Preface

 

A dozen books ago, I thought about writing a novel about the somewhat confusing and mysterious world of transgender, transsexual, gay, lesbian and transvestite communities. Meeting people at international events dedicated to BDSM or the other erotic pleasures convinced me that not only was there a market for pure S&M stories, but that if handled right, the entire genre could serve as a setting for an even more complex and erotic tale.

Pink Flamingo, my publisher, encouraged me to write more Femdom stories and this put me in the mind to create something a bit different from the dozen books of mine they have published over the years.

Names and incidents in this novel are purely fictitious and any resemblance to anyone living or dead, is purely coincidental. The use of actual places and locations is merely for entertainment purposes and is not factual.

Chapter One

Lights, Camera, Auction

 

"Billie Ray, you worthless bag of cat excrement, get my bath ready and then finish up the laundry. If the bath is so much as two degrees off, your balls will go into the Cuisinart. You are without a doubt, the most useless housemaid I've ever had."

Billie Ray Cammerly's step mother, Ethyl Gazze, was once again wondering why the hell she had ever agreed to take on the boy after his parents perished in a hot air balloon accident. After all, he was now twenty and in theory and legally, able to take care of himself. He would have died with them, but chose to jump from the smoking balloon basket and land safely in a big pine tree only a few feet below the rapidly descending gondola.

"You owe me," Ethyl often said, and she made sure that Billie Ray paid dearly for the roof over his head and the disgusting meals Ethyl made for him now and then. When he reached nineteen, he should have headed for college, but was often told that if he left this place he called home, he could never come back, and so he stayed with Ethyl and her strange friends.

The men who visited her decided that Billie was fair game and began to use him as often as they used his stepmother and the time came when three men and Ethyl decided that little, twenty something tow-headed, slightly frail-looking Billie might make a better girl than he was as a boy, so they put together a suitable "fuck-Me" wardrobe, took an album full of lewd and suggestive still photos and two five minute videos of him and sent these off to several brokers they knew might have an interest. A few weeks later, plans were secretly made to consign him to a Specialty Auction in a nearby city where he was quickly sold and shipped off over the border to a school where boys became girls, whether they liked it or not.

True, Billie Ray had many physical assets that would, they said, ease the gender change. He was only an inch over five feet tall, had long, well-proportioned legs, virtually no beard on a too pretty face for a man and was blessed, his owners said, with a fair complexion. They bought him special underwear and taught him to tuck his sex between his thighs and walk in high heels, carefully placing one foot ahead of the other and just enough off center so that his hips swung slightly. They used a hair removal product on his entire body, glued authentic-looking silicone breast forms to his chest and showed him how to do his make-up. Initially, the false breasts were small and barely required a bra, but as his time at the school became months instead of days, he was introduced to push-up bras that actually gave him/her a reasonably explicit set of girl boobs. A daily dose of hormones slowly improved that category as well as adding some flesh to his hips.

By the time he came onto the stage at the auction, most of the crowd had already spent what cash they came with and were eighty percent stoned. The bidding on Billie Ray was unenthusiastic and went slowly that night. In the end, trying to meet their sales goals, the auctioneers quietly sold him/her to three women who said they'd take the slowly developing gurl back to their native country in Southeast Asia and finish what the others started.

The deal was done and Billie, tired, cute and miserable in bra, panties, suspender belt and hose, was collared, gagged, hooded and tightly bound in a hog tie. They dropped him/her into the boot of a big, luxury German car and drove away, leaving the auctioneers convinced that it was best for all concerned and that the boy/girl would do well in her new home, providing that her real breasts developed a bit more or she got some surgical help in four critical departments: genitals, ass, breasts and cheek bones.

The new owners had enough other business on their minds to not be overly concerned or worried about Billie, so they put him on a slow-moving, Turkish cruise ship and sent him/her off to undergo some additional trans surgery. Within a week, somewhere in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, Billie, who was now, from appearances, more girl than boy, was taken from her cage below deck and strapped to a cold metal operating table. Her gag was removed and she was told that if she made a sound she'd have what was left of her male privates painfully removed with a dull steak knife. Billie blinked back the tears that she already shed daily. She bit her tongue while two young women in surgical gowns prepped her, again used a strong depilatory on her entire body, took plaster impressions of her teeth and mouth and discussed her body as though she wasn't even there.

