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Pretty Little Thing By Lynn LeFey "What the HELL are these?" Angela asks me. I blink. I don't have an answer. At least, not one she would want to hear. She holds up a pair of pink panties. I can see the look on her face. I know what she's thinking. She thinks I'm cheating on her. Nothing could be farther from the truth. They're mine, of course, and I don't know how to tell her that the man she loves has a... feminine side. "I don't know. I guess they must have been in the laundry machines when I did my laundry, and got gathered up with the rest of my stuff," I say, feeling as shocked at seeing them as she is. "Don... Just look me in the eyes and tell me you're not cheating on me," she says. I look her in the eye and hold the gaze, unwavering. "Angela, I'm not cheating on you. There are no other women in my life. I love you," I tell her. It doesn't matter. The faint trace of doubt has entered her mind. The chemistry has failed. The charm of the evening is ruined. The wine, the dinner, the candles... all for nothing. We snuggle, but the evening is a wash. She even jokes about the panties being mine. Ha ha, very funny. Except it isn't funny to me. I'm a cross dresser. I get off on wearing women's clothing. Yeah, get off, as in sexually. This part of me has always disturbed me. I've never understood it, and never been able to control it. The truth is, it feels like it wants to consume me, like if I let it, it would eat me like a cancer. That thought scares the shit out of me. Angela leaves earlier than usual. I fear our relationship may be over. Another one ruined by my alter ego. I guess I know how Batman feels... except he's into the whole latex B&D thing, not lace and crinoline. The thought of Batman in drag brings a momentary smile to my face, but the thoughts soon turn to the urge. If I thought it would do any good, I'd bag up my entire femme wardrobe and dump it in the trash, but I've tried that before. That, hypnotherapy, aversion therapy, you name it. If there was a way to rid myself of this curse, I think I would have found it by now. I retire to my bedroom. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed, but the unnamed female who shares residence in this body demands her time. 'There is no other woman in my life,' I tell them. It's a lie, and I know it. If I'm prepared, I swear I can say any bold face lie, and they will believe me. It helps telling this particular one, that it is true, in some respects. There IS no other woman, outside of me. Sometimes I don't even think of me as singular. It's much more like 'us', me and the woman in here with me. Ah... hell. It sucks, but what can you do? I retrieve the panties from the laundry basket, and throw them on the bed. I'm not going to go into details here. Fifteen minutes later, I am en femme, breast forms in place, stockings on my legs, and an evening gown flowing down my body. Funny that she shows herself through dress, wig, makeup. Now, the femme part of me is dominant, and allowed to express herself freely. I feel my mannerisms change. What a total mind-fuck I am. I walk to the living room, about to plop on the couch and watch a little TV before... well, before pleasuring myself. I glance outside, onto the grounds of the apartment complex in which I live. My blinds are open. I can see into the lawn below. The groundskeeper stands up straight, and looks up at me. I freeze. He's looking at me. The stare lasts too long. God, I feel so vulnerable, so busted, being caught in drag. I hastily reach forward and turn the levered blinds. My heart is racing. My hands are trembling in fear. I lie on the couch, and turn off the TV. Lying on my back, I spread my legs, and my dress falls to reveal my stockings. I slide my hand down the inside of my thigh, imagining it's the hand of the groundskeeper. My heart still races. I succumb to the fantasy. ... By noon the next day, Angela will have received the roses I sent. I do what I can to hold my romances together, but they inevitably fail. It sucks. Women always lament that they want a guy who is sensitive, caring, emotionally available. I'm all those things. I understand women. Maybe because one lives inside me. I don't know. But the funny thing is, it's my experience that what they say they want is just about the exact opposite of what they're attracted to. They don't want sensitive men, they want handsome, muscular men with big cocks. I'm thin... almost awkwardly so. I always have been. I know I'm not the picture of masculinity. Part of my own internal conflict is that I'm not an entirely unattractive female. If I were built like a line backer or something, maybe I'd put up more of a fight to my femme self. Maybe that's just a cop out. Maybe, even if I were a big hairy bull of a guy, I'd still have a delicate feminine streak a mile wide. Who's to say? The afternoon wears