Hobson's Choice free porn video

The expression "Hobson's Choice" is named after the keeper of a livery stable in seventeenth century England who required customers to accept the next horse available. Hence "Hobson's choice" means no choice at all. Hobson's Choice © 2003 by Nom de Plume "Young man, do you have anything to say for yourself before the Court pronounces your sentence?" The judge, a gaunt man with a hawk like face and bony hands protruding from his black robe, glowered down at the youthful defendant trembling before him. "I just want to say how sorry I am." "It's a little late for that, isn't it? An under-aged girl is pregnant with an unwanted child because you raped her, and you're sorry. You're about to find out what sorry really means." Andrew Hobson glanced nervously around the courtroom for support. His lawyer, Ellen Marshall, looked down at her papers, while his mother sat in the first row with a stricken look on her face. The parents of the victim were across the aisle, fixing him with evil stares. He turned back to face the judge. "From your record, it is clear that although you are a highly successful jockey, you are also an incorrigible womanizer. Aggravated rape, even by a man without any prior convictions, requires the sternest possible punishment. I therefore sentence you to life in prison, without possibility of parole." Hobson's mind reeled as he tried to absorb what he had just heard. A lifetime in prison, where his slight physique and boyish face would guarantee that he would become the plaything of hardened criminals. "Your Honor, please don't do this to me," he cried. "There is an alternative," the judge said. "Anything, your Honor!" "Under a new law recently signed by the governor, judges have wide leeway in fashioning sentences utilizing the latest medical technology. After reading the report of the court-appointed psychiatrist who examined you, the Court is prepared to order that you be surgically altered into a woman." Hobson opened his mouth to protest, but he was too shocked to speak. "Here is what will happen to you. First, you will be administered a massive dose of hormones, which will flood your body with estrogen and eliminate your production of testosterone. Next, your penis and testicles will be removed, and although the Court is not required to do this, you will be given a vagina. And to show you that I am not without mercy, at the urging of your psychiatrist, I will also authorize breast implants for you. You are a pretty boy, and you will make a lovely girl." Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. "Your honor," Hobson stammered. "The choice is yours, Mr. Hobson." He turned his lawyer. "Can't I appeal?" "No, you pleaded guilty and threw yourself on the mercy of the Court." "Some mercy! What should I do?" Ellen Marshall, a well-dressed woman in her late thirties, rose to address the judge. "Your Honor, if my client elects to undergo the surgical alternative, how long will he?I mean she, remain incarcerated?" "The balance of the defendant's sentence will be suspended upon the completion of the procedure." "Take it, Andrew!" she whispered. "You'll be able to ride again." Hobson looked back at his mother, who was sobbing into her handkerchief. She looked up and nodded her head, a look of indescribable sadness on her worn out face. Hobson closed his eyes as he weighed the alternatives. Life in prison, or a lifetime as?a woman. From racing silks to silk and lace?from chasing skirts to wearing skirts?from stud to filly?. If he said no, he'd be a woman anyway, only in a men's prison. Either way, he was fucked. "Okay," he heard himself sigh. The judge brought down his gavel. "Next case!" Hobson was hustled out of the courtroom to the shouts of the girl's parents and the cries of his mother. "Cut his balls off!" and "My baby!" rang in his ears as he was whisked into a waiting police car and driven the short distance to a state hospital, used for inmates requiring surgery during their penitentiary stays. He expected to be placed in a holding cell, while the inevitable paperwork caught up with him, and was surprised when a doctor in a white coat met him at the emergency room entrance and escorted him into an examination room with two armed guards in tow. The doctor instructed the guards to wait just outside, and ordered Andrew to strip down to his shorts. Andrew had dressed in his best suit and tie for his sentencing, and he morosely took them off and threw them on the floor, never to be worn again. The doctor was all business as he scanned Andrew's file. "All of the necessary paperwork has been attended to. Nothing like a court order to cut through the red tape, the new protocol for SRS in these circumstances calls for initiating transition and scheduling surgery as quickly as possible. No point in prolonging the inevitable. Pull down your shorts and bend over, please." While Andrew was staring at the floor, the doctor produced a hypodermic syringe with a long needle, and before Andrew could react, he inserted the needle into one of his ass cheeks. "Ouch! What's that?" "Hormones. Be still for a moment, please." The doctor pushed the plunger all the way down, flooding Andrew's body with a cocktail of estrogen, progestin, and an anti- androgen to eliminate his production of testosterone. "Doctor, can I ask I question?" Andrew asked after he stood back up. "Yes." "Is the surgery reversible?" The doctor chuckled. "I'm good, but I'm not that good. We're going to have to skin your penis to create a lining for your vagina, and after we amputate what's left, we'll try to make a nice little clitoris out of the stump. Your scrotum will be needed for your new labia. Does any of that sound reversible to you?" Andrew started to shake uncontrollably. "I've changed my mind. Call the judge! I'll do life in prison." "Sorry, young man," the doctor said brusquely. "You've just been chemically castrated. There's no turning back now." Andrew cried out in despair. "No! I don't want to be a girl!" "You should have thought about that before you made your decision. Perhaps the next time a young man is about to rape a