and the sheets.
I felt strange tingling in my breasts as I felt them begin to swell
further.
"That is the last of it," Cassandra said. "You are
complete. You've transitioned as far as you can go. We'll pick you up a
new bra tomorrow. Double D oughta' do it," she laughed.
I dressed in the outfit Cassandra had selected for me and waited on the
couch as she retouched her makeup. The room was dark, illuminated only by
the lights of the street outside, yet I could see clearly.
On the way to the Round Up, we held hands as we walked. People stared at
us but what did it matter? Flaunting our bodies and erotic vinyl outfits,
we were obviously two hookers dressed to kill. It was 10:00 PM and I was
famished. Stopping at a hotdog cart, I took a five spot out of my cling
purse.
"Let him keep the change," Cassandra said, "you won't
need it."
I gave the vendor the money took a bite from the dog as we walked.
Despite my hunger, it tasted bland and unfulfilling. I tossed the
remainder in a trash can.
I've got to eat something I told Cassandra. I feel like I'm going to
die.
"Yes, Pet," she replied, "you will if you don't eat
properly. Now, I'll let you in on a little experience. I've got some good
news and some bad. First the bad: in your new form, you'll require about
20 feedings per night. The good: Imagine going to 20 meals a day in a
restaurant where they pay you to dine.
She laughed again.
He stood on the opposite corner, his back to me. Khaki pants, blue dress
shirt, wavy, longish blonde hair. He was well built with a great ass.
I stared at him from behind. Turn to me, I thought.
He did, fixating on my micro mini, my shapely legs, and overflowing
breasts.
Come to me, I thought, and he proceeded across the street in my
direction. Oh, this was going to be fun.
As he approached, Cassandra leaned over to give me a wet kiss on the
cheek. Turning to walk into the Round Up, she called back to me: "Bon
appetite."
I smiled even as the saliva began to run from the corner of my mouth.
PART 2
Dan Trudeau moved uneasily through the early evening crowds wending his
way through Jackson Square, stopping momentarily to gaze at the cathedral.
For 28 years, he'd lived near it yet now, for the first time, he stopped
to look at it in detail.
It was awe-inspiring how, considering the construction methods available
at the time of its building, such a massive and exquisitely detailed
project could have been undertaken, not to mention getting it to remain
intact, atop the water-sodden muck that is the soil of the river basin,
for more than 300 years.
Glancing at the cross atop the high, curved entrance, he found himself
strangely anxious. Whatever appreciation he'd felt for the ancient
structure only moments before, turned to a curious foreboding. He turned
away, moving with some amount of disgust past one of the too-many mimes in
the quarter, and turned right on Decatur, heading toward Bourbon Street.
Life in New Orleans was hard for a cop, especially one with a conscience
and a moral commitment. Trudeau had joined the force, six years before, a
joint degree, in law enforcement and sociology from Tulane, gracing his
short resume.
Underpaid and as corrupt as any in the nation, the New Orleans Police
Department walked a fine line between permitting the hedonism which fueled
the local tourist industry, and keeping it in check so it didn't get out
of hand. A little prostitution resulting in a smiling tourist--no problem.
A beat-up john who might bad mouth the city when he flew back to Kansas
City--very bad. A commodities broker from Chicago wanting to score a
little crack for his "party"--so what. A crack head kid trying
to stave off the shakes by trying to score on the street, in front of the
tourist hordes--lock him up. The "rules" weren't there and the
guidelines didn't exist, except at the discretion of the individual cops.
So the rulebooks were written with dollar signs.
There wasn't a dealer or hooker on the street who hadn't paid off a cop
at one time or another--in one way or another.
But Trudeau had kept himself above that. He was one of the many
plainclothes cops who mingled with the French Quarter crowds every
evening. In time, he'd come to know every pimp, every hooker, every dealer
and every hustler in the quarter. And, they respected him. He dealt with
them fairly and evenly. Though small and slightly built, he was hard as a
rock.
Once, rounding a corner, he'd encountered two drunken, Yankee college
students slapping a prostitute around. Yelling at them to stop, they
turned angrily to confront him. Before identifying himself as a cop, he'd
grabbed one under the arms, hoisting him up and, slamming him into the
brick wall behind him, rendered him momentarily unconscious. As the other
rushed him from behind, grabbing him, he brought his heel up behind
himself, crushing his assailent's nuts.
As his incapacitated foes regained their composure, Trudeau helped them
to there feet. "Boys," he said, as he withdrew his .38 from the
holster under his jacket, pointing it straight in the face of the first
fallen, "I don't want to see you on the street again...ever. We don't
take lightly to people slappin' women around down here."