on, and my work suffers as my little melodrama plays out in my head. During the ride home, I glance at the drivers in the cars around me, wishing I was the cute brunette or the dismally unhappy looking blonde. It seems none of them know what they have. I guess it's the way of things. We want, and when we finally get, we turn to the next thing on our wish list. If I weren't obsessing about gender crap, I'd find something else to bitch about. It's what makes us fly to the moon. It's what makes us insane. The groundskeeper is shoveling mulch around the base of the bushes outside my building as I pull up. He wears a workingman's clothes, tan work boots, canvas gloves. His body is chiseled and tanned from working in the sun. I push the thoughts from my head, focusing on the door. He stops, and turns as I near the main door. "Mr. Doan... How are you today?" he asks. "Good. How are you?" I return. "I'm good. I noticed your lady friend leave last night. But it's strange. I saw someone after she left. You have another woman in there with you, don't you?" he leans his cut, muscular form against the handle of the shovel as he speaks. He smiles slightly. I shrug. He steps a bit closer. His eyes shift from my eyebrows to my lips. He's reading my face. I know he sees the tweezed eyebrows. My bladder is throbbing and my legs feel wobbly. My breathing is shallow as he moves a bit closer. "She was very beautiful, Mr. Doan. Perhaps you could introduce me to her. Maybe soon." he says softly. I am near panic. I can't tear my eyes from him. I fumble for the door handle, and fling it wide, charging up the stairs to my second story apartment. My hand can barely hold the key steady enough to get it into the lock. I bolt into my apartment. God... what's wrong with me? I've been dressing since I was in junior high, and I've never been caught. Now I've got some guy out there who not only saw me, but knows it was ME, not some woman. Worse, he seems interested. I can't allow myself to get into something with a guy. It's somewhat flattering that he'd find me attractive, but guys do nothing for me. I'd love to be able to find a woman who could accept the other part of me. I'm just not into guys. For a moment, I pause the rhetoric, and let the scene play out in my mind. Me, in a crushed velvet dress, pressing against his firm body. Feeling his hard cock pressed between my legs. Giving myself over to him... total submission. The fantasy is great, assuming I have girl parts. It falls apart for me if I run the scene, and when he slides my lacy panties down, he finds a little surprise. I sigh, and push the porn show out of my head with disgust. God... I wish I knew what it all meant. If I were more bothered by having male anatomy, I might think I needed a sex change, but I'm not. I'm fine being Don. I just need to vent the feminine as well. Shit, what a very unfun mind game. I look in the fridge. Nothing interests me. I hate eating alone. I pick up the phone and dial Angela. It rings three times. "Hello?" she answers. She probably knows it's me from caller ID. I swear I can hear forced cheerfulness. "Hi. I was wondering if you were up for dinner this evening? I know this great Italian place..." I offer. "Oh, Hi Don. Not tonight. I'm really tired and just want to relax, okay?" she says. I hear it in her voice. It's over. She's letting the relationship die. I guess I didn't realize till this moment how much I wanted this to work. Scramble! Fix it! Make this work, dammit! "Well, how bout I bring over the fixings and make you dinner over at your place? I can make a mean lasagna," I tell her. "No thanks, Don. I've got to go, okay?" she says. I can't think of anything smooth or graceful to say. I resort to blatant honesty. "No... it's not okay. Look. I feel like you're ditching me because you found something in my laundry. I feel like you're just letting this relationship go. I don't want that. I don't know any other way to tell you that there is no other woman in my life. Please... give me a chance to prove it," I say. There is a pause. I can't hear her breathing. I can't read her face. I'm left hanging for a moment. "Maybe tomorrow, Don. I'm tired," she finally relents. "Any time. Maybe if you took a nap, you'd feel like something later. Give me a call of you do, okay?" I offer. "Okay." She ends the call. There are two voices dueling in my mind. She's not going to call. Not ever again. Of course she'll call. It was a pair of panties in your laundry basket, not a bra under your pillow, or lipstick stains on your collar. I end up nuking a frozen dinner. Some gourmet I am! The hours pass, and as always, the woman in me begins the relentless pestering to be set free. I close my blinds. I may make mistakes, but I don't make them more than once. I put on a pleated navy blue skirt, a silk blouse, and my auburn wig. I guess a female name that may work to replace Don could be