girl, he'll think twice after he learns about you." "Oh, God! Please, no!" "The serum should take about an hour to work its way through your system. Say goodbye to your manhood." The doctor left him. Andrew stood shaking in his shorts, gripped by an ague of fear. There was a tap on the door, and an attractive blonde nurse in a white uniform entered. She stood a good six inches taller than Andrew. Seeing the ashen expression on his face, she said, "I see the doctor's bedside manner hasn't improved. Step on the scale, please." Still shaking, Andrew complied, and she played with the weights and measures. "Five feet five inches, one hundred and ten pounds," she said as she wrote it down on her clipboard. Andrew tried to avoid eye contact with her, wondering how much she knew about his situation, until she handed him a glass jar. "Mr. Hobson," she said gently, "you have the opportunity to leave a sperm deposit, if you wish, in case you ever want to have children." When he looked at her, her eyes had the saddest expression. "I know this must be difficult for you. Let me know when you're through." Before he could respond, she went out into the hall and closed the door quietly behind herself. Andrew stared at the jar and started to sob. How could he have let this happen to himself? In a trance, he pulled down his shorts and started to stroke his penis, but it wouldn't respond. The knowledge of what was about to happen to him, and the hideous words of the doctor, rang in his ears. After a few minutes, the nurse popped her head back in the door. When she saw the size of Andrew's flaccid penis, she gasped. Although he had a jockey's physique, he was incredibly well hung, and his small stature only accentuated the size of his member. "What a shame," she said under her breath. "Do you know what's going to happen to me?" "Yes, I do. I think it's terrible, but I suppose you made the right decision." "I don't want this to happen! I'm a guy, not a girl. Please, can't you help me?" She locked the door and took his penis in her hands. "I can't change what's about to happen to you, but I can help you enjoy your last moments as a man." Andrew was speechless as she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth. In spite of the fear and torment, his body responded immediately, and he felt himself getting bigger and harder as she sucked on him. When he was almost ready, she twisted open the lid of the specimen container and deftly whipped him out of her mouth, stroking him with her delicate fingers as he started to ejaculate into the jar. After months of forced abstinence in a holding cell, his body erupted in spite of his terror, and she stared in amazement as he gushed into it, filling it to overflowing with gobs of hot semen. Andrew gritted his teeth as the waves of pleasure began to subside, overwhelmed by the knowledge that they would be his last. Finally, he fell back against the wall, utterly spent. "This could make the Guinness Book of World Records," she said. Then she screwed the lid back on the jar, unlocked the door, and left him alone. They came for him a few minutes later. Andrew had to be restrained by two orderlies and one of the guards before he was strapped down, screaming, to a gurney and wheeled into an operating room. He struggled ferociously until they finally put him under. The next few weeks were spent in a haze of drugs and pain, punctuated by a recurring nightmare in which Andrew, chained to a mountain, writhed in agony as a hawk with the face of the judge gnawed on his testicles, again and again. But each time he woke up and looked down at himself, they weren't there. * * * Gradually, as the pain subsided and the drugs tapered off, Andrew began to come to terms with his new body. The first time he urinated without a bedpan, sitting down on the toilet in his private bathroom, he wept bitter tears at the realization of his loss. Even the surprising pleasure he experienced as he soaped off his new breasts during his first shower was not enough to shake him out of a profound depression. One day, his lawyer came to visit. His stitches were completely healed, and he was bored out of his mind, having had no companionship other than the nurses and doctors who attended him. Day after day, he had lolled in bed, watching television and flipping through the women's magazines that seemed to have been placed in his room to taunt him. The only thing he had to look forward to was his daily session with a physical therapist and trainer, who forced him to stretch and tone his new physique. The leotard, which his trainer insisted that he wear, was his only women's garment, and he was sitting on the edge of his bed when his lawyer arrived. "Hello Andrew," she said as she took in the changes to her client. The hormones were filling him out nicely. In his leotard, there was no question that Andrew Hobson had a woman's body, but his face was unchanged. Even with his long stringy hair, grown down almost to his shoulders now, he looked decidedly unfeminine. Andrew sat up with a start. "What are you doing here," he said self-consciously, ashamed at what had become. "We have a court appearance tomorrow. The judge has ordered that you return for a hearing to confirm your compliance with the terms of your sentencing." "What does that mean?" "It means that if he is satisfied with the results, you will be a free man?I mean woman." He jumped off the bed. "God, I can't believe it. You mean I'm really going to get out of here?" "That depends, Andrew, on whether he determines that you have accepted the conditions he imposed. Right now, I'd say that's an open question." "What the fuck are you talking about? Look at me, for Christ's sake. I'm a fucking broad. Can't you see that?" His lawyer held her ground. "Andrew, you're going to have to do something with yourself if we're going to get you out of here. That's why I came. We have less than twenty-four hours to make you presentable as a woman. And I'm going to need some help to pull it off." Andrew sat back down on the bed. "What are you saying? Do I have to put on a fucking dress?" "Well of course, but that's the least of