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Urban Legend By Candi Everyone's heard the story of the guy who is drugged by a prostitute and wakes up the next morning in a bathtub full of ice with a note next to him that says, "If you want to live, call 911!" After being taken to the hospital, the man is told that his kidneys have been stolen. There have never been any documented cases of organ theft carried out in this manner; this is what is called and Urban Legend, but like most legends, there is a kernel of truth upon which it is based. Here's the real story... Bill always considered himself a pretty normal guy although some people may have disagreed. To the casual observer he had it all, a high-paying job, a nice car and a beautiful girlfriend, Cheryl. In addition to being beautiful, Cheryl was intelligent, funny and a doctor. Unfortunately for Bill, she was also old fashioned and insisted that she would not sleep with Bill until they were married. This never presented too much of a problem for Bill, because (unbeknownst to Cheryl), he got his sexual thrills by sleeping around with prostitutes. In fact, Bill continued to sleep with hookers until just a few months before he and Cheryl were to be married. One night about six weeks before the wedding, Cheryl was out of the country at a medical conference and Bill decided to get some action, so he called the expensive escort service that he had listed in his little black book and made the proper arrangements. That night, Bill went by the escort service and picked up his date-Trixie. After spending the night on the town, they eventually ended up at a hotel room downtown. Trixie, who turned out to be a lot more sophisticated than her name implied suggested they have some champagne. They toasted each other and that was the last thing Bill remembered. When Bill awoke, he found himself in a bathtub filled with ice. His arms, shoulders and head were above the ice as were his knees and feet. His body ached from the cold, but as he became more fully conscious, Bill realized that his pain was not entirely from the cold. He tried to lift himself out of the bathtub, but pain surged through him and he almost blacked out again. Quickly surveying his surroundings, looking for any clue as to what had been done to him, his attention was immediately drawn to a black, leather corset that was standing upright on the vanity. Attached to it was a note that read, "If you want to live, dial 911!" There was a phone next to the tub and Bill somehow managed to grab it in spite of the intense pain. He would have sworn that he had been bit in half by a shark. He could move his legs and feet with no pain, but any attempt to move his middle section was almost unbearable. He dialed 911, his fingers trembling in fear. What had been done to him beneath the ice? Bill was terrified of the answer. Ten minutes passed before Bill heard a knock at the door. "Hello, Mr. Thompson?" a voice called, "It's the hotel manager. Are you alright?" Bill tried to answer, but was finding that breathing was becoming more and more difficult and could not make much of a response. The hotel room door opened and Bill found himself surrounded by the hotel manager and two EMTs employed by the hotel. One of them asked him what was wrong and if they could help him. Bill nodded and whispered, "I feel like I've been sawed in half. What did she do to me?" "What did who do to you?," the woman responded. "You better call an ambulance," the EMT said to one of the hotel security officers who had just entered the room. "It's on its way," he responded, "but maybe you can tell us what this is?" he asked Bill motioning towards the corset. "I have no idea..." "There doesn't appear to be any neck or back injury," the EMT interrupted, "let's get him out of this tub." "No don't... AAAAuuuuuuuggggh!" Bill screamed in agony as the two EMTs and the security guard tried to lift him from the tub. "Jesus Christ," the other EMT exclaimed. "What in the hell..." Lifting Bill had shifted the ice and some had fallen on the floor revealing some of his stomach and chest. It was all bloody. "Oh, shit," he said as he began moving the ice out of the way. "What is it?" Bill asked in horror. He looked down at himself, but could only see bloody ice. "What is it?" he asked again. "It's just a little blood," the other EMT told him trying to keep him calm. "We need an ambulance NOW! ...And get a back board!" she shouted. Bill was not encouraged by her tone. As the EMTs continued to clear more ice from the tub, Bill was able to see his chest and stomach. On each side of his body starting at his crotch were arc shaped scars extending up and over his waist and presumably down his back side towards his buttocks. They were freshly stapled shut and blood oozed from between the staples. Another scar similarly stapled together went across his chest just above the bottom of his rib cage and a fourth scar ran from his belly button to the middle of his chest. Upon seeing the scars and the blood, Bill began to tremble and then shake violently and uncontrollably. Of course the shaking was unthinkably painful, but Bill couldn't stop himself. "What's happening to him?" the hotel manager asked. "He's going into shock," an EMT answered. "Where in the hell are the paramedics?" she shouted. "They're on their way up now," the manager responded. Bill looked down at himself, his vision blurred from the pain of his own shaking. He had never felt so scared in his life. But then it occurred to him why the EMTs were so stunned. His entire body had been horribly disfigured. It was as if half his middle section were gone; his legs attached to his chest by the smallest thread of flesh. "Oh, Jesus, help me!" he cried and passed out. When Bill regained consciousness he was in a hospital bed and two days had passed. He was groggy, but in substantially less pain. In fact, he was in little or no pain he noticed as he rolled from side to side, but he couldn't sit up. Trying to move around, he found that his hands were restrained. "What the...?" he said to himself. "Hello!" he called out. "Hello!" Two nurses rushed in. "He's come to," one of them said. "Better get the doctor." The other nurse left the room. "Why am I tied down?" Bill asked the nurse. She turned away uncomfortably. "I think you'd better wait and