Donna. Maybe Danielle. I know that would be for Dan, but I like the name. I play with my eye lashes. Finally satisfied, I slide into my heels and walk into the living room. As I smooth my skirt under me to sit, there is a knock at the door. Oh...hell... "Don, are you home?" I hear Angela ask. I cast my eyes to the heavens. "You're having fun with this, aren't you?" I say to an unseen God. I move to the door. I'm terrified. This is the moment of truth. I turn the deadbolt, unlock the main lock, and step aside as I swing open the door for her. She's looking down when she steps through. She doesn't see me immediately. "Don, look... I guess I wasn't being fair, and..." Now she sees. It would be interesting, from a psychologist's point of view, to watch the emotional range play across her face. However, I must admit to being a bit too personally involved. It steals a lot of the fascination. First, there is the barest hint of a smile. She thinks it's a joke. But now her mind realizes I wasn't expecting her. I was dressed like this, not for her, but for my own personal reasons. Now her eyes dart over me, scrutinizing detail. Certainly she sees that I am well practiced at my art. The details are all in order. The deception would easily fool casual observation. Something else flickers now. It is a look I have longed for. Women critique other women... harshly. She stares at me, trying to find flaw. Her final verdict is hard to guess, but I assume that she is caught in a strange conflict, that the woman before her is at least moderately attractive, and that this same woman is her boyfriend. I wonder if her 'I'm not a lesbian' circuit is popping right now? "Don?" she manages. "I guess I wasn't one hundred percent truthful when I said there was no other woman..." I say, looking away. I feel almost sick with guilt. "You look... nice," she says, but seems near tears. "Are you all right?" I ask, trying to step into her personal space. She steps back. "Are you... Are you gay?" she manages through ragged breath. "No. Look, Angela... I've spent my whole life trying to understand this part of me. I still don't. I have a feminine side that needs venting. If I don't give it it's time, I get very depressed. That's about all I can tell you," I say. She reaches for the door. "I need some time to think about this... okay? Next time I come over, I'll call first, so you'll have some warning." She slips out the door before I can respond. I stand for a moment, wondering if every woman I ever meet will react this way. I wish I could separate from the woman inside of me. It would make my odds of finding a loving spouse better, I think. I return to the couch, brushing my skirt under me. I turn on the stereo. It's funny. After the scare of Angela seeing me, I feel no sexual component to being dressed. Still, I am quite comfortable this way, almost more than I've ever been. My heart slows, and I'm left feeling almost euphoric. Still high on the adrenaline, I guess. Again, there is a soft knock on the door. I almost leap up. I can't believe Angela's accepted this so quickly. Perhaps this relationship will work out after all. I open the door, only to find the groundskeeper standing there. My heart, which had managed to slow considerably, has taken off again. My head almost spins. Oh... fucking hell! I guess this is my day to be outed. "May I come in?" he asks. He has a bottle of wine in one hand, and a small box in the other. His manner is surprisingly gentle and sensitive. "I don't know," I murmur. His eyes move up and down my body. I feel myself blush. He steps forward. I resist, but only for a moment. I feel a rush of fear and vulnerability. "You look nice this evening, Ms. Doan," he says. I feel another rush of nervousness at this. There is no doubt now that he knows. "Why did you come here?" I ask. I am almost whispering. My voice doesn't fit my mode of dress, and that conflict bothers me. "I came here because I saw a beautiful woman, and she captivated my heart," he says while looking into my eyes. Oh God... Part of me is falling for what he's saying. I want to melt in his arms. But another part of me is screaming that I'm an idiot. I've put myself in a very precarious position, and furthermore... I'm NOT interested in men! "Methinks she protests too much", a voice says in my head. What? Is this really what I want? Some sweaty guy heaving and pawing at me, loosing bodily fluids on me... IN me? There is a little voice in the back of my mind answering. "Yes," it says. I finally come out of my inner dialogue. Yes, dialogue. I ask, she responds. "You have me at a loss. You know my name, but I don't know yours," I say. I speak with a little more force now, trying to maintain a feminine range. The effort yields acceptable results. "I'm Carl. It's a pleasure to meet you," he reaches out and takes my hand, kissing it tenderly. My belly flutters. This is wrong. This