Bitched Part 3 free porn video

"You're a hard man, Alvin," my ex-wife Nancy used to joke. "Short, but hard." Then she'd put her hand on my crotch. "Just like junior." Yeah, I was hard. Hard to get along with, anyway. If other people saw me as tough, fine. Advantage to me when dealing with them. I wouldn't pick such a label for myself, though -- I might start buying my own hype. And then a shorty like me would be in trouble. Being 5' 4" ain't easy. Being that height as a cop wasn't either. So I overcompensated. Lost my job. Lucky in a way, though -- I like my current gig better. Did I mention I'm a P.I.? That's how I fit into all this mess. Yeah, I know, you came here looking for the next chapter in the saga of Dan and Jimmy and maybe even Ryan. Well, that's sorta how I got involved in this whole mess, and those of us who are still around figured that the best way to tell the next part of the story was to pick it up from my point of view. At least for now. Sorry if that's confusing. It was a slow Thursday; I was outside my dinky office building grabbing a smoke. A 40-something man walked up to the building -- tall, bearish, ex- football player type, past his prime and now carrying a huge gut and a bad haircut. He was looking at a business card, then back to the building's address, then back to the card, like he can't be sure he's in the right place. "You're in the right place," I told him. After all, the business card he was holding happened to be one of mine. "Alvin Miles," I said, shaking his hand. "Larry Street," he said to me, shaking it good and hard. He may not have been so pudgy and soft as I thought. He asked me if I want to go talk in my office. "I'll save you the three flights of stairs and the mothball smell, Mr. Street," I said. "We can talk right here, or duck into 'The Bar'." I pointed to the dumpy watering hole a few buildings down. Yeah, it's really called "The Bar". "It smells just as bad as my office, but there's enough whiskey for the both of us," I said. "As opposed to upstairs, where there's only enough for me." We sat down at the only booth in the decrepit joint. Plenty of privacy -- Rory the bartender was always drunk and didn't give a shit, and we were the only other people in there. Rory brought us my usual -- Jack Daniels, still in the bottle, and two shot glasses. He took a drink, I took one too. He took another. "I don't know how to tell you this," he said. "The police just laughed at me -- most of 'em. On my way out, someone handed me your card." Ahh, that'd be Roxy, about the only gal -- or person, really -- on the force that doesn't hate me. Probably on account of how I gave her former boyfriend a couple of shiners to match the ones he'd given her. She's always sending me business. "Go on, Mr. Street," I said. "In certain ways, I'm more effective than the boys in blue." He handed me two photos. "This is my son, Larry Jr., and his best friend, Tommy. Um. Tommy Grant." The photo on top showed two high school meathead types in letter jackets. One blonde, one brown-haired. "Football players, yeah?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. I took a look at the second photo -- two high school aged girls, also one blonde, one brunette, wearing the same letter jackets. They weren't actually looking so happy, these girls -- no smiles or anything. Kind of disheveled, actually. "These are their girlfriends, I'm guessing?" I said to Mr. Street. "Not exactly," he said, and took another shot. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Back at Mr. Street's house, Larry, Jr. was arguing with his mother when Larry Sr. and I walked through the door. "I'm not gonna do it!" Junior was shouting. His mother got in his face and shouted back. "You are going to do it, and you're gonna do it now! You can't stay cooped up in the house for the rest of your life!" she screeched. They both stopped screaming when we walked in. Senior introduced me to his wife, Annabelle, and then to Junior and Tommy. They didn't shake the hand I offered them. "Kids, let me talk to your mom for a minute," I said. Annabelle jabbed her finger in Junior's face. "The two of you had better be properly dressed and ready to go out in five minutes," she said. "Yes, Mrs. Street," Tommy said softly. Junior just walked off in a huff. Annabelle was the first to speak. "At first I didn't believe it, but yeah, that's Junior -- petulant and difficult and a real pain in my ass sometimes." "What seems to be the problem, ma'am," I asked. "Besides that my son has a flat crotch and a huge pair of tits? Gee, I don't know, Mr. Detective," she practically spit at me. So, both of the parents believed that this was indeed their son and his pal, somehow, well, feminized. "No, really, I meant what's the screeching about," I said. "I'm not sure this is on the level, but, hell, if that was me, I'd be kind of, uh, resentful right now too, if you know what I mean." "The problem is he hasn't been to school in a week," she started. "And Tommy's parents won't believe the story and have filed a missing persons report with the cops, so he's been staying here too. And they won't leave the house, and I've been cooped up in here with two extra children the whole time." "You have other children?" I asked. "Two -- daughters, one older, one younger," she replied. "And how are they taking Junior's... transformation?" I asked. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Fine, I guess. They've kind of, well, they've been giving him a lot of crap, because he used to torment the both of them. Pretty badly, really. They keep saying he deserves it." "And?" I said to her. "And, I gotta say I agree. But not Tommy, he's a sweet kid. I just don't understand how this could have happened." "Yeah," said Mr. Street. "If you... if you can find the man who did this, and make him undo it, or somehow give me five minutes alone with him... we'll throw in a big bonus." "My normal rate is fine, Mr. Street," I said. "But I'm paid hourly, success or failure. So you know that I'm on the level, I'll be giving you a report at least every two or three days. I'm not cheap, buy I'm effective." I took a deep breath. "And I believe you. Because you may think this is weird -- and it is -- but I've seen stuff that'd blow this away. Not to mention that I've heard some rumors in certain parts of town about... this kinda thing happening before. So I've already got some leads, maybe." "Thank you," said Mrs. Street. "Thank you, thank you. That little part of me that thinks he had it coming doesn't matter. We want our boy back." I told them I had to talk to the boys -- well, girls -- alone. One at a time. When I walked into Junior's bedroom, another girl had him pinned to the floor, her legs constricting his arms. She was play slapping him in the face over and over again. "What are you gonna do about it, huh?" she kept saying. Tommy was being held back by an older girl, probably the older sister, who was holding a hand to Tommy's chest. "... don't get involved," she was telling Tommy. "Stay out of it." I went over and pulled Junior's tormentor off of him. "Okay, gals -- scoot," I said threateningly. "Time's money, and I'm being paid by your dad to talk to these two recent converts to your gender. Beat their asses later." They left quietly. The smaller girl stopped and looked back at Junior, who was pulling herself off the floor, trying not to cry. "You better not rip my sweater, asshole," she said. I faced the girls -- now that the commotion was over, I could see that they had acquiesced to Mrs. Street's request. They were ready to leave the house. Rather than wearing the jeans and t-shirts of boys literally twice their current size, they had put on clothes that actually fit them, presumably borrowed from Junior's sisters. Tommy was wearing a dark blue blouse and some gray slacks that were rather snug. Junior was wearing a pink sweater (which he'd "better not rip") and a flared tan skirt that was a touch above the knees. I listened to their story. At least they were honest about it -- hassling a short, non-descript guy in an arcade at the wharf, then following him outside with the intention of kicking his ass and taking his cash... and then it got foggy, at least in their heads, and then... girls. I reiterated how important it was that they leave nothing out. They gave each other a quick look. "Nah, that's it," Tommy said. I let the lie go. I'd certainly be in touch with these two again. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Okay, here's the backtrack. A guy I know that frequents a certain strip club in North Beach swears that one of the dancers there, this hot little blondie with habit of wearing white vinyl, is actually a dude. Not a tranny or anything like that, but an honest-to-gawd former man that's now a woman, like genetically. Of course I called bullshit, but he told me the kicker: it's not just any dude, she's really Tommy Valadega, from high school. Tommy Vee, the sonofabitch in school whose ass I had to kick only twice before he and the rest of the football jocks laid off for the most part. I was curious. I didn't have a case at the time. So I followed up on the rumor -- two days of free stakeout paid off. That pouty-faced human Barbie doll was the only person going to or from his apartment. I have reels of film with her sitting in men's clothes in the bedroom, crying over old photos. While I still really didn't believe it (then, anyway), it was convincing enough to intrigue me, sure. I'd seen some weird stuff, though, so I kept an open mind. I decided I'd check it out further... but then I got a really good case, and by the time it was over (months later), I'd more or less forgotten about Tommy Vee. Until my most recent case anyway. My first move after leaving the Street's place was to track down the former Tommy Vee. She no longer