The lead surgeon of this surgical circus, Doctor Janet Webb, spoke as they explored Billie's nearly flat chest with its tiny nipples.

"The mones seem to be working nicely, but we've got to improve on what nature and the pharmacy have begun to create. Who wants to work on what?"

"The ass is okay," Doctor Cynthia Bailey, the number two surgeon and an escapee from the UK's national health system, said as she poked and prodded Billie's various nearly fatless parts. "But the hips need a tweak, the cheekbones have to be enlarged, the Adam's apple taken out and the tits adjusted. Janet, what do you want to work on? I've got the tits," she added, laughing while she poked and pinched Billie's undeveloped chest, annoyed that the nearly flat breast forms that he/she still wore seemed to be permanently attached. "Some fool used a two part epoxy to attach these boobs and so far I haven't found a solvent to take them off."

"Cut the suckers off," Doctor Webb suggested, half in jest and anxious to move ahead with the conversion.

"No. I'll try acetone and peel them away slowly," Bailey suggested.

Dollie Locanivitch, MD, Bailey's professional companion, snorted. "Oh, great. Thanks Bailey. You always leave me with the crap work," she moaned as she put on the surgical cap, gloves and mask. Her specialty was toes and fingers, but demands of the current business model required her to move into other plastic surgeries as well, which she actually hated. "Oh hell, let's get to it. Whoever finishes first gets to do the cock and balls as a reward."

"You wish," said Bailey.

Chapter Two

Business As Usual

 

"A fond welcome to those of you who are new guests," Hakima bin Casimada bin Mohammad al Hecreto, the evening's special auction host, addressed the attentive and already slightly plastered audience in the ship's

main salon.

The company that sponsored these events knew from experience that the small additional expense of providing complimentary drugs and alcohol always paid off because most bidders got sloppy after three or four glasses of champagne or a couple of fat, weed-stuffed cigars. What might have initially looked like a short, fat, heavily tattooed young woman with drooping breasts and a cellulite ass on the display stage seemed to become more desirable as the auction progressed. One buyer from Canada was heard to often repeat his favorite mantra that seemed to imply that his clients were only interested in the fuckability of slaves he provided. His favorite line was: "So what if she has a face like a pig. Who looks at the chimney while they'd stoking the fire?"

Indeed, buyers often fought over a product that was designated as "disposable" by the auctioneers but which, near the end of the program was getting bids that she never would have merited with a sober audience.

"It is possible, Hakima often said to her associates," that they are so attentive because the naked, chained young men and women bound uncomfortably to the posts and pillars around me now appear more desirable to their muddled brains, thanks to the generous indulgences we provide. But, of course, that is just great marketing on our part and we have never regretted the alcohol and drug expenses. If this is what it takes to get their cocks up and their wallets open, then it is Allah's wish. For it is written that 'to find a good slave is easy. To keep a great slave is a challenge.' "

Hakima spoke softly, in nearly a monotone. She knew well that the various quotations she frequently attributed to fictious deities, saviors and celebrities were so much bull shit, but it made her job easier if her clients thought they were abiding by some ancient writings or religious pontifications. Indeed. Of course, there were always a few hecklers. That very morning, a middle-aged broker from Ghagestan who looked a bit disheveled, shouted from the audience: "Oh please, Haki, spare us the quotations from nowhere and get on with it. We do not have all day to listen to your baseless babble. But tell us, where is that last quote supposedly from."

Without a moment's hesitation, the hostess quickly responded:

"Ah yes, Mister Warrinovitch, you seek enlightenment regarding the source of my references to the scriptures? Well, my dear heathen friend, I must point out that over the past two years you have tried, (unsuccessfully, I might add), to return products which you bought from this auction. In each case, our unbiased, third party investigators found that the products had been badly abused and were essentially worthless thanks to your poor care and attention. At one time, you and your property managers were barred from this event. Keeping a good slave requires attention and basic care that you and yours do not seem to understand. I can offer a simple solution, if you like."

"Yes, and what is your stinking solution? The Sicestani asked with a sneer.

"The solution, for the comfort of all present, is that you leave now. All contracts between you and us are terminated and void."

 

"Nah," shouted the Stani, realizing that she was calling his bluff. "No thanks. I have enough scriptures on the walls of my private plert to last me another hundred years."