it. When you walk into that courtroom tomorrow, you are going to have to look, and act, like a contrite young woman." "This is bullshit." "Would you rather stay in here, or maybe end up with the general population? I wonder if they'd put you in a men's or a woman's prison?." "All right, all right, I'll do whatever you say." "I knew you'd see it my way." She punched a number into her cell phone. "Janet, come on over. And you'd better call for reinforcements. We've got our work cut out for us." * * * At eight o'clock the next morning, Andrew woke up with foreboding. If yesterday afternoon was any indication, he was in for the most humiliating experience of his life. For hours, he had been subjected to one indignity after another. Having his hair shampooed, conditioned and styled into a fluffy shag. Watching as his fingernails, which had grown long during his convalescence, were shaped and polished into feminine ovals. Being measured for his new wardrobe. Hours of instruction on how to sit, stand and talk like a woman. Makeup lessons. And finally, after his ears were pierced when he wasn't looking, the shock of having his entire body lathered with a disgusting goo that removed every trace of his body hair when he rinsed himself off in the shower. When they finally left him, he was a mental wreck, collapsing in exhaustion and crying himself to sleep. And now, after a restless night in which his terrifying dreams about the judge had returned, he was about to face him, stripped of his manhood, on public display like a carnival attraction. It would only be for a few minutes, Ellen Marshall had assured him, and then he would be free to start his life over. As he stood in the hot shower, he realized that it was not the court appearance that concerned him. It was the realization that he was going to have to spend the rest of his life in this strange new body, cut off from everything he had ever known and loved. The only thing that had sustained him during his agonizing weeks in the hospital was the prospect that he might be able to ride again. Although he had treated women jockeys with undisguised contempt during his spectacular racing career, he desperately hoped to become one now, to reclaim some shred of his former life. If playing Susie Sunshine for the judge could make that happen, he'd better damn well put up with it. After he toweled himself off and removed his shower cap, he inspected his new figure in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Stripped of his body hair, with a girlish hairdo and manicured nails, for the first time he began to think of himself as a woman. He turned sideways, amazed at how his pert breasts made his flat abs look even smaller, and he grudgingly admired his emerging hips and his well- turned legs. If he were still a man, he would have wanted to fuck this body. Now, all he felt was emptiness in the pit of his stomach, and a hopeless longing for the man he used to be. With a sigh, he picked up a brush and went to work on his hair. Then he dumped his new supply of cosmetics onto the vanity and began to fumble through them. Moisturizer first, then a liquid foundation?his beard had never amounted to much, and after his balls were cut off and his body drenched with female hormones, it went away altogether. He smoothed the makeup over his pretty face with a sponge, and went to work on his eyes. Eye liner, eye shadow, mascara?it took him a few tries before he got it right. "Less is best," Ellen Marshall and her assistants had drummed into him yesterday, and he remembered that as he brushed his cheeks with blush and applied a coat of lipstick to his pouting mouth. When he was finished, he had to admit to himself that the girl looking back at him in the mirror was cute. Maybe not beautiful, certainly not sexy, but definitely cute, with startled eyes and a slightly bewildered expression. Andrew was in a daze as he walked over to the pile of lingerie on the foot of his bed. For the first time in his life, he put on a pair of women's panties, noticing with remorse how they hugged his flat front while they caressed his curving ass. The bra presented technical difficulties, as he struggled with the snaps on the back before he remembered a tip from Janet, Ellen Marshall's ditzy assistant. Janet had instructed him on how to turn it around and fasten it first before tucking his arms under the straps, and it worked. He had to admit that his breasts felt snug and secure in their new home, and he was able to stand up straight, feeling back in balance for the first time since his operation. A slip and a pair of nude pantyhose were next. Andrew shimmied into his slip, shivering as the silky fabric cascaded down his smooth skin. He looked down at the sight of his legs draped in white satin, feeling very sorry for himself as he tried to get used to the unfamiliar confinement of a skirt. The lacy hem tugged at his knees as he walked over to the small closet and took his dress off its hanger. His dress?it was beige with pink flowers, and he had objected bitterly when Janet returned with it after heading off to a nearby mall. "Why did you have to get something so girly?" he had protested. "Because you're a girl now, a size six to be exact," she had smirked as she cut off the price tags. Utterly defeated, he had resigned himself to wearing it just for today, and now he had no choice. With a deep sigh, he gathered it up and dropped it over his head. He managed to get his arms into the short sleeves, and he was struggling with the zipper in the back when he heard a knock on his door. The guard stationed outside opened it to admit Ellen and Janet. "Look at you!" Janet exclaimed. "Aren't you precious?" "Shut the fuck up and help me with this fucking zipper," Andrew snarled. "That's not very ladylike," Janet said as she zipped him up and fastened the clasp behind his neck. Andrew ignored her as he picked up his new shoes and tried to put them on. Janet had thrown caution to the wind and selected a pair of taupe pumps with 3" heels, and the women watched as he struggled to wedge his feet into them. "They'll go on much better after you put on your