lived at that old apartment, but it turned out she still performed at the same strip club. I staked her out -- saw what time she came in, when she left. Who visited her at home (nobody). Who visited her at work (plenty of people). But you can only tell so much from the outside; after just a few days, I needed to spec her out from inside the club. I called Mr. Street just to check in. He was distressed -- Junior had gotten his first period. I knew I could have doubled my rate at that point. But I didn't. If this chickee was actually Tommy, she'd recognize me, and maybe act weird. I needed her to think it was buz as usual. So I broke out a disguise -- four days of not shaving turned into a trim goatee; I shaved my head; I wore a trucker cap and a pair of eyeglasses. I spent plenty of money in the club -- all in an effort to fit in. Yeah. I found out her name was Precious. Two days into it, this weird guy showed up. Even before I saw how uncomfortable he made people, particularly Precious, he had a sorta creepy vibe. I had him pegged as suspicious. Then I saw him visit Precious backstage. I couldn't get back there, but I'd had to foresight to have it bugged. I followed him out, just to get a good look at his license plate. Then I went and listened to the tape. The conversation was odd. He took some cash from her, then took a little sugar from her... then taunted her about her huge boobs and flat crotch. One line I'll quote verbatim: "If I find out you've been holding out, bitch, you know what'll happen to your brother. Maybe you guys'll both work here after that." Okay -- I had my guy, or at least an agent of my guy. I ran out to get the plates of the car -- a mid-size SUV, actually. I whipped out my notebook and wrote it down, and then something strange -- out of the corner of my eye -- a fluttering cloth, quick footsteps announced by a loud heel. She ran down a nearby alley. It could be nothing... but, regardless, I gave chase. Thirty seconds later I had the girl -- a teenager in a black jacket, brown skirt, white tights, and brown knee boots -- up against the wall, face first. She squealed a little when I patted her down. I flipped her around. "What the fuck?" I exclaimed. It was Junior. "Kid, what are you doing here?" I asked. He/she was petulant. "Nothing!" was the response. She tried to run. I caught her by the shoulder. "Junior, your dad hired me to find the asshole that did this to you," I said. "What the fuck are you doing here?" "Nothing!" she screamed again, and then... well, me of all people shouldn't underestimate anyone, but somehow I let this little teenaged boy-girl kick me in the nuts with her cute little brown knee boots. Make that pointy, cute little brown knee boots. I went down like a sack of bricks. I heard a car, a big car drive into the alley. "This the guy?" I heard a voice say right before everything went dark. "Yeah," Junior said. "Good job sweetie," the voice respinded. "You can have it back." Then I heard some mumbling and I was out like a burnt-out bulb. I had the strangest fucking dream. I was lounging in a field of poppies, like something out of the "Wizard of Oz". My mother was there. She was stroking my head and running her long fingernails through my hair and then she was gone. I looked down and I was Dorothy, in a blue dress with a white apron and petticoats and little black granny boots. There was a Tin Woods-woman wearing a metallic corset and a female scarecrow in tight designer jeans and a halter-top. I looked around. "Where's the cowardly lion?" I asked. The Woods-woman, who was bald and didn't have the stupid funnel cap, shook her shiny head. "Lioness," she told me. "But I don't think you need to worry about her. You don't have one. Everyone else seems to... but you're special, Dot. You're a special girl." I woke up in a cold sweat. It was light out. I put a hand to my chin -- my goatee was gone. But I had a lot of hair coming out of my head. Huh. He got me. I sat up -- I was still in the alley. I felt my chest. Yeah, firm little boobs under a tight, stretchy tube top. My fingernails were long. My legs were mostly bare -- they'd put me in a short denim micro skirt. No underwear. I was barefoot. Ouch. I stood up. It felt weird. Then it hit me -- I was taller than before. Funny. I'd bet I was the first of his victims to get taller after being transformed. I felt around in the pockets of my skirt -- no money, no wallet, none of my stuff. All I found was a tube of dark red lipstick. But there was a note folded up and pushed into my cleavage. "Dear Al -- You've been bitched, girly. Have fun. Consider your assignment closed -- or I can do worse. Love -- Jimmy PS -- Try the lipstick. Maybe somebody will pay for it if you look real pretty." I crumbled up the note, almost threw it away, but I decided to pocket it. The skirt was so very short and tight that it took an effort to walk. It took a little while to get to