Eyes as large as saucers as he looked up the bore of the .38, the
college kid stuttered out, "Please...w-w-w-we'll leave. I-I-I'm
sorry. Things just got out of hand."
Fucking punk, Trudeau thought as his nose was assaulted by the whisky on
the breath of the offender. "Just get the fuck out of here...NOW."
Both hurried away, as best they could, into the darkness.
He turned to the hooker, an emaciated, olive-skinned sliver of a girl,
with black hair and dark brown eyes, wearing satin hot pants, halter top,
and high-heeled knee-length boots. Probably no more than 17, he thought to
himself. As their gaze met, he could see the fear welling up in her eyes.
She glanced down at the gun. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't
mean to scare you. I'm a cop."
He slipped the gun back into its concealed holster. "Oh, shit,"
she said her look of fear now replaced with one of disgust. "You
gonna' bust me?"
"No."
"No? Does that mean I gotta' blow you? I don't have any money yet."
"No, babe," Trudeau replied. "You just gotta do two
things. You be careful to stay outta' trouble cause I'm not always gonna'
be around, to protect you, and you damn well better not cause any trouble.
You hear?"
She looked shocked. "Yes, sir," she said in a mousey little
voice.
Trudeau turned and walked away. Nearly a quarter of a block away, he
heard her voice again from far behind. "Mister? Thank you."
He smiled without turning, and continued to walk away.
By the next evening, Trudeau was known to everyone on "the street"
as a straight guy and a "good" cop.
But Dan Trudeau was now uneasy. Married to his high school sweetheart,
but without children, his meager police salary was barely enough to cover
the necessities. of their life together. Their relationship had
degenerated into constant bickering and complaints. Finding no joy in the
time they spent together, Trudeau made a logical choice: he worked all the
overtime he possibly could, not only to earn more income but to provide an
excuse for not having to be home. He suspected she was cheating on him
during his extended work hours. He had seen the signs...he was, afterall,
trained as a detective.
But loyalty and moral commitment were part of his creed. He had, through
it all, preserved his marriage vows to her.
At least, until three weeks ago.
There had been an early evening fight on the sidewalk in front of the
Roundup, one day. One of the opponents--the one who got his ass
kicked--had threatened to come back with a gun. Probably an
alcohol-induced idle threat but Trudeau had to make sure. He'd quelled the
fight without using force but, after the threat was made, he'd barred the
antagonists from the quarter, telling them that if either of them showed
their face on the street for the next thirty days, he'd lock them up.
Just to be sure, he'd taken a position on the sidewalk opposite the bar
that following evening. Sylvia, a black transvestite hooker, spoke as she
sashayed up the sidewalk past him. "Nice threads, babe. You hit the
lotto or something?"
Dan Trudeau smiled in return of her greeting. He rarely bought new
clothes but the khakai pants and blue oxford cloth dress shirt did look
good on him, he thought, and besides they helped him to melt more easily
into the crowds of casually dressed businessmen on the street.
He'd stood there for nearly a half an hour, occasionally exchanging
greetings with an occassional street friend, when something--he wasn't
sure what--caught his attention and he had turned to see a new face on the
street.
He studied her from afar. She was tall, 5'-9" or 5'-10"
perhaps, her height compounded the the ultra-high heeled boots she wore.
Obviously a new hooker on the street, he thought. Exotically made up, she
was the epitomy of sensuality--she would do well. He continued to study
her. She was captivatingly beautiful and endowed in a manner few women
would ever know. Slender legs rose to full hips, contrasting with a tiny
waist and bountiful breasts. The longer he looked, the more compelled he
felt to continue his visual feast. She appealed to him in a manner he did
not comprehend.
He couln't take his eyes off her. She was dressed in shimmering vinyl.
The lights of the traffic and the neon signs reflected off of the tight,
shining material, emphasing her every curce, holding his attention,
riveting his focus, mesmerizing him, drawing him into the projecting
reflections. He stood transfixed as if captivated by the image across the
street. Without words, the image beckoned to him and he found himself
responding to the call.
"Hey babe, want some sugar?" Sylvias voice, as she moved back
down the sidewalk was unacknowledged by Dan as, through no will of his
own, he found himself walking across the street to answer the unheard
siren call. As he approached her, each of her exquisite, provocative
details became clearer and clearer. and his focus upon them engulfed his
consciousness. His rarely used penis hardened, thrusting out visibly,
clearly outlined against the taught, khaki material. As he neared her, she
pirrohueted gracefully and, spike heels clicking on the pavement, entered
through the swinging doors of the Roundup, taking a chair at a deserted
part of the bar, opposite the entrance.
Dan followed, entranced, without acknowledging the greetings from the
persons inside, and stood silently behind the goddess as she sat and
ordered a wine spritzer.