is all wrong. I can't let him seduce me. I'm a guy. I like women. I try imagining myself en femme with Angela. It doesn't do a thing for me. I try imagining myself in male mode with Carl. Again, the scene is...wrong. But en femme... with a man recognizing me as an attractive and desirable woman... there is a strong feeling of validation. I AM a woman. Why else would this man be attracted? Carl moves into my kitchen and begins opening the wine bottle. I sit down on the sofa, and wait. I can hear him rattling wine glasses, then pouring. He returns and hands me a glass. The wine is dark red and a bit too dry for my taste. He sits in the chair facing me, smiling. "You really are a pretty little thing, you know?" he says. "Thank you," I say, blushing. I take a big gulp from the wine glass. I hope it kicks in soon. I'm so nervous I want to puke. "It's been hard for me to find the kind of woman I'm attracted to. They are rare, like beautiful jewels," Carl says. "It was like a gift from God when I looked up and saw you last night." He pauses to pick up the box. "I have something for you," he says, handing me the box. I don't want to refuse his gift. It seems so sweet of him to have gone through the trouble of getting me something. I untie the white ribbon, and tear off the metallic foil wrapping paper. There is a white box beneath. I open the box to find a pale pink nightgown. It is nearly sheer, and falls just below the waist. I feel a much more subtle affect on my heart this time. He'll want to see me in it. The idea scares me. What will he want then? "I'd love to see you try it on. You'd look wonderful in it," he breaths. I would. With my lace bra and panties, I would look darling in it. So yummy. Perhaps it's the wine speaking. He moves to the sofa, and sits next to me. I hold the gift in my lap, and look into his eyes. He moves closer. He touches my hair, my shoulder... and gently cups my breast in his hand. God, how I wish it was real. If I could just feel his hand on my bosom. He presses against me and turns his head for a kiss. I feel his tongue in my mouth. My head is spinning. "You should put on the night gown, love," he whispers. I want nothing more in the world but to please him. I unbutton the blouse, and cast it on the floor. Then I unzip my skirt and step out of it. Sliding the silky material of the night gown down my body. I run my hands down my body. I'm so beautiful... ... I wake up with the sun shining on the blinds. It's morning. The next thing I realize is that I'm wearing a wig. Oh, hell... I fell asleep in drag last night. After... after talking with Angela... I must have been really drained emotionally. I sit up, and shiver as my legs come out from under the comforter. I'm still wearing stockings. I cast aside the blanket, and see a sheer night gown I don't recognize. There is a throbbing pain that I slowly become aware of. My ass is on fire. God... I feel near panic. What happened? I know the feeling well. I've experimented with anal penetration. It's the after effect. I wobble to the bathroom, and sit on the toilet. Inside my panties, there are large spots of blood. I finally manage to release tension in my bowels and feel the excruciating pain as I void. I stare forward, thinking. It's hard through the pain, and through the knowledge that the dripping sound into the toilet is blood in my stool. Where did the nightgown come from? Angela left, and I had a glass of red wine. I don't buy red wine. The groundskeeper. He was here last night. He was... He was seducing me. He gave me the wine. Maybe he slipped something in it. Probably. He drugged me and... and he took advantage of me. Oh God. I guess it serves me right for letting him in, in the first place. I wonder if this is how normal women think when they're sexually assaulted? I strip the clothing off and climb into the shower. I feel... ugg, what a bad clich?... I feel dirty. As the water rolls over me I start to wonder about STDs. God, I could have gotten AIDS. That bastard could have raped me, and given me AIDS. I fight the urge to shut down, to crawl inside myself and shut everything away. That would do no good. I guess now is time for damage control. I could call the police, I guess, and report a sexual assault. Then I'd have to tell them the circumstances around the assault. Wouldn't that be fun! Yes, your honor, I let him into my apartment. Yes, your honor, I put on revealing female lingerie. Yes, your honor, I'm saying after that I was drugged and raped. I climb out of the shower, and towel myself off. I walk to my chest of drawers, and open my underwear drawer. It's empty, except for one Polaroid picture. It's an auburn-haired woman felating a muscular man. My stomach rolls. She looks like she's into it... Like I'M into it. I stand there naked for a moment. I have no underwear to put on. I check in the second bedroom, where I keep 'her' clothing. Of