talk to the doctor." "But why am I restrained?" "Well, your... uh... scars, er, wounds are..." she hesitated. "It wouldn't do to have you moving around with your... um... garment. It could, in fact, re-open some of the... uh... sutures." "Sutures? Garment... what garment?" Bill asked impatiently. "Oh look, here comes the doctor," the nurse responded quickly and then left the room. The doctor walked in a few seconds later. He looked grim. "What's going on?" Bill asked, "What happened to me? Why am I restrained? What did the nurse mean by 'my garment'?" "Hold on, Mr. Thompson," the doctor said while pulling up a chair, "you're still in very serious condition. We don't want you to re-open your sutures." "Sutures?" "Well, yes, you see Mr. Thompson, you appear to have been operated on." "Operated? What did they do?" he looked down at himself in a panic. The doctor chuckled, understanding Bill's concern. "Oh don't worry, Mr. Thompson, I guarantee that you are still 100% intact down there. But it's puzzling. Whoever assaulted you seems to have removed a large percentage of your midsection including almost ninety-five percent of your abdominal and back muscles. They also removed your two bottom ribs." "But why would anyone do that?" Bill asked. "We were hoping, maybe, you could answer that question. You see, there was a woman's corset left in the hotel bathroom," the doctor continued, "and it was a perfect fit." "A perfect fit... for who?" Bill asked afraid of what he knew the answer would be. "Uh..." the doctor paused, "it was a perfect fit for you." The doctor looked at Bill as though he did not want to do what he was about to do, then he pulled back the covers on the bed. Bill looked down at himself and saw that he was wearing the corset. He could feel the blood leaving his face. "Just relax, Mr. Thompson, I know it's a little embarrassing, but, you see, an eighteen inch waist is just not very common. This was the only thing we could use." "Eighteen inches?" Bill looked down at himself and noted how feminine his slender waist looked. The corset had garters attached which hung down beside his legs. "How humiliating," he thought. "That's the reason you're restrained, until you heal, any movement inside that corset could rip your sutures open. It's all we can do to fight infection because the corset causes intense perspiration which bacteria love. "Then why don't you take it off?" Bill asked. "I know it would be painful, but in the long run wouldn't it be better if my muscles got a chance to get stronger?" The doctor leaned close to Bill. "I'll be frank with you, Mr. Thompson. You're muscles won't be getting any stronger because they're simply not there. And without those muscles to give support, the diaphragm has nothing to push against... I'm afraid that if you don't wear a corset, you will die of suffocation within a short period of time." Bill's day went from bad to worse as he found out more details about what had been done to him. In addition to removing most of the muscles in his abdomen, his assailant had also removed a substantial portion of his stomach. The doctors were at a loss to understand why anyone would do such a thing. In the meantime, the police questioned Bill extensively. Why had he been at the hotel? Who was the girl? He came clean and admitted that Trixie was a prostitute, but when the police searched the building where he had picked her up, they found that the office had been deserted. Further investigation revealed that the phone number in his black book had been disconnected only hours after he had made the arrangements and had apparently been set up under a phony name. There was nothing more the police could do. Their conclusion, as one detective put it, was that Bill had an enemy... an enemy that could and would go to great lengths to ruin his life. But Bill's troubles didn't stop there. He was able to get in touch with Cheryl in France. She flew home immediately, but when she found out the details of Bill's assault, she wished she had stayed in France. She was devastated to find out that Bill had been sleeping with hookers, and on top of that, she had to face hours of questioning by the police who apparently regarded her as a suspect because she was a doctor. Only after confirming her flight to and from Paris did they believe that she was not involved. But Cheryl could not take the humiliation and left Bill right then and there. So what had been regarded as an ideal life for some was reduced to nothing in just a few short days. Bill remained in the hospital for six weeks. Three times a day he was strapped to a backboard, the corset removed and sanitized and the dressing on his sutures changed. Although the procedure took less than twenty minutes, it seemed like an eternity because Bill could not catch his breath without the corset. The nursing staff had come to call him their "damsel in distress" because he was forced to wear that same corset that had been left for him. Apparently his insurance would not cover the cost of a custom made girdle and the only ones available in his size were from sexual fetish shops. Bill could not afford to pay for one himself because his company, fearful of the bad press associated with one of its sales representatives involved in a sex scandal, had terminated him. When he was finally released from the hospital, Bill found himself, unemployed, unloved and unable, for the rest of his life, to function without wearing an extremely tight corset. After leaving the hospital, Bill found that it was not easy to find a job. As it turns out, his stomach had been reduced so much in size that he found it was difficult to eat enough. He had lost almost 40 pounds in the hospital on top of the 20 pounds of bone and muscle mass that had been removed in the operation. Bill now had to struggle to maintain a weight of 120 pounds. He had always had a small frame, but it was impossible for him to keep any muscle mass at all. This, combined with his impossibly small waist, gave him a very feminine appearance. Bill was in sales and appearance meant everything. He was forced to settle for a lower paying job as an administrative assistant. Bill's love life was no better than his career. He went on a few dates, but he could not even think about letting someone get close to him. Besides, most women would not go out