"Dan? Honey? You OK? Hey, babe. It's me, Sylvia. You having a
seizure? You been doing drugs or something?"
No response from Dan was forthcoming. He merely stood behind the
vinyl-clad goddess, head bowed, unmoving, except for his cock which
continued to grow.
"Dan," Sylvia shouted, grabbing hin by his shoulders, "it's
me! Answer me."
Trudeau stood, unmoving and unresponsive. But the chair in front of him
slowly turned as the vixen he had followed turned to face Sylvia.
"You fucking bitch," Sylvia shouted as their eyes met. "What'd
you do to Dan?" She glared intently into the new girls eyes.
"That's right, bitch, I'm talking to..."
Sylvia's eyes suddenly widened as her words ended. A strange, detached
look came across her face. She took a chair, two stools down the bar from
the new girl. To some unknown rythm, she began swaying in the chair,
slowly at first, as soft moans came from her throat. Unconciously, her
left hand went down to her own ankle and she traced the outlines of her
leg's elegant curves with the backs of her long red nails, slowly drawing
them up her calves, across her knee, then up the inside of her thigh,
under her short mini skirt, inside the elastic lace of her satin panties.
Finding her erect male organ, she freed it from its satin imprisonment and
began caressing then stroking it, even as her right hand found her left
breast and began massaging and tweaking the nipple.
Two male patrons from down the bar, aroused at the spectacle before
them, joined Sylvia, one reaching his hands under her arms, cradling and
massaging her ripe breasts, the other licking his way up her thighs,
wrapping his lips around her pulsating member.
"Take it outside! NOW!" the bartender roared. Sylvia, weak
kneed and supported by her two paromours, was assisted out the back door,
her hands still groping her breasts and stroking her penis. A group of
perhaps five or six followed them out to the back courtyard.
Through it all, Dan Trudeau had stood, unmoving, behind his captor.
*I am hungry*
The unheard words appeared in Dan's mind. Without thought or further
consideration, Trudeau moved without question towards the front door, the
new girl following him.
*you will hold the door open for me. you will say thank you Mistress
Stephanie as I step through. you will follow two steps behind me. it is
time to feed.*
Trudeau moved numbly to open the door. "Thank you Mistress
Stephanie," he said in a loud, clear montone as she stepped outside.
Eyebrows of the patrons were raised as the couple left, even as
Cassandra, attracted by the pungent aroma of semen flowing outside,
entered the bar, heading out the back door and into the courtyard.
The day after his encounter with Mistress Stephanie, Dan Trudeau had
been unable to sleep soundly, awakening every half hour to see if it was
still light outside. He knew he was on to something big. He knew it was
taking place at the Roundup. He knew he had to get back there. But he
couldn't recall what it was, knowing only that he had to return. He
recalled nothing of the details of his previous evening excepting the
vision of the new girl.
Each subsequent day following was a repitition of the former. He slept
more poorly each day, barely ate, and became increasingly detached from
the reality around him. All he knew was he had to return to the Roundup
even though he could not recall why.
Three days later, Trudeau was placed on unpaid sick leave. His wife
moved in with her boyfriend that very night, leaving Dan alone in their
small second floor apartment.
It was nearly 5:00 PM when he awoke from his troubled sleep for the last
time, realizing that the early winter sun would yield to darkness shortly.
Stumbling to the wash basin, he surveyed himself in the mirror. His eyes
were sunken from lack of sleep and nourishment, his face covered with ugly
stubble. He washed, then shaved, then moved to the dresser only to find
his underwear supply depleted. Moving to the opposite side of the bed, he
discovered his wifes lingerie, left behind in her haste to leave him.
Rationalizing that he needed underwear, he donned a pair of satin,
French-cut panties. Without question, he pulled on her cut-off blue jeans,
his cheeks hanging out below the non-existant legs. Nearly four days with
virtually no solid food had shrunk his waste to the point that they easily
buckled. He grabbed the first shirt he could find--a white cotton T with a
teal, grey and pink unicorn printed on the front, slid his feet into a
pair of straw sandals on the floor and started toward the stairs. He
walked down the steps, out to the street.
The crowds, as always, were already there. A large man in a dark blue
suit stepped wide around him as Trudeau, emmaciated and tired looking,
made his way up the sidewalk. "Look at that one," the man said
as he and his companion made their way on up the sidewalk, "Jesus,
you don't know what he might be carrying."
Trudeau paid him no heed as he turned the corner toward the Roundup.
"So what do you think happened to him, Captain?"