where I'd parked my car. I was about grab a brick to smash in the window, when I caught my new reflection in the mirror. Dark, but carefully shaped eyebrows; dark brown, shoulder-length, super-curly hair -- just a mass of ringlets; elf-like facial features -- pointed chin, tiny ears; and full, pouty lips. "Oh my," I said, putting my hand over my mouth. The new female register of my voice wasn't as surprising; it's the same as it was in my weird Wizard of Oz dream. I tried best as I could to see the rest of my reflection in the window -- little white tube top, plump ass, micro-mini skirt... if it wasn't probably 5 in the morning, I imagine I'd draw some attention. I knelt down picked up a brick, not too easy in this get-up. I smashed the window and opened the door. I got in the car and had to adjust the seat for my new, longer legs. I hotwired my own damned car drove home to my apartment, where, thankfully, I'd hidden a spare key out in the front yard. No more breaking into my own stuff. I wasn't that worried about the stolen wallet. I mean, being out 300 bucks stinks, but no undercover PI worth his salt carries real ID on him. The only credit card I had in there was to help me open doors or windows. It wouldn't really work to buy anything. All my real credit cards and IDs were right here in my apartment... not that I could pass as the guy pictured on them anymore. First thing I did when I got in to my place was run to the toilet. I hiked up my skirt and let it go. Okay -- awkward. I tried not to explore too much as I cleaned myself. What to do, what to do. I pulled the skirt back down and started pacing around my place. My new chest bobbed up and down a little with my uncomfortable new gait. It was humiliating -- kicked into unconsciousness by a little girl in knee boots. Turned into a woman even tinier than she had been (but taller than me as a guy). Who could I turn to? I worked alone. Didn't think any of my hard-boiled friends would believe me -- nor appreciate me predicament. My brother would probably try to take advantage and humiliate me further. And I couldn't even think about going to my ex- wife. Or could I? I'd paid her to watch out for clients and do a little recon or research for me from time to time. Why not now? I sat down at my desk chair and booted up the computer. There was a bit of a draft -- I'd sat with my legs as far apart as my skirt would allow. I quickly crossed my legs. I logged onto my instant messenger program. "FancyNance" was indeed online. This was early for her; she usually slept 'til noon. It was only about 10. I started typing. Alvinchpmk33: Nancy -- u there? need a favor. FancyNance: What do u want, Alv? Busy; can't help. Alvinchpmk33: I'll pay. $400 for 3 days; $100 per day if it goes long? FancyNance: K, sure. What to do? Time for a quick screw first? Boyfriend out of town; horny. Alvinchpmk33: Not happening this time. I'm gone too; doing this on mobile. FancyNance: Too bad; all you're good for. What you want done? Alvinchpmk33: Two things -- first, go collect from a client I'm on a job for right now; he owes expenses plus; just about $600; just get it and keep. FancyNance: K. Alvinchpmk33: The other -- a babysit job with new client. On the run from weird situation; don't ask details -- she's holed up at my place. Give her the change from collection; help her with some clothes and stuff -- she couldn't pack. FancyNance: She in danger? Alvinchpmk33: Not really/just a weird situation. KKKK? You in? FancyNance: Yeah. When should I pick her up? And where/who is the client with $$? Alvinchpmk33: Get there ASAP; bring her some stuff. She knows where client with money is; take her with you. FancyNance: Ok. I'll get her within the hour. Size? Alvinchpmk33: No clue. She's maybe 5'6"; small chest. Needs everything -- underwear too. FancyNance: Huh? Weird. No prob. Got you covered. What's her name? FancyNance: Name? FancyNance: Alvin, u there? Alvinchpmk33: Dorothy. Dot. FancyNance: K. Come home safe; call or text me if you need to. Alvinchpmk33: Same same. I was on pins and needles. I paced around the apartment a little more. I'd been undercover enough to know you had to commit to the role, but I wasn't super sure how to be girly. I tried watching TV, but grew bored. Back to pacing. I grew more comfortable walking in those new legs. I could feel my newly padded rear bobbing around... the kind of thing I usually liked to watch. I heard keys in the door and got very scared. Nancy ducked her head in; she was still wearing her sunglasses. "Are you Dot?" she asked me. I just nodded. Nancy came the rest of the way in and closed the door. She had a small suitcase with her. She came up to me. For the first time, I was almost looking Nancy in the eyes. "I'm Nancy -- Alvin's ex. I'm supposed to help you out...?" "Uh, yeah, thanks," I said. "He told me he'd try to get you to come... I'm not that surprised." "Good," she