with him a second time anyway because of the way he dressed. Having such a tiny waist proved problematic for buying clothes. He was forced to let his pants hang around his hips, and no shirts fit him right. No matter what he wore, he looked bad. Men's clothes simply were not designed for his dimensions. Eventually, someone at the office noticed his corset under his clothes and he became known as a freak and pervert. After that, it was not long before he was, again, unemployed. For several weeks after he was fired, Bill did nothing. He sat around all day watching bad television and cursing his bad luck. Every time he saw himself in the mirror in his corset his depression grew. Of course, by now he had several corsets, some white, some black and one made out of PVC that he took a shower in, but all were women's and most had the humiliating garters hanging from the bottom. One night, Bill was feeling particularly disgusted and decided to take a drive. Driving through one of the particularly seedy parts of town, Bill noticed the hookers on the corners. Some were wearing corsets much like he was. He felt his own waist and then smiled feeling like at last he had found someone even more depraved than he was. He stopped the car. "Hey, baby," one of the hookers called, "Wanna have some fun?" Bill tried to keep from laughing at such a pathetic line. These whores were low class, but, then again, that is what he wanted and, also, all that he could afford. "What's your name?" he asked. "What do you want it to be?" He smiled. "How about Trixie?" She got in the car. "Trixie," he thought, "I'm gonna fuck you for what you did to me. I'm gonna fuck you so hard you won't know what hit you." "Well, c'mon, sugar," Trixie cooed, "There's a motel around the corner or do you want to do it right here?" Bill paid for the room in advance and he and Trixie went in. She immediately stripped to her underwear and stood before him wearing only a black lace bra, black lace panties, black garter belt and stockings and high heels. Bill could feel his erection growing. It had been so long since he had seen a real woman in lingerie and not just a picture on the internet. "Now it's your turn, sugar," she said and tugged on his shirt. He pulled away, not wanting to reveal his secret just yet. He took off his shoes, socks and pants letting his shirt hang down still covering his petite waist. Then, taking a deep breath, he pulled the shirt off over his head. He quickly pulled his shirt off his head to uncover his eyes and see her reaction. Was she shocked? Would she run out of the room? Her only reaction was to lick her lips and give an evil smile. Bill was turned on more than he had ever been in his life. Trixie walked over to him and casually stroked his leather corset. "I can see you like it kinky," she said and through him back onto the bed. Before he could react, she had produced a pair of handcuffs from her bag and handcuffed him to the headboard. Bill's heart was going 160 beats a minute and he couldn't catch his breath. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen, he was supposed for fuck her within inches of her life, not the other way around. "You know, Bill, I think that corset is making it hard for you to breath. Maybe I should take it off?" "No, Trixie, you can't... I'll die." Then it hit him. "Oh, shit," he thought, "she knows my name. How does she know my name?" She started to unlace the corset. "Please, Trixie, don't do it!" he yelled, but it was quickly muffled as she stuck a sock in his mouth. "Oh put a sock in it," she said and then laughed, apparently amused by her own bad pun. She removed the corset and Bill felt the pain surge through his body. Trixie was on top of him and her every movement made him wish he could die. But Bill knew that soon enough he would die. After fifteen minutes he was gasping for air; he managed to spit the sock out of his mouth, but it did no good. He could breath, but each breath brought in no air. In desperation, he looked around, but could not see the girl. "Trixie!" he called. "Hello... Trixie... anyone?!! Help Me!" Then he passed out. A knocking at the door awakened Bill. The lights were off and the curtains drawn; the only light in the room came from the red LED on the clock. It read "11:30". "AM or PM?" Bill thought. There was another knock at the door. "Housekeeping," he heard a woman say. Bill tried to move but realized that he was still handcuffed to the bed. There was a rattle at the door as the maid started to unlock it. "Uh.... excuse me, I need some help in here," Bill yelled. "Oh, I sorry," the woman spoke in broken English, "I come back later." "No! Don't come back later! I need help! Send help!" he called, but it was too late. She was gone. Twenty minutes later, still chained to the bed, Bill heard sirens. Then the door was opened, the lights turned on and Bill found himself staring up at two police officers with their guns drawn. The maid had dialed 911 saying only to send help to his room. The police were shocked at what they saw. And so was Bill. He looked down at himself and saw two huge breasts spilling over the top of his corset. They had to be triple D in size. Looking over towards the nightstand, Bill saw a note. It read, "If you try to remove them, you will die!" Next to the note was a small vial of clear liquid. "Oh, God," Bill screamed, "not again!" Two hours later, Bill was once again in a hospital room surrounded by doctors and police officers. He sat there exposed and humiliated as everyone examined his new breasts. They were huge and looked even more so when contrasted with his narrow waist. Another doctor walked in the room. It was the same doctor who had treated Bill during his recovery from the corset operation. "Well, Mr. Thompson," he said while pulling up a chair alongside Bill's bed, "I'm afraid I have bad news. The sample in the vial found by your bed is filled with a silicone gel similar to what used to be used in breast implants except for one thing-it's been laced with an extremely toxic nerve toxin. We're assuming that this is the substance that was used to fill your..." He motioned towards Bill's now huge bosom. "Oh my god," Bill stammered, "then you've got to remove them." "That's the problem, removing them would likely cause them to rupture and you would die almost immediately." "But