Captain Lecroix couldn't help but notice the cynical sneer on Officer
Hutchin's face as he posed the question. He knew that Hutchin's and
Trudeau hated each other's guts. Philosophically, they were polar
opposites. While Trudeau was genuinely concerned for everyone and
everything on his watch, Hutchin's motivations served one person and one
person only--Hutchins. His explanation that a family inheritance put a new
Porsche in the $14,000 per year officer's garage, didn't fly with his
commanding officer. Only one thing had kept him from summarily firing the
arrogant cop: his replacement would likely be every bit as corrupt in time
and inexperienced to begin.
He maintained his civility. "I suspect," Lecroix reply cooly, "that
it was the death of his friend, Sylvia."
"Shit," Hutchins laughed, "you mean you think he went
over the edge over the death of some black, tranny hooker?"
Lecroix glared at his subordinate. "She," he went on,
emphatically, "just like you and just like me, was a person,
struggling her way through life. And she was murdered. With Trudeau off,
I'm giving you the case."
"What'd the M.E. have to say?"
"She drowned," Lecroix replied.
"How the fuck did she drown," Hutchins queiried? "The
body was in the courtyard, a mile from the river. You think someone stuck
her head in a bucket or something?"
"There were no bruises. No force apparently was used. The officers
who investigated said that there was no source of water at the scene
except for the sinks and toilets in the bar. And no one saw her come back
in once she'd stepped out back. But," he paused, preparing for the
anger he knew would be elicited by Hutchins likely repsonse to what he was
going to say next, "she didn't drown with water?"
"What, then," Hutchins asked?
Hutchins gathered his breath. "According to the M.E., her mouth,
throat, trachea and even part of her lungs were filled with..." He
stopped to gather his breath again. "She drowned in semen, nearly a
gallon of it."
Hutchins howled with laughter, bending over into a belly laugh. "Shit,"
he said, finally able to regain his composure, "where I come from,
we'd of lynched the faggot nigger anyhow."
Lecroix caught his temper in check before succombing to the desire to
punch Hutchins in his round, red face. "Listen, you fucking red neck
bastard. If I ever hear you say anything like that again, I'll have your
badge so fast your head--what little head you've got--will spin. The last
thing we need is even a hint of racism, let alone some redneck bully
pissing off everyone he's supposed to be protecting. And let me tell you
something: the only thing standing between you walking around the streets
and laying in a ditch is that badge. If you weren't a cop, there's a
hundred people within two blocks of here who'd like nothing more than to
beat you to death. Get outta' here."
Hutchins smirked as he turned to leave.
"And shut the goddam door!"
Hutchins closed it behind him.
"You look like shit, man. You OK?" Clevis Sizemore, the
bartender at the Roundup, was genuinely concerned for the cop who had
become his friend. The crowd was light at this early evening period. He
raised the trap door entrance to the bar, and took a seat next to Trudeau.
"What's wrong, Dan," he asked?
"Cleve, I don't know what's wrong with me. My memory...it's not
working. I remember coming here each night and then, all I've got is a
blank. They won't let me work anymore, my wife took off with some son of a
bitch, I don't even know where she's at. You gotta' help me."
Sizemore leaned over the bar and removed a Bud from the cooler. "Here,
it's on me."
Trudeau, sipped the beer slowly.
"You don't remember anything," the bartender asked?
"Nothing."
"OK, let me fill you in. The last three nights I've been on duty,
there's been a cunt here waiting for you. Hottest looking bitch I've ever
seen. Always sits right about where were at now. She's a pro. Does at
least a dozen guys a night. Must specialize in oral 'cause she don't got
enough time to go somewhere, get her clothes off and get back. Last few
nights, when you come in, you say hi to everyone, then you see her. As
soon as you do, it's like you're off to Mars. You don't speak, you don't
move, you just stand behind her stool. She leaves you standing there while
she goes out and does her thing. Then after about five or six more guys,
the two of you leave together. You do the same thing every night. She gets
up, you follow her to the door like a puppydog, then hold the door open
for her and you leave together. Oh, yeah: one other thing--you always say
"thank you, Mistress," as you leave so everyone can hear. Then
the next night, you do the same thing again. Only problem is, the next
night you always look a little worse than the night before. Do you
remember any of this?"
"What's happening to me?"
"You talking to the wrong guy," Cleve replied. "You need
more help than I can give you. Maybe you oughta' talk to Tina LaRue when
she comes in."
"The...the lady with the voodoo shop?"
"You betcha', Dan. I think you be possessed."
Trudeau dwelled for a moment on his friend's suggestion. "You may
be right. It's starting to come back to me now. The things I've been
doing...the feelings I've been having. Cleve, please, come to the restroom
with me."
Cleve looked at Trudeau in shock. His friend the cop had never shown any
indication of being gay. Dan read the expression on his face. "No,
no...not that," he intoned. "I want to show you something."