said. "And, honey, please, it's Nancy." I was suddenly very conscious of my skimpy outfit. "I.. I wanted to shower, but this was all I had to change into," I told her. "Did you have some clothes?" "Sure Dot," she said. "Just hop in the shower; now that I've seen your size, I'm sure I've brought something that can work before you're done." I complied. It felt really good to take that skirt and tube top off; the hot water washed the ugliness of the past few hours off of me. I wasn't sure what to do with my new hair; I had some shampoo but didn't have any conditioner or the like. I stepped out and dried off. I thought Nancy would have tossed the new clothes into the bathroom, but no such luck. I wrapped the towel around my chest and went into the bedroom. "Honey, I'm a lot meatier than you... I think this is all that will work," she said as she handed me a couple garments. "We can probably go buy you something after we pick up some cash from that clients of Al's. You know who I mean?" "Yeah," I said as I walked back into the bathroom with the clothes. "I know the address." I knew better than to tell it to her; Nancy was likely to skip out while I was changing and go collect the dough just for herself. I was surprisingly thankful she'd brought me some panties, which I quickly pulled over my hips. I put on the bottoms next -- brown lycra with an orange stripe on each side. I squeezed into the matching top -- it was a running outfit. My midriff was completely exposed. This was almost as bad as the skirt and tube top. Almost. I walked back into the bedroom. It thankfully covered my torso. "These are left over from my running craze... I accidentally bought a size too small. But this way I didn't have to guess at a bra size. Cuz Alvin didn't know." She tossed me a pair of pink and silver running shoes and some socks. "Let's get this show on the road," she said. "Mama needs her money." The shoes were too big, so I doubled up on socks, which more or less solved the problem. We jumped Nancy's ride, an old Civic, and I gave her directions to the Street's residence. We parked on the street, a few blocks away -- parking in San Francisco's a bitch. Even with the hoodie I was feeling very self conscious, I was just picturing how my tush must be wiggling in those short running tights. Some men were playing basketball at a neighborhood court. I noticed one checking me out and picked up the pace. Another was definitely checking out Nancy, too. Maybe I haven't been very explicit about it, but Nancy is hot with a capital 'H'. She's full-figured, verging on pleasantly plump, but just exudes an aura of sweet and spicy and earthy -- like a pheremonal incense that's always burning. My new plumbing made it a little awkward to be around her... I could feel myself getting damper the longer we were together. Maybe this hadn't been such a swell idea. When we got to the house, Nancy knocked on the door. Mrs. Street answered. Nancy introduced herself as "Alvin's assistant". "Sorry," Mrs. Street told us when Nancy told her we were here to pick up a payment. "My husband won't be back until tomorrow -- and I'm not sure I feel comfortable writing you a check -- you can wait for him, though," she said. We waited in the kitchen. Mrs. Street offered us coffee. I accepted. Nancy declined. We made small talk. Nance and Mrs. Street turned out to have a friend in common. They were chatting away when I excused myself to pee. After finishing my business, I went back into the hallway, only to run into Junior. The male version. What the fuck? He was tall and lean. He had a dangerous look in his eye. He looked at me kind of funny. "Do I know you?" he asked. I just shrugged my shoulders. It was easy to figure out -- he'd ratted me out to the guy that had "bitched" him in exchange for being turned back. I wondered if his friend had been turned back from being a chickie too. Or if his dad was involved. Or... It didn't matter. He figured it out and grabbed me by the throat. "You trying to find Jimmy, bitch? That's not gonna happen." He shoved his right forearm into my throat and used it to pin me against the wall. His left hand grabbed and squeezed my right boob. "Be a good girl," he grumbled. "Just put on a fucking dress, find some dude that'll stick his prick in your little cunt, and leave me the fuck alone!" "Sorry punk," I managed to choke out. "But I owe ye." Junior was strong for a kid his age, but definitely inexperienced. For instance, when you're restraining someone, it's better to face them away from you. I buried a knee in his crotch. He doubled over, but didn't go down. Nor did he let go of my tit. At this point, the ladies in the kitchen came into the hallway. I planted an elbow on his noggin, then a left hook to his temple, and finally I grabbed his ears and used them as handles to pull his nose into my knee. Blood started gushing from his face as he finally went down. Somehow his hand stayed