nylons," Janet observed. "Fuck that. I'm not wearing 'em." "Put on your stockings, young lady!" his lawyer said with mock gravity. "No. I hate them." Although it was completely irrational, Andrew desperately wanted to avoid this final badge of femininity. "Spoken like a true woman," Janet teased him. "Seriously, Andrew, they'll make your shoes fit better, and complete the look." Andrew hung his head as he hiked up his dress and slip and sat down on the foot of the bed. The women watched in amusement as he grappled with the delicate nylons, trying in vain to keep them from twisting as he tugged them up his legs. Finally Janet came to his rescue, and he sat in abject dejection as she straightened them out and instructed him how to ease them on. Finally he had them up to his waist, and they looked on in approval as he did a deep-knee bend and pulled them snug. When he stepped into his pumps, they fit perfectly. Janet fussed with his dress and slip while Ellen fastened a thin gold necklace around his neck. When they were finished, he sulked as they stepped back to admire their handiwork. "Oh, my God!" Janet said. "He's so cute!" "She's so cute," Ellen, corrected her. "When we go into that courtroom in about an hour, Andrew is going to have to look, and act, like a woman. I think the appearance aspect has been taken care of. Come over to the mirror and get a good look at yourself, Andrew." Reluctantly, he followed them over to the full-length mirror, wobbling as he tried to get used to his heels. What he saw in the mirror took his breath away. The women were right. From his soft brown hair to his dainty feet, he was all girl now. He stared at himself in a trance until Janet shocked him back to reality with a spritz of cologne behind each ear. He was too numb to protest. Ellen handed him a purse, and he held it awkwardly in his hands until she told him gently that it was okay for him to carry a purse now. With this last nail in Andrew's coffin, he followed them out the door, his old life gone forever. * * * Under prior arrangement with the court, Andrew was allowed to ride with his lawyer to the hearing, a police escort right behind them. It felt wonderful breathing fresh air again through the open windows, although Andrew had to constantly brush his new bangs out of his eyes, and he almost tripped and fell down trying to get out of the car in his dress. By the time they covered the two blocks from the parking lot to the courthouse, he was getting used to walking in high heels, and he actually enjoyed the sensation of being three inches taller. They were escorted past security and rode up the elevator in silence. But when they emerged onto the floor where the courtroom was, they were besieged by a pack of newspaper reporters and photographers. Andrew held up his hands as the flashbulbs erupted in his face. "Wow, look at him!" someone shouted, "he really went through with it." A wolf whistle pierced the air. Andrew was red-faced and mortified as he slunk into the courtroom and took his place at the defense table, self-consciously smoothing his skirt beneath himself before he sat down. He could tell that every man in the courtroom was staring at his legs as he crossed them and tugged the hem of his dress down over his knees. That God he told his poor mother to stay home. "All rise!" the bailiff shouted, and Andrew got awkwardly to his feet as the judge took his place on the bench. He peered down at Andrew over his half-moon glasses as the clerk recited the case number. "People versus Andrew Hobson. Counsel, please state your appearances for the record." Because Andrew had pleaded guilty, his case had been handled by whatever Deputy D.A. had the calendar when he was in court. Today, however, the District Attorney himself was sitting at the government's table, not wanting to miss the opportunity to cash in on some free media exposure. After he and Ellen Marshall announced their appearances, the judge took over. "Will the defendant stand up, please?" he asked with elaborate courtesy. Andrew nervously took his feet and stood with his eyes fixed on the marble floor. "Step closer, please," the judge said. "Let me get a good look at you." Andrew complied, his ears ringing with the sound of his heels clicking on the marble floor. "Turn around," the judge said. Tears running down his cheeks, Andrew did a slow pirouette, and when he looked out over the crowded courtroom, the sneers and snickers were unbearable. Blushing bright crimson, he turned back to face the judge. "It would appear that the order of the Court has been complied with. Do you have those papers we discussed in chambers?" he asked the clerk. He waited until the clerk, a dumpy woman who regarded Andrew with a mixture of envy and disdain, handed him a thin manila folder. "On the Court's own motion, I have initiated the process necessary for the change in your legal status from male to female. I am signing the documents now," he said as Andrew looked on in confusion. "You are now Miss Andrea Hobson. Your social security number will remain the same, and you should present yourself to the Division of Motor Vehicles to get a new picture taken at your earliest convenience." Andrea jumped when the judge banged down his gavel. "Next case." "Your Honor, before we leave, I just want to clear up a few things," Ellen Marshall said while Andrea looked on helplessly. "We had not expected the Court to change my client's name, and I will have to discuss it with her." "Of course, of course. If she wants to be Nancy, or Jane, just let me know, and the Court will take it under advisement." 