Cleve shrugged. Even though he didn't think Dan was gay, he
certainly was, and he found the smaller man most attractive. "Sure,"
he said. "Won't hurt nothing to look."
He followed Dan to the back of the bar, to the men's room, followed him
inside and bolted the door shut. As he turned toward his friend, he saw
his back as Trudeau was removing his shirt. "Cleve," Dan asked
as, shirt open, he slowly turned to face his friend, the gay bartender, "what
is happending?"
Cleve recoiled, repulsed by what Dan turned to show him. Even as the cop
had lost weight, he had grown two, very obvious, very pointed, small
breasts. "My god," he exclaimed. "You've been on hormones?"
"No," Dan protested, "I haven't. This started at about
the same time as my blackouts. Every day they get a little bigger and
they're sore as hell. It stings when my shirt rubs against them."
Cleve pondered the possible explanations of what was happening, as he
appraised the changes in his friend. Actually, he thought to himself, Dan
looked so helpless standing there with his shirt off and his little girl
tits showing. He stepped closer to him, put his arms around him, and
pulled his head into his chest. Dan began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably
into the comforting embrace of his friends burly chest. "There,
there, hon," Cleve said, trying to comfort the
mysteriously-feminizing cop. "Don't cry, baby...ol' Cleve will take
care of you."
As they stood, embracing in the restroom, Clever could feel the
prominent buds of his friends nipples, erect and pushing against his own
stomach.
Pulling Dan closer yet, with his burly left arm, his right hand worked
its way underneath the cops loose belt line. Finding Dan's suprisingly
plump right buttocks, he gently kneaded it with his fingertips. Both men
began to moan softly as they embraced more and more tightly, undulating
their hips, pressing them together.
*come to me...now*
At the instant the voice occurred in Dan's mind, he pushed his friend
away, leaving him frustrated and panting in the men's room.
Zombie-like, an emotionless expresssion upon his face, Dan parted the
crowd now forming around the pool table, and assummed his position behind
Mistress Stephanie at the bar. She was shockingly enticing. A black vinyl
mini-skirt, an open waisted, matching bustiere, and--tonight--incredibly
lush, long pink hair.
*are you ready to cross?*
*yes, mistress. why am i only able to think and remember when i am with
you?*
*it is our order. no one, no mortal on the outside may know of us. if
they do, we must take them. that is why Cassandra had to take your friend
Sylvia. she knew. she recognized.*
*yes, mistress. but...but...*
*yes, my pet, you may be as candid as you wish*
*mistress...i don't know yet if i am ready...it has all happened so
fast...i don't know if i want to do this to people...i don't know if i
can.*
Thousands of year's of vampyric evolution coursed through Stephanie's
brain. Instinctively, she responded in voice, even as she released
Trudeau's mind, to allow him to do likewise: "Do you desire me?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Do you find me captivatingly, irresistably alluring?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Do you desire, more than anything else to spend all time with me?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"To do that, you must be one such as I. Do you want to be just like
me?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Then tell me just that."
"I want to be just like you."
"Again."
"I want to be just like you."
"Again."
"I want to be just like you."
"That is all that is required."
*follow me to the courtyard*
Hutchins followed the hooker as she turned the corner off Bourbon.
Never, in all of his days shaking down whores and hustlers, had he ever
seen anything to compare with her.
Skin-tight purple satin hot-pants seemed to have been painted upon her
plush derierre. The scoop-cut halter top, held her full breasts together,
revealing cleavage deep enough to bury your head in. Erect, cone-shaped
nipples were clearly visible behind the taut fabric. Oh, he'd get what he
wanted from this one--but it wouldn't be money.
Cassandra, her back to him, was well aware of what he wanted and fully
aware of his every thought, and the mean spirit lurking them.
Turning slightly to the left, so the silohuette of her naturally
cantilivered breast would be clearly outlined for Hutchins, against the
whitewashed wall of the old house next to her, she looked up the street at
a pot-bellied middle aged man, in a plaid sport coat, who had been staring
at her.
*come to me*
Enraptured, the tourist came towards her, moving diagonally up the
street, oblivious to the taxi which swerved to miss him.
Hutchins smiled to himself as he watched the scene unfold. This was
going to be too easy and he hadn't got his rocks off since last Friday
when the bitch he took the money from had tried to negotiate a blow-job
bargain-plea.
Sure enough, the john approached the hooker and the two of them
disappeared into the dark area between the two houses, taking a position
at the back. This is too easy, he thought to himself as he moved up the
sidewalk for a better vantage. The security light at the rear illuminated
their whole scene as if they were stage lights. The john was shaking so
much, he could barely remove his wallet from his hip pocket.