"But of course, My Friend," Hakima said, smiling. "Of course, you are well versed in the writings from cave walls of Mesopotamia? May I proceed now, Sir?"

"Yes. Proceed."

Still carefully working her long proven script, Hakima turned back to her audience and continued:

"We welcome you and want to take this opportunity to remind those of you who are long term guests, as well as new members, that bidding for any product offered here tonight is unlimited in every respect. However, you must indicate your bid by pressing the remote button on your chair's left arm rest or simply by using whatever bidding indication you have arranged with the auctioneer, who is, of course, me." Hakima laughed a deep, almost masculine, laugh that made her elaborate hooded head dressing appear to shiver.

"You have already inspected the merchandise, so you know that there are no warrantees and that each product, though carefully inspected and trained, is sold 'as is.' Once made, no bids can be withdrawn," she continued. And hopefully, you have ignored the whining, the promises of gratuitous sex and other bogus entreaties?"

"What about jewelry?" another female buyer in the crowd shouted.

"As is written in the contract you signed, Doctor Hippe, any hardware attached to your purchase is part of the deal. Also, as you know, I'm sure, some attachments, as well as tattoos, are more or less permanent and may require surgery for removal. That is your option, of course."

"Yes, yes. Of course," the woman continued. "But some of this junk that they have stuck in their nose, cheeks, eyebrows and tongue is worthless. There is always the risk of infection from such pointless devices and I had hoped that you and your excellent staff might remove such trivia before the sale."

"I agree," Hakima said quickly. "But young women and men these days do stupid things to their bodies. So do their owners. Consider the multiple hanging weights on the lower lips or the cheap jewels imbedded in the foreskin of the cock or clit. This stuff is part of the malignant, destructive culture of today's youth. Putting tattoos on a slave, albeit temporary, is like painting graffiti on an alley wall. And the costs of removal are similar. Were we to undertake removal of all of this crap, our operating costs would sky rocket and thus, so would the prices you pay to acquire them. Thus, it is up to you, the new owners, to decide about such things. Some of these can be easily adjusted. For example, one client recently bought, at a fair price, a very attractive trans gender product that had an array of truly awful tattoos on the left arm. Removal, the client knew, would be expensive and would limit the slave's usefulness for a time, so she, the owner, had the slave's left arm removed. The audience groaned. Hakima smiled and continued.

"I have customers who simply will not accept tattoos and or body piercings. Period," said the buyer. "This leaves fewer candidates for us to consider."

"We realize that, Doctor. And we share your concern. Many women today choose to emulate celebrities and sports figures, having no clue about the impact such inane disfigurements will have on their future lives. Let me say this to hopefully moderate your concern. You, as a physician and longtime client, should you wish to purchase any contaminated individual here, can be assured that I will personally discount the final price of anything you buy. This should compensate you for removal costs you may incur."

"Thank-you," the buyer responded. "That is fair enough. I agree with your comments and have found over time that the tattooed subjects often have personal psychological problems that defy normal diagnostic tests but which inevitably reveal serious mental issues."

"Indeed, my dear doctor. We monitor this issue carefully. Our policy is that if we do not find any surface ink on a new subject, we keep them isolated to see exactly what other debasement of body and soul they may exhibit. After two weeks in isolation, you might be surprised at what we discover."

"There are no surprises in this game, Madame Chairman. Just new mysteries," Dr. Hippe, the client, said as he wandered off into the secure area where products yet to be sold were kept. He passed a small cage with a whimpering, pale, apparently female body secured by wrists, feet and neck to the heavy bars and wearing an iron brank that obscured the tormented face. There were new bandages below the waist and some smaller ones with recent blood stains on the arms and legs.

On the top of the cage, in several languages was a detailed notation that said that this specimen had no diseases, no piercings, no tattoos and was at stage three of gender transition and to alert the dispensary if the patient exhibited any problematic issues.

"There is an interesting creature in sector three," the doctor said to Hakima once he returned to the auction floor. "Looked like an ideal candidate for a housemaid or perhaps even a fuck toy for the teenagers in the house. Probably damaged beyond redemption, though. Perhaps this is a long term effect of previous training, parenting or schooling," Hippe mused to himself as he moved on to a more brightly lit area of the warehouse. "But medical records continue to be the best source providing clear evidence that prolonged depression and an occasional beating in early life tend to encourage the need for further permanent damage to body and mind."