'More important, your Honor, is the restoration of my client's license by the State Racing Commission. As a convicted felon, Andrew Hobson's right to earn a living as a professional jockey was suspended, and we were hoping that his?I mean, her new status would change that." "Out of the question!" the judge roared. "In the first place, because Andrew Hobson no longer exists, his racing license is null and void. Your client will therefore have to apply for a new license in her new name. Although the final decision will be up to the Racing Commission, I will recommend in no uncertain terms that Andrea Hobson never be allowed anywhere near a race track, and as sentencing judge I believe my opinion will be dispositive." "But your Honor," Ellen Marshall said as a clamor swept through the courtroom. "My client has paid her debt to society. What interest can it serve the Court to deprive her of her livelihood?" "Your client is still a convicted rapist. The fact that she is now a woman does not entitle her to any special privileges, wouldn't you agree?" the judge said with sarcasm. "Why doesn't she try to get a job as a stewardess, or a waitress? With those tits the government paid for, she has a shot at working for Hooters." Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. Broken down with misery, Andrea fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically. "Your Honor, this is an outrage!" Ellen cried. "One more word out of you, counselor, and I'll hold you in contempt! Bailiff, clear the courtroom!" * * * One month later, Andrea Hobson returned to her studio apartment after another frustrating day of selling shirts and ties. Her feet were killing her as she kicked off her heels, and she gratefully peeled off her nylons and slumped into a recliner in front of the television. Idly, she turned it on and flipped through the channels. At least that male addiction had not been taken from her. She was about to skip past a local sports program when she saw a familiar face. It was her judge, standing in the VIP section at the Belmont Stakes. A race, which Andrew Hobson had won three times during his brief but brilliant career. Andrea stared at the screen as the judge stood beside the owner of the winning horse, cheering along with him as their long-shot entry won an upset victory. Andrea switched off the television and began to pace around her apartment. The favorite in that race, Buckaroo, had won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness with Andrew in the saddle, and Seacrest Stables had never found another rider capable of dealing with his high-strung temperament. If Andrew Hobson had not been standing trial for rape, he would have been on Buckaroo, guiding him to victory against the horse owned by the judge's friend. They must have won a fortune by betting against Buckaroo, who was the prohibitive favorite to win the race and the Triple Crown. Andrea was about to dismiss the whole thing as a strange coincidence when the telephone rang. It was Ellen Marshall. "Andrea, how are you?" "Life sucks, Ellen. I'm making ends meet as a sales associate at a department store, in the fucking menswear department, but if it weren't for the money I saved up when I was riding, I'd be out on the street." 'I'm sorry to hear that, Andrea. Look, we need to talk. I have something I need to show you." "What, another legal bill? I told you, I'll pay you as soon as I get back on my feet." "No, it's not that, Andrea. It's something about your sentencing." * * * They agreed to meet the next day at a fancy restaurant near Ellen's office. Andrea was almost used to getting dressed up by now, and she went through the motions with her hair and makeup before selecting a conservative skirt and sweater to wear to the restaurant. It was late autumn, and she completed her outfit with opaque tights and high heels, having come to accept them as a necessary tradeoff for her newfound height. Ellen was waiting for her at a quiet table in the back. They shook hands awkwardly, and Ellen waited until they ordered their salads and iced tea before pulling a file out of her briefcase. "I was in the courthouse yesterday, and it occurred to me that I had never seen those documents which the judge signed the day he changed your name. I had a little time on my hands, so I went to the clerk's office and asked to see the case file." Ellen handed a document to Andrea. "This is the report of your court-appointed psychiatrist. It is different from the report which was sent to me before your sentencing. Read it." Andrea started to skim through the report, not believing what she saw. "The subject admits to a lifelong fixation with wearing women's clothing, and expressed the desire to undergo sex reassignment surgery." "This is bullshit!" she shouted. After months of hormones, and hours of voice lessons, she had developed a woman's way of speaking, but suddenly she sounded like Andrew again. "What the hell's going on?" "I'm not sure, Andrea. Obviously somebody tampered with your record, and put this report in there to back up the judge's decision to order your surgery. The question is, why?" Andrew handed back the report. "You mean, if this report wasn't in there, I wouldn't have been?changed?" "That's what I'm suggesting. The question is, who had the motive?" Andrea's head was spinning. Her whole life, his whole life, ruined because of a bogus report? There had to be more to it than that. "Let me ask you something else," Ellen went on. "The girl you raped. How well did you know her?" "Hardly at all. She came up to me at the track one morning after an exercise session. She practically dragged me down to the backstretch and pulled her pants down. When she started screaming, I couldn't believe it." "I know. And suddenly there were witnesses everywhere, backing up her story that you raped her. I always thought it seemed too convenient, too contrived?so I did a little checking. What I am about to tell you could subject me to a malpractice suit, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't let you know." "What are you talking about?" "She was not under-aged, and she never got pregnant." "What?" Ellen pulled another document out of her file. "Her real name is Hilda Speyer. She is a professional actress, from Germany." Andrea stared down at a professional portfolio, showing the girl Andrew Hobson had supposedly raped in a variety of poses. The text was in German. "She's twenty- four years old, Andrea," Ellen said softly. "I found this out by doing a simple web search." Andrea was bewildered. "What about her parents?" "More actors. Oh Andrea, I'm so sorry. If I had been doing my job right, I would have never let