Hutchins ran across the street and peaked from around the corner of the
white house. This must be the dumbest bitch in the world, he thought, to
do this in such a visible spot.
Shaking still, the tourist removed a bill which the bitch held up to the
light, to check for authenticity. Maybe she wasn't so dumb afterall. From
his vantage point, he could see it was a 100. Placing the bill in the
large, black patent bag slung over her shoulder, without further ado, she
dropped to her knees in front of the tourist and sensuously, slowly,
lowered his zipper, never once breaking eye contact with her client who
seemed unable to look away. With her dagger-length, blood red nails, she
freed his hard-on, if one could call it that.
Hutchins laughed to himself. The pathetic thing, fully erect, could be
no more than four inches long and about the girth of a thumb. But, as he
continued to watch, the seductive creature focussed her attention on the
work at hand, stroking the backs of her nails up and down its length, then
tongue bathing it as she pulled it closer and closer to her full, ripe
lips.
Hutchins watched it awe. Though fully erect already, the tourist's rod
began to grow. Five inches, six, eight...it must have grown to ten inches,
as thick as a wrist. The hooker took it into her mouth and began moving
her head back and forth, leaving clearly visible trails of bright red
lipstick up and down the length of the still-growing shaft.
Hutchins, himself, was beginning to lose control, kneading his own erect
member through his jeans.
Suddenly, a piercing cry, overwhelming the cacophony of Bourbon Street a
block away, split the night. The tourist screamed--an other-worldly
scream, growing in pitch and amplitude until it became the cry of some
unknown, evil predator, merging with a like sounding cry from another
animal. Hutchins rubbed himself harder and faster. He couldn't believe
what he was seeing. The john and the hooker were still fastened together,
her lips wrapped around his now-enormous member, both howling like wolves
in heat, even as semen poured from the corners of her lips.
The tourist's eyes rolled back in his head as he fainted dead away,
toppling backwards. The hooker, still on her knees, leaned only slightly
forward, catching the john's entire weight in her hand, lowering him
gently to a seated position on the ground, as if he weighed no more than a
doll.
Jesus, Hutchins thought to himself, she's gotta' be strong. Must be a
body builder. Probably works out every day.
"I don't have to," the intoxicatingly mellow, low female voice
said. Hutchins looked around him...there was no one remotely close. He
looked back up between the two houses. The hooker stood, looking directly
at him as if she'd known he was there all along. She smiled, a calm, cool,
sensuous smile as she inserted her hand between her cleavage, lifting her
left bosom from its satin confines for Hutchins' appreciatiation. She
allowed it to drop, exposed for Hutchins pleasure, points of pleasure
protruding from the circumference of her lid-sized ariole, her erect
nipple thrusting out at least an inch.
Hutchins was going to have her but first he was going to have some fun.
With his badge folder open in his left hand and his personal 9mm Smith &
Wesson in his right, he approached her. "Police," he yelled, "stop
right there!"
One cool dude, Hutchins thought as he drew closer. The vision continued
to look at him, smiling cooly as he approached, showing no signs of
concern over her possible arrest. "Want some baby," she purred,
pulling her other bosom free and letting it drop out and over the halter.
Hutchins was confused as he stared, first at her immense breasts, then
into her deep, green eyes...very deep...very green...very, very
deep...so...very...very...very...deeeeeep...
*follow me*
Trudeau lay, unmoving, on the ground in the courtyard, adjacent to the
yellow, plastic "crime scene" tape.
Stephanie stood above him, pulling her skirt, hiked up to her waste,
back down. She would give him time, perhaps an hour, to recover his
strength. Then she would give him the final taste which would give him
immortality and a new gender.
This was what she wanted. Of all the people there at the Roundup the
first time Trudeau had walked in, it was his psyche which had overwhelmed
all the others--his strength of character, his karma, his pureness. She
had read his mind and known it fully, completely in an instant, including
the misery of his daily life. Now, she would help him to the immortality
and physical presence she had achieved. They would spend eternity
together.
Cassandra, in Stephanie's mind, was evil. She hadn't altered Stephanie
out of concern or love. She had done so--as far as Stephanie knew--for the
mere amusement it had provided her.
She would leave Cassandra tomorrow night, taking Dan Trudeau--soon to be
Danielle--with her forever.
*you are a stupid, ignorant, precoscious, arrogant child*
Stephanie spun. There, in the shadow, stood Cassandra, a new captive,
unknown to Stephanie stood behind.
Cassandra glanced at Trudeau, laying on the ground, his chest barely
moving.
"You are quite the ungrateful little bitch aren't you. You meant to
abandon me. For him," she said, pointing at Trudeau? Cassandra
laughed, out loud, a cruel, mean laugh.
"Soon to be HER," Stephanie corrected.