curled in a death grip on my running top; when he fell, the top ripped off and went down with him. So there I was, with Mrs. Street running over to tend to her son, me standing in spandex shorts with my "b" cup-sized boobs hanging out, and Nancy gaping at me. "Al...A-Alvin?" she stammered. "Is that you?" -- -- -- -- I was tying up Mrs. Street with some duct tape I'd found in the kitchen. She'd gone from sweet and offering coffee all the way to spitting and cursing; more like she'd been when I'd first met her. She'd known that her son had traded in his pussy for my dick, and I wanted to know why. She wasn't talking; silent as her unconscious son. Accordingly, I'd gagged her. "How'd you know?" I asked Nancy as I finished trussing up Annabelle Street. "Easy, Alvie. Nobody gets violent like you do. You always do that ear-to- the-knee thing. And that look in your eyes..." she trailed off. "Fuck, Alvie, I'd know you anywhere. What was that 'Dottie' shit?" I cupped my still-bare breasts in my hands. "Like you'd've believed me, Nance?" She shrugged. "Nah. You're right. But you still could've tried, instead of tricking me." "Sorry. We cool now?" "Sure," she said. "You still gonna help me?" I asked her. "Yeah, of course," she said. "Just because I couldn't stand being married to you doesn't mean I don't love you anymore. Even if, you know, you lost your best feature." I blushed a little. "So stop embarrassing me and start helping me," I said. "Okay," she said. "First of all, what do you think the man of the house will do if he walks in and sees all this?" "He'd freak; that's why we're shoving them into the linen closet," I responded. "Okay, but maybe you should, you know, cover up?" I nodded. "Okay then," she said. "You put them away; I'll go find a new top for you." I pulled them into the large linen closet, which was at the opposite end of the house from the front door, and covered them with towels to muffle any sounds. I walked back to the other end of the house. "Nance?" I called softly. "Where are you?" "Older daughter's bedroom," she said. I walked in; she tossed me a black bra and some matching panties. "Step one: underwear," she said. I stripped off my running shorts and borrowed panties and pulled the new, lacier ones onto my hips. I tried putting the bra on, but couldn't really reach behind me. "That's not how you do it," Nancy said. "Clasp it in front of you, then just wiggle it around." I did so. "Arms up," she said. I complied and she pulled a pink, stretchy shirt with three-quarter sleeves over my head. Then she handed me a denim jumper, a little blue overall dress. "I am not wearing this," I said. "Yeah, you are," Nancy responded. "You're going to pretend to be one of Junior's girlfriends... catch daddy by surprise, yeah?" I stepped into the dress and buttoned it up, first the side buttons then the buttons that attached the straps to its bib. Nance pulled my curls into a pony tail and tied it with a pink ribbon. She grabbed my head by the cheeks and looked me square in the eyes. "Al..." she whispered. "Yeah?" I responded, a little annoyed. "Don't you find this, I don't know... a little erotic?" she asked. She slid her hand under the skirt of my dress and grazed my pussy. I pushed her onto the bed. "Don't make this worse for me than it already is, Nancy," I tried to say as a scold, but it came out as more of a shriek. "Okay, hon, we'll skip the makeup then," she cooed as she gave me a little space. It wasn't too long before Nance gave me her lipstick, though. The gargantuan Mr. Street arrived home about an hour later. He bought that I was just a cutie waiting for Junior. "I was so upset when he missed all that school," I giggled. I thought at first I'd laid it on too thick. But he even went so far as to offer me a coke. I accepted; when he turned his back to grab it from the fridge, I broke their clown-shaped cookie jar over his head. "Where's Jimmy!" I screamed when he woke up, courtesy of a spash of coke in his fat face, a shriek in a pitch I'm still not used to. The Streets had found the guy that did this before I could, and they'd made a deal. And they'd probably decided the easiest way to get out of paying me was by having this Jimmy "bitch" me. Wrong. However, this guy was still more scared of Jimmy than he was of me. I showed him this little lady meant business. I wasn't magic or whatever, bit I made Larry Street MY bitch. I smeared makeup on him in-between whipping him with one of his wife's belts. Long story short: he fessed up. He'd lucked out; the boys were approached by Jimmy's female companion that he'd been at the arcade with that night. Gabrielle. She'd tracked them down with nothing but altruistic intentions. She'd recognized the school on the boys' varsity jackets and put two and two together when the local sports section blamed the school's football game loss on the absence of two key athletes. She'd told them who Jimmy was and