course, nothing has been removed. This guy is a total fucking psycho. After sliding on a pair of plain white panties, I move back into the other bedroom, and check the rest of my wardrobe. Empty. Every scrap of male clothing has been removed. Great. Fucking great. Well... what are my options? Get dressed up, and go buy some clothes. Maybe get a local place to deliver some clothes. Order rush delivery over the internet. That would still take a few days. Could I handle going out en femme shopping for guys clothes? I've never been out. That's a big step. I stop for a moment, feeling the numb sensation of disconnection. It's like it's not really my life that's this fucked up. It can't be. I want terribly just to have someone I trust be here... to protect me... I guess. I dial Angela. "Hello?" she answers on the third ring. She is at least willing to talk with me. "Hi." I manage through a nearly broken voice. I clear my throat, but as I try to start again, it locks, and I feel the flood of emotions. "Angela," I manage through the tears. "Can you please come over?" There is just a moment's pause. "Sure." I think she hears the pain in my voice. God, I hope so. I can't talk any more. I hang up the phone and sit on the couch. It hurts to sit up, so I lean over on my side, and pull my legs up against my chest. I wonder for a moment if I'll ever feel safe again. I pull the comforter off the back of the couch and wrap it around me. I feel like a scared child, hiding under a protective blanket. It's a long space of time between when I lay down, and when the knock at the door finally comes. I have learned my lesson. I move to the peephole and look out into the hall before opening the door. In the instant my mind recognizes the figure on the other side of the door, I know what real terror is. The groundskeeper stands only feet from me, separated by a door I no longer trust to protect me. "Go away, or I'll call the police," I yell through the door. "Good, I wanted to show others my photography skills," he returns. He holds another Polaroid up to the peephole. The world stops. My secret... This urge, this sick...fucking... THING I have... has gotten me into this. And now, he threatens to expose me for what I am... for the twisted little sexual deviant I am. "What do you want from me?" I plead. I know as soon as the words escape my lips that it is the exact wrong thing to say. "I just want to talk. Please, just let me see you face to face," he says. He is at least keeping his voice down. The last thing I want is for the neighbors to hear this exchange. I close my eyes. I can't think. I can't come up with a good way out of this. I turn the deadbolt, and twist the lock set into the doorknob. As I turn it, I press my heel firmly into the carpet and set my foot against the door. It will open no more than an inch or two. "You are a rapist," I finally manage, staring him in the eye. He casts his eyes to the side. I see the shame and regret. I feel the sturring of moral victory. "I'm sorry about that. You were just so..." He lowers his voice, "You're such a beautiful woman." His eyes are watery, looking near tears. "Maybe I shouldn't say such things here in the hall," he says, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder. I pull my foot from where it's planted, and open the door enough to peek into the hall. In that split second, he shoulders into the door, knocking me back into the apartment. The doorknob is driven into my pelvis. The door itself strikes me across my collarbone, and I'm sent sprawling backward. He steps in after me, closing the door quietly. I try to scramble to my feet, but he steps up behind me and grabs my hair. He nearly leaps on top of me, driving me to the floor, face down. He sits on top of me... straddling me. I hear the sound of metal sliding on metal, and a metallic click. A moment later, I can see a carpet knife in my peripheral vision. "I want you to remain very quiet. Nod if you understand," he says in a very soft voice in my ear. I nod. He sets something in front of me, on the floor. It's a section of 2 by 4, about six inches long. There is something that looks like piano wire or a guitar string circling the block, and held in place with carpenter staples. On each end, the wire is open in semicircular loops, big enough for... for hands to be passed through. Even as I think the dreaded thoughts, they are proven true. "I want you to slide your left hand into the wire loop, with the bottom of your wrist facing the wire," he speaks in a very controlled voice. I put my hand through the wire loop. From over my head, I see his hand emerge, holding a hammer with a metal shaft and rubber grip. He pulls the wire tight around my wrist, and then gives several solid strikes of the hammer to the carpentry staple, securing the wire. The banging sound resonates through me with finality. Images of my dismembered body in a