"Soon to be DEAD," Cassandra retorted emphatically.
Something in Cassandras voice told Stephanie that she was not kidding.
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps, my child, seed of my seed," Cassandra continued
cooly, "I overstated my description of you. Disregard the stupid,
ignorant, precoscious, arrogant child description. Let's just stick with
ignorant."
Stephanie started, in a threatening manner, to start towards Cassandra,
her vestigual male instancts flaring. Suddenly, every single muscle in her
body cramped, immobilizing her in place like a statue.
"Never, never, never do anything that stupid again. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, Mistress Cassandra," Stephanie replied, wondering even
as she did, why she had referred to her mentor that way, a manner she had
not used since her transition.
"Did you believe you could know everything about our kind, our
traditions, our abilities, our thousands of years of accumulated wisdom in
just a few brief days?"
"But," Stephanie stuttered, "you told me I am just like
you...with the same abilities...the same powers..."
"True, my little slut," Cassandra replied, "but, like
most things in life--or death if you will--it is all a matter of degree.
Does a five year old have the same limbs, the same organs, the same
intelligence potential in some cases, as a brain surgeon?"
"Of course," Stephanie replied. "What's your point,"
she flared, immediately feeling a cramping in her muscles, then forcing
herself to calm down again.
"Therefore, you would permit the five year old to perform upon you,
a delicate surgery, perhaps the removal of a tumor?"
"Of course not."
"Therein, my pet, lies the rub...experience. Despite having all the
tools, a five year old, lacking the experience, the training and the
practice would, inevitably, kill the patient, just as you are about to do
your friend here."
Stephanie began to cry, small trails of semen running from what had
formerly been her tear ducts. She turned to look at the all-too mortal.
The last feeding she had forced upon him had spawned the changes she had
anticipated. Trudeau's breasts had grown enormously even as his breathing
had shallowed. Stephanie stood, speechless, aghast at what she had done.
"Just like the medications prescribed by a physician, sequence,
frequency, and the amount of our "injections" are basic to the
process. The wrong dosage, the wrong sequence, the wrong frequency and you
can obtain entirely different results from those desired. This, you
ignorant cunt, is knowledge I've gleened over centuries of trial and
error, knowledge which, had you been more loyal, I might have chosen to
share with you."
"Please," Stephanie pleaded, watching as the life drained
further from her lover-to-be, "tell me...is there anything I can do?"
"Doubtful," Cassandra replied, a cruel sneer crossing her
lips, "he--well, she now--has gone too far." In her mind,
Cassandra set the stage for the cruel tableaux she knew was about to
unfold. "But there might be a way."
"This much I will tell you: the sequence. As I told you previously,
each time we dine on a male, we take not only a bit of his nourishment but
a bit of his male essence with it. If we feed enough times upon a given
male, we gradually remove all of its maleness."
"To transition one of them, we must remove in this manner,
virtually all of their maleness before replacing it with our own essence.
If the sequence is incorrect, if for instance, our essence and its need
for nourishment were implanted into a male before his male essence was
removed, you would create a male being with none of our powers, but would
never-the-less share our insatiable appetite for male jism; in effect, a
fairy cock-sucker who lived for nothing else. The little sweetheart would
be, by the way, quite mortal."
"Immortality has to immediately precede final transition, and can
only occur with the intake of our immortal jism, which must be absorbed
over time into the bloodstream. If you attempt to introduce this component
before the male factors have been adequately eliminated, and immortality
has been obtained, the transition, in and of itself, takes so much of the
transitioner's strength that they die."
Stephanie turned, staring blankly at what was now Danielle, as she took
what appeared to be "her" final dieing breaths. Sobbing, she
turned to Cassandra. "Please, Mistress," she pleaded, "do
you, in you wisdom know of any way I might save her?"
"Hmmmm," Casandra said, feigning deep thought, "I do
recall, a couple of hundred years ago in Persia, hearing a story about a
similar situation in which our one of our types introducing jism directly
to the bloodstream rather than through the alimentary canal. It's rather
un-tidy though as it requires the tearing of certain "delicate
tissues" in order to permit our essence to enter."
Almost instantaneously, Stefanie was over Danielle, rolling the comatose
form onto her stomach, pulling Danielle's shorts down as she lifted her
own skirt up. She ripped off her panties and immediately her tiny penis
grew to horse-like proportions. Without hesitation, she thrust it forward,
impaling the sphincter of the one she sought to save.
*your will is now you own* Cassandra stepped back into the shadows
permitting Hutchins an unobstructed view of the scene in front of him. He
blinked momentarily as consciousness and reality merged into one, to see a
pink-haired slut in a vinyl outfit ass-fucking what appeared to be..."Trudeau!"
he yelled.