isn't there some sort of antidote?" "None that would work in this case. If the toxin were introduced to the system by a more common means such as inhalation or ingestion, there might be something we could do, but directly into the blood stream," he paused, "I'm afraid you'd be dead before any counteragent could have an effect." "Surely, there must be something you can do. I can't go around for the rest of my life with these..." he motioned downward. Some of the police officers chuckled. Bill gave them a stern look, but the police were not intimidated by such a small man with an impossibly narrow waist and huge breasts. They continued to laugh and talk amongst themselves. "Mr. Thompson... can I call you Bill? Your X-rays indicate that these implants were put in using some type of surgical adhesive. We really can't be sure to what extent they could be removed without taking a substantial part of your tissue with them. And due to the last... um... procedure you had, there is simply not that much tissue left. We could try grafting tissue from your legs, but even then the chance that one of the bags would rupture is extremely high." The doctor continued, "And there's another thing... about cost..."Bill stared at him in disbelief. "Breast reduction is considered cosmetic surgery and wouldn't be covered by your insurance." Bill went numb. He was unemployed and had no insurance; he didn't even know how he was going to pay for this trip to the emergency room. "The bottom line, Bill, is that whoever did this to you knew exactly what they were doing and, like with the corset, wanted you live like this for the rest of you life." After being released from the hospital, Bill went to the police station and answered questions for the next four hours. What did he remember? Where did he meet the prostitute? Did he have any enemies that he knew of? The police asked all the same questions they asked him more than a year ago when he was first forced to wear the corset. The results were the same; the police had no leads only some advice: "Stay away from prostitutes named Trixie!" Again they let him go feeling too sorry for him to charge him with soliciting a prostitute. They gave him a T-shirt and some pants, neither of which fit. As he was leaving the station, one of the prostitutes being brought in yelled out, "Whew! Lookin' good, girl friend!" Bill hung his head in shame. Having huge breasts made life a living hell for Bill. He remembered joking with some friends (back in the days when he had friends) that if he had breasts he would be playing with them all day long. In fact, Bill did play with his breasts all day long, but not for the reasons he thought he would. They were simply too big for his small frame; his back constantly ached. Plus, the corsets he had to wear always made his breasts stand out. Once he tried to tape them down, but there was no way to do it. He ended up wearing baggy sweatshirts almost all the time. Fortunately, Bill was able to find a job at a local bookstore where he could wear his baggy sweatshirts and pants around his hips, even more fortunately, he was able to make some friends. All of the employees at the bookstore were pretty liberal-minded and did not mind working with Bill, especially after they found out what had been done to him. He had felt compelled to tell them up front about his condition because, even with the baggy sweatshirts, there was no good way to hide his breasts. One of his co-workers in particular, Bill became fairly close to. Her name was Susan, and Bill actually had her over to his apartment from time to time and she had him over to hers. He had told her the entire story, including that he had gone to prostitutes, and she did not seem to mind. He also told her that he would never go to a prostitute again. She agreed that was a good idea. One evening Bill was over at Susan's apartment after work. They were watching some TV together and the doorbell rang. Bill was startled. "Don't worry," Susan said calmly, "One of my girlfriends said she might stop by." "Susan, you know how I am about strangers." "She'll only be here a minute, she needs to drop something off." Susan got up and walked to the door. A few minutes later she returned accompanied by the most gorgeous woman Bill had ever seen. Her slender, heavily made up face was framed perfectly by her long black hair that hung down around the shoulders of her raincoat. Bill's attention was attracted to her feet by her black stocking clad legs coming out of the raincoat and going into some black, patent high heels. The heels must have been at least six inches high. "Bill," Susan said grinning from ear to ear, "This is my friend, Trixie." Bill was paralyzed with fear. Trixie let her raincoat fall to the floor revealing a black leather corset exactly like the one that he was wearing. Her stockings were attached to it by the garters that hung down and she was wearing no panties. Bill felt his penis growing erect giving new meaning to the phrase "scared stiff", but he could not get himself to move or do anything. Suddenly, she was upon him, her hands under his sweatshirt fondling his breasts and working their way down his corseted waist; then blackness... When the cloud of darkness lifted from Bill's head, he quickly realized he'd been moved. He was in the bathroom of what looked to be a cheap motel room propped up on the toilet seat with his legs from the knees down wrapped in bandages. On the counter were the high heels that Trixie had been wearing and a note that read, "If you ever want to walk again, you'll wear these!" Bill began to cry. "Oh, fuck! Not again... why me?!" He tried to get up to get to the phone, but placing weight on his foot was so painful he passed out again. Bill was on the bathroom floor when he regained consciousness and he managed to pull himself out of the bathroom and get to the phone. He lost consciousness again before the paramedics arrived. Bill came to in the hospital. His head ached and his skin felt funny, but his legs felt better. He looked down at his feet which were covered by the bed sheet and saw protrusions that he assumed were splints. But Bill thought the shapes of his feet were wrong. It looked like his legs were longer than they should be. He was just about to lift the covers when the doctor came in. "Bill," he said, "Jesus