dumpster flash in my mind. I wonder if I will die today? "Now, the right hand," he says. I comply, as if I had a choice. My wrists are now held firmly, with the hands facing away from each other. The thin steel wire cuts slightly into the soft skin of my wrists. My captor climbs off my back. I expect him to haul me roughly to my feet, but he kneels beside me for a moment. He places his well-callused hand on my back, and runs it slowly down my body, finally reaching the white silk panties. He runs his index finger along the crack of my ass. I press my forehead into the carpet, and try with every bit of will I have to make this nightmare go away. He stands up, and I hear thumping. Then there is the jangling of his tool belt, followed by the reverberating sounds of the hammer. "Come on, girl. Time to get you to your feet," he says, and I struggle awkwardly up. His muscular arms do most of the work. Once standing, he guides the makeshift handcuffs to a point on the wall, and hooks the wire over the nail he's driven into the wall. "Spread your legs," he says softly. "Why?" I ask, fearing the worst. There is a flash of light in my right eye as he strikes me with something near my temple. "Because I fucking said so, you little cock sucker," he says, showing the first sign of emotion since entering the apartment. Cock sucker... I suppose I deserve that. Maybe he's right... Maybe I'm just a little slut masquerading as a man. I spread my legs to shoulder width. "Wider," he demands. I comply, and within moments, thin wire is wrapped around my ankles, and secured to nails driven into the wall. I already feel a slight tingling in my fingertips, from my arms being elevated. How much worse will it get? It's also somewhat hard to breathe. It's like a form of crusification. 'Crusified', my mind echoes. I'm finding it hard to stay in the here and now. My mind wants to flee. I am brought back by three quick, light slaps to my cheek. "There now. We can get to work. You know, I had the..." the groundskeeper smirks, then smiles. His eyes light up a little. "I had just the best time with you last night." He touches my arms just below the elbows, rubs the inside of my arms toward my armpits... to my nipples. They stand erect from the sensation of his touch. He steps in and licks one, kneading the flesh around them, as if I had breasts. "You are my pretty little thing, but you are weak, and too afraid to do what must be done. So I will help you. I will be strong and brave for both of us, my dear." I don't make a response. I don't drill a look of utter hatred nor fear. I only hope that I will survive this encounter. I can't seem to keep my eyes locked on any one point. They are chasing thoughts... darting about. Somewhere in my head I'm aware that I'm shivering. Things seem distant. "It took me most of the night, but I got this for you... to make things easier," he says, as he holds up an ampule. He face lights up like someone presenting a gift to a child. I watch as he digs through the pouch on the toolbelt. It seems he has all sorts of goodies stowed in there. He retrieves a hypodermic, and pulls the cap from the new needle. I watch with a growing sense of fear as he fills the hypodermic from the ampule, then turns the needle skyward, taps the syringe, and squirts out any wayward air bubbles. The needle is intended for me, and I stand powerless to stop this man. Again I hear the metal click, and the carpet knife is extended. He tugs gently at the fabric of my panties, slicing one side, then the next with the razorblade of the carpet knife. The tatters fall to the floor. I feel his warm hands on my scrotum. I begin to feel my penis shift. Oh god... please don't tell me this fucking shit actually turns me on... God. I deserve this if this is the kind of freak I am. I am broken out of my mental flagellation by the sting of a needle in my sack. I hiss a breath in through my teeth , and feel the beginning of a scream. The groundskeeper is there before it escapes with the carpet knife in my face. "Sh-sh-sh..." he urges. "It's okay. It'll take a few minutes, but soon you should be numb down there, and I can get to work. I'll be back in just a second, okay?" he says gently. "What do you intend to do, exactly?" I ask calmly. I don't want to know. I really, REALLY don't want to know. Please don't say what I think you're going to say. "My dear sweet creature... you are a beautiful woman, but you deny it... to yourself and to the world. I will be the instrument to strip away that deception. You have something that makes you believe you are a man. I will remove that illusion. You will see... You will see yourself as you truly are." he stares into my eyes. I see love in his eyes. A tender concern... and madness. He darts away, into the bathroom just down the hall. He is back in a moment, and puts a towel on the floor between my legs. He looks up, and I can see him