Tudeau's eyes opened as (s)he heard the name called.
"Oh, baby," Stephanie pleaded, seeing signs of life and
realizing her last second effort might be working. "Now, NOW!"
She exploded into Danielle, her essence beginning to migrate through the
mutilated tissues. Danielle's eyes opened wider. "What, what..."
she stuttered.
"Please, Danielle, please stay with me. Now, now you've got to feed
on me now before it's too late."
Stephanie helped Danielle into a seated position and thrust her
now-mammoth organ through Danielle's parted lips as she began to feed
ravenously.
Cassandra smiled cruelly from the shadows as she watched Hutchins,
revolted by what he saw, do exactly what she expected of him. As Stephanie
pumped her hips, losing control, the first shot from Hutchin's 9mm slammed
into her left temple, leaving a small entry wound, but blowing a fourth of
the right side of her head away. The impact knocked her five feet aside.
Danielle, uncomprehending of what was going on, turned to look in
Hutchins direction. The first bullet caught her in the forehead, directly
between the eyes, knocking her back onto the ground. Hutchins stood over
the prone body. "You fucking faggot, I knew there was something about
you I couldn't stand," he said, as Trudeaus corpse regained its
original male form. He emptied the 9mm's clip into Trudeau's lifeless
chest.
Hearing movement behind him, he turned. A crowd from the bar had rushed
out to see what was the matter. "Get the fuck back, you faggots,"
he commanded. "I'm a cop," he yelled brandishing his badge and
his gun. "You, in the pink shirt," he screamed at a slightly
built guy, "call the police now. Those two attacked me," he
continued gesturing at the two bodies he thought were behind him.
The doorway cleared as Hutchins turned to compliment himself on his
marksmanchip. Cassandra smiled, unseen in the shadows as Stephanie,
shaking her hair back into position, approached the lone officer, from
behind. "What the..." Hutchins was shocked to see the body of
the pink-haired whore gone from where he thought it had dropped. The
impact must have knocked her behind the planter he thought.
He bent over the body of his fallen fellow officer, and turned the
corpse's head sideways to inspect the damage he'd inflicted. Bone
fragments were stuck throughout Trudeau's hair. Yet, there was no blood,
just thick, white goo in the hair and on the lawn beneath the body,
entrapping the bone fragments in its mass.
"What the fuck..." he said aloud as, without warning, a hand
with superhuman strength, twisted his head around as the largest dick he
could ever imagine was forced down his throat.
"Has anyone fucking seen Hutchins?"
Captain Lecroix was furious. Two murders in one week, one of them his
own man. Now Hutchins, the officer at the scene of the second murder, was
missing.
From down the hallway, a voice called back. "We got him in custody,
Captain."
"You fucking what? Get your ass up here."
Patrolmen Goldsmitt's feet could be heard doing double-time up the
marble floored hallway, towards the Captain's office.
"Yes, sir," he panted, out of breath.
"What the fuck you mean you got him. Damn it I want him at work,
not arrested."
"It wasn't us, sir. It was vice. They got him about 4:00 AM down by
the riverwalk."
"Oh, shit," Lecroix moaned. "Don't tell me vice got him
for shaking down another whore."
"Uh, no sir, nothing like that."
"Well, what then," Lecroix roared.
"Uh..."
"Out with it, goddam it. What"
"Uh...blow jobs, Captain."
"He fucking what? What do you mean? He was paying for blow jobs? I
can't believe it. He get all he wants for free from those poor whores on
the street."
"Uh, no sir, Captain. That's why he hasn't been charged yet.
Legal's still looking into it. He wasn't paying to get them, he was paying
to give them. He annoyed some tourists down on the riverwalk."
"Get his ass in here..." Lecroix barked, "NOW!"
Five minutes later, Goldsmitt lead the manacled Hutchins into Lecroix's
office. "Get outta' here," he directed Goldsmitt, "I want
to talk to him alone."
The door closed and Lecroix stood, facing Hutchins. For half a minute,
they stood, neither speaking, looking at one another's face. Finally,
Lecroix broke the silence. Turning back towards his desk for effect, he
spun around, facing Hutchins again. "Well," he demanded, "you
want to tell me what the fuck happened?"
But instead of replying, Hutchins dropped his gaze to the Captain's
groin. Thrusting his hip to the left, he stood, his elbows out, both hands
resting on his hips.
"Ooooooo, Captain," he said, his eyes still fixed in place on
his superior officer's crotch, "I bet you have just the biggest,
sweetest tastiest cock in the wholoe world. Can I suck it for you and make
you feel good," he purred.
"Goldsmitt," Lecroix screamed, "get his ass out
of here! NOW!"