I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do. Whoever did this to you is really intent on destroying your life." "What is it?" Bill asked trying to sit upright. "I don't remember..." "No, no... Don't move! You've had a major blow to the head; that's why your memory is impaired. You need to rest. We can give you a sedative if you'd like." "No, just tell me what happened." The doctor pulled back the sheets revealing his feet which were indeed in splints, but they were grossly deformed: his feet were pointed so far forward that from his insteps to his shins was flat, but his toes were bent almost at a 90 degree angle so they were pointing straight up. "Oh my God," Bill mumbled. "The tendons and ligaments in your feet and calf have been cut short making it impossible for you to move your feet out of their current position. We have your feet in splints so that what tendons and ligaments you have left will be heal correctly and allow you some use of your feet." "Can't you replace them, or stretch them somehow?" Bill asked desperately. "I'm afraid it gets worse," the doctor continued, "You've had major re-constructive surgery on you ankles and metatarsals. I'm afraid some bones have been removed or altered. There's no way we can undo the process and you still be able to walk afterwards." "But will I be able to walk as I am now?" "If you are allowed to heal properly... yes," the doctor paused, "but you will have to wear... these." The doctor pulled out the pair of high heels that had been left by Trixie. "I know my headache is from the blow to my head..." "Yes," the doctor interrupted, "you've suffered a mild concussion." "But why do I feel so sensitive all over my body?" The doctor exhaled heavily. "Apparently you were treated with some type of substance which has removed all of you body hair," he said. "Like a depilatory?" "Well," he scratched his head, "it seems to have had some toxicological properties. It... um... killed..." He paused then began again, "It killed all of your hair follicles." Bill's pale face indicated that he understood what the doctor was saying, but the doctor clarified it anyway. "I'm sorry, Bill, your hair, except that on your head, won't be growing back-ever." Bill tried not to cry. "I'm sorry," the doctor said, "I'll leave you alone." He set the shoes on the table next to the bed and left the room. Over the next several weeks as Bill's feet healed, he watched the police again unable to find any clue about his assailant and his lack of memory about the night he was attacked did not help matters. "How can a book store just disappear?" he once asked one of the detectives. But that is exactly what happened; the bookstore where Bill worked never opened the day after his assault. All leads that the police had, personnel records, invoices, payroll documentation, all led to phony front companies or people who did not exist. The day the police shelved the investigation was the day that Bill took his first steps in his high-heeled shoes that he would wear for the rest of his life. The detective walked in the room and as Bill was teetering around on the high heels. The black patent leather clashed with the hospital gown. Bill's face flushed and he jumped in bed hiding his embarrassing shoes under the sheets. He accepted the news without comment because his mind was on what the doctor had told him earlier in the day. "Mr. Thompson," the doctor had said, "I think you should really consider sexual reassignment. Let's face reality, there's no way you can live as a man. Perhaps you might be able to live a somewhat normal life if you live as a woman." "What? And live like a hooker?" Bill scowled. "Look at these," he said pointing to the 6 inch high heels strapped to his feet, "Would any normal woman wear these? Let's face it, I'm a freak, but even as a freak I'll be damned if I'll give up my manhood!" Yet Bill's manhood is exactly what he was systematically forced to give up over the next several months. At first he tried to simply stay at home, refusing to leave home even to go to the grocery store. The humiliation of having to wear the high heels was more than he could bear. He had all his food delivered along with his clothing which he bought on-line. Because he had to buy high heels, Bill was bombarded with advertisements for other women's clothing. Eventually he began buying all women's clothing because it was the only clothing that came close to fitting him. He began having the clothes sent to Billie Thompson in order to avoid embarrassment, but an overly zealous postal carrier refused to deliver it to someone who did not live at his apartment, so Bill had his name legally changed. Appearing in court wearing women's slacks and blouse and, of course, his outrageously high heels was all the judge needed to see to grant his request although he did so with obvious disgust. Billie felt just as disgusted as his manhood slipped even further away. Changing his name to Billie thoroughly confused the state and federal bureaucracies that had been paying him his meager earnings for disability. Apparently the computer could not bridge the gap between Bill Thompson and Billie Thompson. When Billie went downtown, again dressed fully as a woman, to explain it, he got little sympathy. With no background in the computer, the officials now felt that Billie's injuries had been caused by botched cosmetic surgery and told him to seek restitution from the doctors. Now forced to support himself, Billie was forced to find a job. The only place he could find to work was at a sleazy sex shop. There he was forced not only to work as a woman, but to dress even more provocatively. As Billie slipped into his first skirt, he almost cried. Even more of his former life had been taken from him. The fact of the matter was that because of the high heels and the difficulty that Billie had keeping on any weight, Billie's legs were quite attractive and most men entering the shop made it a special point to openly stare at them. As each one of them undressed him with their eyes, Billie felt his manhood being stripped away further. One night, after work, Billie was feeling particularly depressed. He had been letting his hair grow long because with his body short hair looked ridiculous, but he had allowed his hair stylist to talk him into getting a perm. "What