thinking. He then drags the coffee table over to a few feet from where I'm held. My shoulders are nearly cramping, but I dare not relax the muscles. I fear even just the weight of my arms pulling against the wire would slit my wrists. I watch him as his eyes trace across my face, down my naked body. He runs his fingers through my hair, down the side of my face, and stops at the growing knot on my collarbone from the impact with the door. He looks sad, staring at it. "Do you feel this?" he asks. "The lump on my collarbone?" I ask tentatively. "No... this," he says, and I can hear him slapping skin between my legs, but can feel nothing. Whatever he means to do, I expect it will happen soon. I feel another surge of fear. "You're not going to cut off my dick, are you?" I say. It comes out in anything but poetic terms, but I don't have the time or sense of mind to construct ad lib prose here. At the statement, he laughs lightly and shakes his head. "No, dear... You need the material for reconstruction. We just need to get rid of those nasty testes. Once that's done, and you're on girl hormones, you'll feel much more like yourself," he smiles up at me as he lowers himself to his knees. There is a slight sound, like a muffled zipper, then a sort of wet squish. The man on his knees before me them makes several grunts as he struggles to cut something. My head spins. The shivering gets worse. I can feel the tickling sensation of wetness creeping down my thighs. Finally the groundskeeper stands again, and holds a bloody purplish oval traced with blood vessels. My eyes involuntarily begin to roll up in my head. I feel my knees start to buckle. "Hold on there, girl!" He cries, and catches me before I collapse into my viscous bindings. I regain my senses after a moment, and he smiles. "That's my girl," he says, smiling. He plops the small organ onto the coffee table, and picks up the hammer. Holding the slippery orb in one hand, he swings the hammer, and there is a tearing pop and thump as the hammer falls. My throat locks, keeping what little contents there are in my stomach. The trembling gets worse, and finally, I feel the first tear. "Just another moment or two, love." the psychopath says with love from between my blood-soaked thighs. Again, the sounds of cutting, the slight sensation of tugging, and he stands to show me his next trophy. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I am dimly aware that I have just been castrated. I can hear the soft sounds of my blood dripping onto the towel between my legs. Again, the hammer. So, it's over... I can't look at the table. I can't look at his hands. I can tell my vision is coming in around the edges. Things are sounding distant. My knees are buckling again. I can feel him pressing against me again, holding me up. My hands are released from their overhead position. With quick precision, he cuts the wires around my feet. I can barely stand. He lowers me to the floor. In this position, I have a fair view of my crotch. I lie on my side and watch blood roll off my left thigh and onto the towel beneath me. The trembling won't stop. I'm not cold anymore. I can't really feel the world. I can't really feel my body. It belongs to someone else now. He turns back to the bathroom, and I hear water running in the sink. I imagine the pink swirl of my scrotal blood swirling down the drain. A sound drags me back to the hell that has become my world. There is a soft knock on the door. Someone... someone who sounds like me screams "Call the police!" He... the groundskeeper... storms from the bathroom at the screaming. The front door begins to swing wide. Angela is there... She sees... she comprehends. She will call the police. This nightmare will end. Please God... let it end. She reaches in her purse, even as the groundskeeper scoops up the shining, metal- shafted hammer from the coffee table, which is now dripping with the remains of my testicles. What Angela retrieves is not a cell phone. In a way, I'm glad. She'd never even get the number dialed before the groundskeeper was upon her. She pulls a small automatic pistol from her purse, pulls the slide back and releases it. I watch the scene, lying on my side. The slow motion events play out with the view tilted ninety degrees counterclockwise. The hammer traverses a wicked arc, meeting Angela's head claw-side first. She falls out of my view, behind an easy chair. A second later, there are two thunderous bangs, making the sounds of the hammer pale in comparison. The groundskeeper falls back against the wall in front of me. He slides down the wall slowly, struggling to regain his strength. It never returns. His face is contorted in pain, but slowly regains lucid composure. His eyes stare forward. Then slowly he blinks and searches the room. He sees me and smiles slightly. "Pretty..." he manages. His last breath... little more than a bloody whisper.