you plead guilty." Andrea closed here eyes as she tried to grasp the enormity of it. "So I never committed a crime?" "Of course not. You were set up, Andrea, by somebody who wanted you out of the way. When the new law passed requiring judges to offer the surgical alternative to convicted rapists, they altered your file to hedge their bets. Either way, they got what they wanted." "But who would want to do this to me?" "I don't know, Andrea, but whoever was behind it must have had a powerful motive, and considerable means. You know, I always wondered why your operation took place so fast, and I was surprised at your sentencing when we were told your new name. Why, it almost looks like the judge might have been in on this?." In a flash, Andrea understood. The judge who ordered that Andrew Hobson be turned into a woman?and then made sure that Andrea Hobson would never ride again?in an owner's box at the Belmont, cheering as Buckaroo was upset by a dark horse owned by the man next to him?. When Andrea spoke, her voice was deadly calm. "Ellen, what do you know about the judge?" "Judge Hauk? Well, as you could see for yourself, his judicial temperament leaves a lot to be desired. He's been reprimanded by the chief judge many times for his comments from the bench, including that Hooter's crack he laid on you." "I'm not asking about his temperament. Is he a crook?" "Andrea, you can't say things like that! Not without evidence to back it up." "What if I told you I think I have your motive. Will you help me try to nail him?" "I don't know, Andrea. I'm not a private detective. If you know something, we should go to the police." "No, thanks. My faith in the criminal justice system has just taken a hit. I'm asking you to help me prove that the judge is on the take. I think I know who is paying him." "Who?" "Ronald Brewster." "As in Ronald Brewster, the billionaire? The Ronald Brewster who owns hotels, office buildings, car dealerships?." "And racehorses." "Oh, my God. Andrea, this is too big for us. We have to go to the police." Andrea snapped. "Ellen, I'll never forgive you for not picking up on all this before it was too late. It was almost better before?at least I thought I had this coming to me in some way. But now, to find out that I had my balls cut off so some greedy pig could fix a horserace?.I need you for this, Ellen. Tell me you'll help me," she pleaded. Ellen shook her head. "Okay, I'm in. What are we going to do, sister?" * * * Andrea quit her job at the department store, and for the next two weeks she spent day and night in Ellen's law library, scouring the Internet for everything she could find about Ronald Brewster. His controversial business dealings, his spectacular divorces, and his flamboyant lifestyle were all grist for the media, fanned by his insatiable lust for publicity. Andrea took particular note of his taste in woman: the billionaire had a weakness for short, perky blondes. One afternoon, when Andrea returned to Ellen's office after a long lunch break, the receptionist stopped her before she could pass into the library. "May I help you, Miss?" Andrea smiled to herself. With her shoulder-length hair dyed ash blonde and styled with pretty curls, she bore no resemblance to either Andrew or Andrea Hobson. It was time to put her plan into action. Some of Andrew's old friends on the backstretch were Mexican illegals, and they helped Andrea acquire a new social security card in the name of Fawn Healy. Buttressed with a phony resume and glowing references provided by Ellen and Janet, who posed on the phone as former employers, Fawn had no trouble landing a clerical position at Brewster Enterprises. She started out her first day on the job like any other working girl, confined to a small cubicle while she spent eight hours a day grinding out memoranda, arranging travel schedules, and bringing coffee to the higher-ups. She hated every minute of it, awakening at six o'clock each morning to comply with the Brewster dress code for secretaries - skirts or dresses, heels and stockings ? and returning home every night with aching feet and freezing legs from the winter cold. She bided her time, gradually learning enough about the office routines to find out where Brewster kept the files on his race horses. They were located just outside his massive office, near the main reception area. One night just before Christmas, a snotty young executive dumped a huge mailing for a new condominium project on the secretarial pool, and Fawn volunteered to stay late to get it out. She waited until the other girls all went home, then another hour to make sure all of the executives were also gone, before she got up from her cluttered desk and walked nonchalantly to the file cabinets outside Brewster's office. They were unlocked, although she had been prepared to jimmy them if they weren't, and she started to look through them, methodically searching for any evidence about the connection between Ronald Brewster and Judge Hauk. When she found it, it almost smacked her in the face. The name of the horse that pulled off the surprise upset at the Belmont was Heady Days. The file on Heady Days included a syndication agreement indicating the names of the owners of the horse. On September 16th, the day Andrew Hobson's name was changed to Andrea Hobson, Oliver Hauk was admitted into the syndicate, and granted a 20% share in the horse's winnings for the rest of his career. The document was backdated to the day before the Belmont Stakes. No consideration was paid. Andrea put the document on top of the filing cabinet and kept rummaging until she found something else: a copy of a letter written by Brewster's executive assistant to the judge the day after Andrew's arraignment on charges of aggravated rape. It contained directions for the Judge's lunch meeting with Mr. Brewster the following weekend out in the Hamptons. She put the letter next to the syndication agreement, and continued to paw through the file until she found the smoking gun: a telefax from a Frankfurt bank containing the wiring instructions for an account held by the German actress who had posed as Andrew's rape