was I thinking?" he thought to himself as he looked at his face in his compact mirror. His hair was now in very tight spirals and Billie almost found himself admiring the way the tight curls framed his now very feminine face. He touched up his makeup and almost vomited because of what he had become. He was now a woman. This revelation made Billie uncomfortable. Even with everything that had happened to him; even though he worked as a woman; he had always thought of himself as a man and had always been confident that he could protect himself. The absurdity of this assumption now struck home and he felt very vulnerable. The dress that he was wearing, while not short or otherwise provocative, was made of such a delicate material that he still felt exposed. His black pantyhose offered no protection whatsoever and his high heels, even though he had become accustomed to walking in them, would prevent him from being able to run away. Suddenly, in the span of just a few minutes, Billie had gone from being pissed off at the world to being afraid of the world. That's when he noticed the van. The gray van was driving in the far right lane next to the sidewalk where Billie was walking. It was 20 to 25 feet behind but was driving at the same speed that he was walking. Billie felt uncomfortable and started walking faster. The van sped up to maintain the pace. The clicking of his high heels made Billie feel even more vulnerable. He tried to run and again the van increased its speed to keep up. "Damnit," Billie thought, "there's no one on the street to help me or even be a witness!" Still he kept stumbling forward in his high heels. Then he saw someone... a stranger... but still someone who might help. "Help me! That van is following me!" he shouted as he approached the stranger, but at that moment the van sped up. It reached Billie just as he reached the stranger. The stranger grabbed him placing his hand over Billie's mouth. Having such little body mass, Billie was powerless to resist. As Billie struggled, he recognized a familiar face through the passenger side window of the van--it was Trixie. The side door of the van opened, and two other men along with the stranger pulled Billie inside. Through the passenger side window, Billie recognized a familiar face--it was Trixie. The door closed and the van took off. Billie was terrified as he was forced onto his knees in the back of the van. His hands were duct taped behind his back and he felt a prick in his arm. They had given him some sort of injection. Trixie came back from the front of the van. "Well, Well... Billie," she grinned, "We've come a long way haven't we? I love what you've done with your hair, but we gave you this great body and you just don't appreciate it." The men laughed. "We're gonna take care of that," she said in a condescending tone and patted him on the head. One of the men cut the duct tape binding his hands, but Billie found that he still could not move them. The injection must have been a sedative of some sort. He felt woozy, but was still conscious of everything that was going on. They cut off his dress, panties and pantyhose leaving him in just his corset and heels. After removing his heels they pulled black fishnet stocking up his legs and attached them to a tiny garter belt that wrapped around his thin, delicate waist. Next they laced him into a black patent leather halter dress, although it could hardly be thought of as a dress because the skirt ended just below his crotch exposing the tops of his stocking and barely covering what was left of his manhood. The dress was skin tight and when laced up looked almost like a second skin accentuating his narrow waist and large breasts. Next came black patent leather fingerless gloves which were also laced on. The van pulled to a stop and the driver came into the back. Billie eyes bulged. "Oh my god... It's YOU!" he tried to say, but he could not form the words. Through the haze he watched as the driver pulled out a large metal framework and placed it on Billie's head. Inserted into the framework were dozens of metal screws with rubber tips. As each of the screws were tightened against Billie's head, it immobilized it which was confusing because he could not move his head anyway. When he saw the next apparatus, he knew what he was in for. The pain to Billie's face was extreme and the buzzing of the tattoo gun only added to the terror of the situation. Billie felt like he was on a roller coaster ride, but knew he was standing still. In fact, he could not move if he tried. As the driver continued with the tattoo gun, Trixie let Billie know exactly what was going on. "This foundation that we're imbedding in your skin is actually a powder base and will keep your skin looking flawless no matter what light you're in. You've probably noticed that when we killed your hair follicles we also hampered your skin's ability to produce pigment. That's why you're always such a lovely pale color. We wouldn't want our little whore to look like she ever went out in the daytime would we?" The driver adjusted the tattoo gun and continued to work. Trixie continued, "Me, I'm not a big fan of excessive blush, but with your high angular cheek bones, I think this looks fabulous." This continued for the next few hours as eyeliner and four shades of gray eye shadow were applied. Billie could only imagine what he looked like. Acrylic nails were glued to his nails and Trixie promised that they would not come off or fade for at least three years. Finally they got to his lips and began coloring them. Trixie informed him that they were using a polymer-based pigment that would make his lips a wonderful glossy, cherry red color. The ink felt like fire as it was injected into his lips and then they went numb. Noticing his reaction, Trixie added, "Oh and I guess your noticing the extra feature of this particular formulation. It also contains a moisture activated silicon derivative. Upon entering the lips it swells just a little giving you fuller, pouting lips." She laughed... "Excellent for sucking cocks!" When his lips were done, it was lights out. When Billie came to, the sun was starting to come up. He was disoriented and did not know where he was, but he instinctively knew his situation was not good. He noticed excruciating pain in his knees and more pain in his back and arms. He could not move; he was tied up. As the fog in his brain lifted he became fully aware of his situation and began to scream, but there was something stuffed in his mouth and besides that his throat was dry and sore. As people walked by, they hurried past as if they were afraid of what they saw. Billie had to look up at their disgusted faces because he only came up to chest level of most of them. The reality of the situation he was in continued to sink in and Billie tried to look down at himself, but he could not because of something wrapped tightly around his neck. He started crying and screaming a pulling frantically against his bonds, but to no avail. After what seemed like an eternity, the police arrived. What they saw shocked them. Billie was hogtied with his wrists bound to his ankles, but was standing upright on his knees and attached to a street sign. He was still wearing the black patent leather dress, but his struggling had lifted the skirt up exposing his male genitals. Around his neck was a 4 inch wide posture collar that prevented his from moving his head. The collar was leather with a metal band around it that locked in the back and was also locked to the street sign. To add insult to injury the two street signs had been replaced with ones that read "Whore St." and "Slut Blvd.", and Billie was wearing a sign that read, "Don't bother to help me, I'm a worthless she-male slut whore!" And who would have doubted the sign based on what they saw. Between the outfit, the outrageous whorish make-up and the bright red ball gag in his mouth, Billie looked like a total pervert. Paramedics were now on the scene and began assisting the police in untying Billie. The ropework was immaculate, but the paramedics wasted no time in cutting it up. Using a bold cutter from one of the police cars, they cut the lock that held his head to the sign and also the collar on. "Oh my god!" one of the paramedics shrieked as she pulled the collar off of Billie. "Christ, get that back on her... him... it... whatever!" another one yelled. Billie felt himself getting light headed. Suddenly he was in the hospital. When Billie awoke the first think he noticed was that he was restrained in bed and that he still could not speak. The doctor, having been told that Billie was awake, came in to talk to him. "Don't try to speak," he said, "you've had a major trauma to your larynx. I'm afraid there's been another procedure." He sighed. "It looks like someone's gone in a shortened your vocal chords." Billie's despair was demonstrated in his eyes. "To be honest, I'm not sure you'll ever be able to speak again. Apparently when you were out there on the street, you really strained them and aggravated your wounds. Not that I blame you," he added. "If you do speak again, though, I'm afraid..." he paused, "...I'm afraid it will likely be with the voice of a little girl." Billie was numb. "Has anyone told you about the make-up?" Billie shook his head hurting his throat. "Have you seen it?" the doctor asked. "Would you like to?" he asked again not letting Billie fully answer the first question. Billie shook his head and the doctor got a mirror. Billie could not believe his eyes as he looked at himself in the mirror. Normally, people in the hospital look bad, but he looked gorgeous, at least in a slutty whore sort of way. His eyes, lips and cheeks were perfectly made up. The deep red lipstick and heavily applied eye-shadow made him look like he had just been picked up off a street corner which in fact is where he was picked up at. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about it. Unlike normal tattoos, this was apparently done in layers. The ink is so imbedded in your skin that they only way to remove it would be to remove all of the tissue. And, quite honestly, I've never seen inks that work like this, it appears that they've leached into the tissue somehow actually changing the color of the skin itself. I'm afraid, like the other modifications made to you, someone does not want you to be able to undo this." Billie remained in the hospital for another week. Once again, the police tried to investigate, but had no suspects and Billie's memory of the night of the assault had somehow been erased. He remembered the van, the stranger and Trixie, but there was something else which he just could not remember. It seemed like it was an important detail. "Based on your blood tests, it appears that the sedative you were given also contained a drug to cause you to temporarily lose your memory. Unfortunately, both drugs are easy to obtain in Mexico or other countries, so that doesn't help us much." Once again, Billie tried to get on with his life. His voice returned and, as predicted by the doctor, it sounded like a little girls. Billie was devastated; he would never be taken seriously again--everyone would look at him only as a sex toy. When he returned from the hospital, he found that his apartment had been broken into and all of his conservative clothes replaced with ultra slutty ones. The police did a complete forensics work up on the apartment, but could find no clues. They followed up on the clothes themselves, found out where they were from, but all had been purchased by mail order, paid for by money order and shipped to post office box which was registered to a fictitious person. Another potential lead surfaced when Billie tried to order more clothes over the internet and received instead slutty ones. Somehow, they were intercepting Billie's internet transactions, yet the police could not find out how. Eventually, this investigation, like the ones before it, was dropped because of a lack of new leads. The end result was that Billie now looked and talked like a girl and only had ultra-slutty clothes to wear. Of course, this did not really hamper Billie's career in the sex industry. In fact, he now expanded his horizons: he had dabbled in internet sex services, but with his new voice, Billie found he could make quite a lot of money with a phone sex service. The money was so good that within a year he was able to buy the sex shop and through it establish his own sex phone service and internet service. While doing rather well for himself, Billie will still pretty much of a recluse. Because of his whorish appearance, he seldom went outside during the daylight hours. He