victim. Andrea was feeling sick to her stomach as she walked into the copy room and xeroxed the three documents. She stopped by her desk and stuffed the copies into her shoulder bag before she returned to the file cabinet and placed the evidence back in the file. She was just closing the file drawer when she heard a noise behind her. Turning around, Andrea found herself face to face with Ronald Brewster. He was wearing a tuxedo and a white cashmere scarf, and his rugged face was flushed from too much to drink. She had kicked off her shoes to avoid making any noise, and the billionaire stood almost a foot taller than her in her stocking feet. Andrea was trying to figure out what to say when he spoke first. "Working late tonight, Miss?Healy," he said as he bent down and read the company ID badge pinned to her suit jacket. "Yes, sir, Mr. Brewster. All of the other girls had Christmas parties or shopping to do, so I volunteered to stay late." "That's very commendable. You're new here, aren't you?" "Yes, sir." "You're cute. Would you like to see my apartment?" Ronald Brewster's apartment was the stuff of legend, occupying the entire top floor of the Brewster Building. "I don't know, Mr. Brewster?." "Come on, it's the least I can do for you after you gave up your night for us. We'll have a glass of Christmas cheer." Although he was close to sixty, there was a boyish charm about him that took the edge off his raging machismo. "That would be nice. I just have to finish up a few things." "Take your time. I'll be in my office." She returned to her cubicle, trying to figure out how to get away from him. If she ran out, he would become suspicious?after his latest divorce, Ronald Brewster was the most eligible bachelor in town, and no girl in her right mind would pass up the opportunity to see his place. She put on her shoes and went to the ladies room, where she brushed her hair and put on a fresh coat of lipstick before returning to pick up her purse and her shoulder bag which, in addition to the incriminating documents, was crammed with junk like the sneakers she swapped for her heels during her nightly trudge to the bus stop. She put on her overcoat and walked hesitantly into Brewster's mammoth office. He was waiting for her at his enormous mahogany desk, in front of an entire wall filled with framed magazine covers showing the great man in various moments of triumph. "My ego wall," he chuckled as he got up from his desk. "Let's go." They rode upstairs in silence in a polished brass elevator. When the door opened, they were standing in the foyer of his spectacular apartment. Brewster took her coat and shoulder bag, hanging them himself in a closet by the door. "I've given the staff the night off, for the holiday," he explained. "You mean we're alone?" she asked as they walked into his sunken living room. The lights of the city went on as far as the eye could see. "Just you and me, Fawn. What can I get you to drink?" "Some white wine?" she asked. "Why not. I have an excellent white Bordeaux that I'd like to share with you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I take off this monkey suit." Andrea sat primly on the edge of a white suede couch, wondering what to do. Her mind raced back to her Internet research on him. What was it one of his ex-wives had said about their sex life? When the idea came to her, it was so wicked that she put it out of her mind at first, until she reminded herself what this monster had done to her. She got up and tiptoed back to the hall closet, rummaging through her shoulder bag until she found what she was looking for. It was a small object, which she had purchased at a tack store and carried around with her in the hope that one day she might run into the surgeon who had altered Andrew Hobson. She slipped it into her suit pocket and returned to the living room. She was back on the couch, her shoes off and her skirt pulled up above her crossed knees, when Ronald Brewster returned, dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, a glass of wine in each hand. He sat down next to her, and they sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes. "You're very pretty, Fawn," he said at length. "I can't believe I'm all alone with Ronald Brewster. Are you sure there's nobody here?" "Absolutely." Andrea put down her wine as she uncrossed her legs provocatively. "Aren't you going to show me your bedroom?" * * * Ronald Brewster lay spread-eagled on his four-poster bed, tied at the wrists by $100 neckties to the posts on either side of the headboard. Stripped down to her bra and panties, Andrea was teasing his engorged cock with her long fingernails as he writhed in anticipation. After his Viagra kicked in, she had brought him to the brink of orgasm again and again, observing ruefully that his celebrated manhood was half the size of Andrew's old schlong. "Now, baby," Brewster, moaned. Andrea slipped off the bed and retrieved something from her piled up clothes on the floor. She returned to Brewster's naked body and lowered her head to his ear. "Ready for something really special?" "Oh, yes!" Andrea slipped a ring-like device around his testicles and snapped it into place. "Aagh!" "Does it hurt?" "Shit! What did you do to me?" He tried to look down at himself, beads of sweat running down his face, as his penis collapsed into its nest of gray pubic hair. "It's not supposed to hurt." "What?" "It's a clamping device they use to crush the testicle cords of farm animals, resulting in the bloodless atrophy of the testicles. It's supposed to be painless. Of course, the animals can't talk?." Brewster let out a blood-curdling scream as he twisted and turned on the bed, desperately trying to free himself. Andrea got up and started to put on her clothes. "Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" he asked in a strangled voice. Andrea sat down on the foot of the bed and eased her nylons up her legs. "Let's just say I knew Andrew Hobson very well." "Oh, my God!" Brewster cried, as he realized what was happening to him. He watched her with terrified eyes as she pulled on her slip and stepped into her skirt. "That was