continued to order whatever he needed over the internet because it was too embarrassing to go to stores. In fact, he had been kicked out of several of the stores he actually tried to go into. He still occasionally tried to order some normal women's clothing, but always received slutty clothes instead. Because all of his clothes were short, tight skirts and dresses, he eventually started wearing a gaffe to conceal his manhood. It is ironic that Billie chose to conceal his maleness when his financial situation should have made him feel more assertive and manly than he had in years. Instead, Billie just became angry. The thought of what had been done to him, the fact that he always had to wear a corset and high heels, that his whorish make-up was always perfect and that his little girls voice combined with his suggestive clothing made every man want to have sex with him made him despise people in general. He was successful, but he hated his life and his sexy body. Billie channeled this rage into his business and opened a dungeon where he dominated both men and women. The money just poured in, but there was still something missing. Billie had not had a relationship with another person in years, not since Susan. Actually, Billie was too scared to have a relationship knowing that whoever was doing this to him was surely still watching him. He wondered what they thought about his success. If going out with someone was unthinkable, going to a hooker was much more so. So Billie spent a great deal of time on-line typing with one hand so to speak. Spending as much time as he did on-line, it was inevitable that Billie would end up talking with people in chat rooms. There was one person, TR9-E, who he ran into a lot and eventually they began an on-line relationship. Because they had never met in real life, Billie felt comfortable sharing things. He justified it by figuring that TR9-E was probably a fat gay man who lived at home with his mother. No harm would ever come of it. However, as the months went by and the relationship grew, they began to talk about actually meeting. Billie was reluctant, although he had a penis, he was much more woman than man and not a very big woman at that. Eventually, though, Billie's curiosity got the better of him and he agreed to meet at a small caf?. Billie dressed as conservatively as he could wearing a tight black leather dress whose long straight skirt ended just above the knees. His black, seamed stockings drew attention to his lace up pumps with their 6 inch heels. TR9-E, whose real name turned out to be Samantha, was actually relieved when she saw Billie. Having thought that he had exaggerated his situation, she was expecting to see an overweight, middle-aged transvestite. Instead, she met a gorgeous, albeit slutty, petite woman. They ate a light lunch and were making plans to meet again when two police officers walked up to the table. "Bill Thompson?" one of them asked. "I'm Billie Thompson," Billie responded, his high pitched, little girl's voice contrasting sharply with the officer's. One officer grabbed her by the arm and pulled him out of his chair while the other went on, "You're under arrest for soliciting prostitution." They leaned her against the table and handcuffed his arms behind his back. "What?! Her?! There must be some mistake!" Billie looked at Samantha she looked down at the ground and then left the building. "No," Billie continued to protest, "There's been some mistake. 'Soliciting prostitution?' That doesn't make any sense." No one listened. In fact it didn't make any sense, but everyone in the caf? heard the word "prostitution". took one look at the way Billie was dressed and immediately condemned him. No one looked twice even when Billie was led out the back door instead of the front or even when the officers forced him into a gray van instead of a police car. When the van stopped in front of an old warehouse by the river, the two police officers (who had taken off their costumes on the way), helped Billie out of the van. His handcuffs had been exchanged for an entire prisoner restraint system. His hands were chained in front to a waist chain that circled his this waist. The silver chain against the black leather dress had a fetishistic look to it. A long chain reached from his waist to his ankles where it was attached to shackles encircling each of his ankles just above the tops of his pumps. Between the pumps and the short chain of the shackles, Billie needed assistance getting out the van. Escape would be impossible. Inside the warehouse, Billie was not at all surprised to see an operating table. He knew this was it, they were going to take the last of his manhood. But his surprise at seeing the doctor almost knocked him over. It was Cheryl! He couldn't find the words. "Cheryl," he finally managed to say. "But... the police... you were in France..." She smiled. "You'd be surprised what you can do with the help of some friends." When she said that, Samantha Trixie and Susan walked in the room. "A little alteration of computer records here, a little disguise there, you'd be surprised how easy it is to get people to believe what you want them to believe..." Her smile turned more sinister, "... and how easy it is to lure people into situations that they don't want to be in." Now the smile was gone. "You destroyed my life with your whoring around and vowed to destroy yours. But I wanted to do it slowly... let you see what was happening... let you wallow in your humiliation... before I turned you completely into what destroyed our lives." Billie was horrified. He knew he had been dealing with a psychopath, but to see her face to face sent chills down his spine. What he had done all those years ago was low, but it didn't warrant this type of response. "In case you're wondering. The gentlemen that brought you here represent your 'buyer' in Thailand. Judging by the look on their faces, they're please with my creation." "Buyer?", "Thailand?", Billie was mortified. Panicking, he tried to run away, but was tripped up by the shackles. Cheryl just laughed as Trixie and Samantha grabbed his arm. Tixie had a hypodermic. Billie struggled against his chains. "Nooooooo!..." he screamed as he felt the prick of the needle in his arm. Soon his shouts and protests turned into a soft mewing and then silence. END