all a mistake!" She zipped up her skirt and started buttoning up her jacket. "Where are you going?" "I'm a working girl, Mr. Brewster. Got to get up early tomorrow." "Don't leave me like this! I'll give you anything you want!" "Can you give me Andrew back?" "Look, I'm sorry about what happened. Tell him I'll make it up to him." "It's a little late for that," she said as she stepped into her heels. "But I will tell him what I did to you." She turned to leave. "I'll pay whatever you want. I'm one of the richest men in the world." "Not for long." "What do you mean?" he said, his chest heaving. "In a few hours, your balls will be dead. They'll probably fall off by morning. You've been gelded, Mr. Brewster." He screamed again and again, pulling vainly against his restraints until he fell back, exhausted, onto the bed. She paused at the door. "By tomorrow, you'll be the richest eunuch in the world. That ought to sell some newspapers." His screams were echoing through his eight thousand square foot apartment as she wiped her fingerprints off her wineglass and put on her overcoat. After making sure that the documents were safely tucked away in her shoulder bag, Andrea shut the front door behind her and rode the elevator down to the lobby. She treated herself to a taxi back to her apartment. * * * Fawn Healy did not show up for work at Brewster Enterprises the next morning. Her hair cut short and dyed back to its natural brown, Andrea kept out of sight for a few days. She had covered her tracks well, and she was surprised when there was nothing in the news about Ronald Brewster. Evidently there was such a thing as bad publicity. Armed with the information Andrea found in Brewster's files, Ellen Marshall had no difficulty convincing the District Attorney to convene a grand jury investigation into the corrupt activities of Judge Oliver Hauk. The investigation was temporarily sidetracked by the news of Ronald Brewster's suicide, but eventually the judge was indicted on multiple counts of extortion. He was sitting in his courtroom, presiding over a murder trial, when the sheriff came to take him away in handcuffs. In short order, he was convicted, defrocked, disbarred, and incarcerated. The inmates were waiting for him. It is said that the first time the judge was gang-raped in the shower, his squeals could be heard by the boys in solitary. * * * After Andrew Hobson's conviction was overturned, The State Racing Commission reinstated his license, in the name of Andrea Hobson. She thought briefly about undergoing reverse SRS, but after the doctors explained to her that she would never regain her ability to function as a man, she decided against it. Instead, she focused all of her time and energy on her riding. The first time she put on racing silks again, it almost seemed like the whole nightmare had never happened. She started her comeback slowly, riding in claiming races at second-tier tracks until she regained her confidence. If anything, her riding was better than before, and when the other jockeys teased her about fitting better in the saddle, she knew that they accepted her as one of their own. Seacrest Stables wanted her back on Buckaroo. The horse had become impossible since the Belmont, bedeviling every jockey who tried to rein in his mercurial temperament. Finally, Andrea felt she was ready. The sporting world was electrified when Buckaroo was added as a late entry to the Santa Anita Handicap, the richest horserace in the world, with Andrea Hobson up. Over seventy thousand spectators jammed the venerable racetrack that Sunday afternoon, swept up in the nationwide fascination with Andrea Hobson. She was the cover girl on four national magazines the week of the race, but her concentration was only on one thing: the big black stallion that had shown such brilliance under Andrew Hobson. Buckaroo had seemed to recognize Andrea, and he had responded well to her in practice runs, but he was almost uncontrollable as post time approached. He bucked wildly when the stewards attempted to put him into the gate, and Andrea had to hang on for dear life while the other horses were led in. Finally they were off, and Buckaroo stumbled badly as he started out of the gate. By the time Andrea had him back on stride, they were far behind the leaders, dead last in the crowded field. Andrea let him settle into his rhythm, reveling in the sensation of riding a 1400-pound thoroughbred moving at 40 miles per hour. She waited until they were almost down the backstretch before she tugged on his right rein and steered him towards the outside of the solid pack of horses ahead of them. Then she leaned forward and shouted in Andrew's old voice, "GO, BUCK!" The great horse responded as if a bolt of lightning had struck him. Ears pinned back, nostrils flaring, he lowered his head and surged forward. One by one, they started to pick off the other horses as they rounded the clubhouse turn. Buckaroo was in fifth place and closing fast when they approached the grandstand, and the spectators roared as Andrea whipped Buckaroo's flanks. Fourth place?third place?with only ten yards to go, they pulled head to head with the favorite, and when they crossed over the finish line, it was Buckaroo by a nose. It was one of the most spectacular finishes in horseracing history. Over the last half mile, Buckaroo had shattered the record for that distance set by Seabiscuit in his valiant attempt to win at Santa Anita in 1938. Buckaroo might have missed out on the Triple Crown, but he was once again the most valuable horse in the country, and his jockey had been elevated into the pantheon of the racing gods. Seventy thousand voices called out to Andrea as she guided Buckaroo back towards the grandstand. She pressed herself against the pommel as her frisky stallion trotted along the track. By the time she led him into the winner's circle, Andrea was basking in the afterglow of her first female orgasm. It was a celebration to be repeated again and again, at race tracks across the country, as Andrea Hobson relinquished her grief for Andrew, and reclaimed his stolen destiny. By the author of The Jessica Project