where they could find him -- not where he loved, but some of his hangouts. "If you're nice, if you beg, if you're humble, he may consider changing you back," she had told them. And the boys and Mr. Street had tried, and Jimmy had agreed so long as they paid him something and found him someone new to play with. "He wanted to make me betray someone..." Mr. Street said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Miles," he continued though tears and smudged lipstick, "but he plays these mind games. He keeps threatening to change the boys back again, and he keeps saying he's going to do it to me, and he just hasn't gone away. I just keep thinking that if I hadn't thrown you to the wolves, maybe you'd be able to help us." "Well," I responded. "I'm gonna help you, but only by helping myself. I plan to take that guy out permanently. Now tell me exactly where his gal- pal claims he hangs out." I took what he owed me from his wallet plus a "it's your fault I'm a girl" bonus. I told him where I'd stuffed his wife and kid before setting him loose. I told Nancy I needed to look tough; part of my plan involved intimidating this "Gabrielle". We went shopping and Nancy played Barbies with her new doll, me. I don't know why I let Nance pull shit like this; I guess I'm just putty in her hands still. Long story short -- all that money was gone by the time we were done. I had to admit I looked great though. It's very easy to look at yourself objectively when, in your mind, the hottie in the mirror isn't really you. I left the mall with shorter, stylish, and de-frizzed hair. She'd also helped mw find a bra and panties that actually fit. My outfit for the evening consisted of dark, snug jeans, a low-cut maroon top, and wide belt that rested on my hips rather than in my belt-loops. Nancy had put me in tall, black boots that zipped up the back and had a 3-inch heel. They made me feel tall, if a bit wobbly. They made my new ass stick out in a cute little bump. Finally, I had a cool racing-style leather jacket that was cut to the waist. Still uncomfortable? Heck yeah. Better than the jumper and hair ribbons? Immensely. Well, I must admit that the plan came pretty close to being flushed to shit as soon as I walked into the bar. Nance had stayed at home, as I thought it could get dangerous. And there I was, cute tush and all, in a billiard hall full of dudes, many of whom were oglong me and some of whom kept offering to buy me drinks. The other gals at the place were shooting me nasty looks. When one guy offered to play pool with me, I said sure because it'd maybe get people to back off and plus I wanted to blend in for if or when Jimmy showed up. He never did that night. But I stayed all night because I was having fun. The fellow's name was Grant, and one of the first things he said to me was that he knew I wouldn't accept a drink, so how about loser pays. I agreed, and ended up paying for round one. He favored bourbon on rocks, just like me. I had a chance in game two, but my bootheels were still leaving me a little unsteady, and I scratched on the eightball. In game three, I realized I couldn't hold my booze so well anymore. I took my jacket off; I was getting a little warm. Grant was beating me, but felt a little sorry for me and started leaning over me and helping me take my shots. His tall legs were against my butt; his crotch was against my back. his left hand was on top of as he helped me set the shot; his right hand was right next to mine on the end of the pool cue. It was like heaven. I wanted it to never end, but was glad when it did because it got even better. We sunk the shot. I gave a little yelp of glee and turned around to hug him. He hugged back, but with one of his hands on my ass. He massaged me through my tight jeans. "Want to split," he leaned into me and whispered. "Not a chance, pal," I replied. "I'm winning." He ended up buying round three; we both switched to beers. I wish I could say that I remembered I was a man, damnit, but he had large, green eyes and messy brown hair and I just sorta fell into him. I loved how he was treating me. We eventually went back to his place after a few more hours of hugging and lap sitting and handholding. He drove a motorcycle; he gave me the spare helmet and, somewhat ironically, I rode "bitch", clutching him from behind all the way back to his place. I'll spare you most of the rest. Suffice to say I learned that sex from a woman's perspective is pretty fucking intense, and we kept going until I was crying in pain from being rubbed raw. But neither of us wanted to stop, so he lubed up and flipped me around and, even though being the bottom in doggy style was humiliating, it was just as good as the more conventional way. No wonder Nancy had always begged for it. When we woke up the next day, Grant offered me use of his ex's wardrobe, much of which was still apparently around. I told him he could pick, and I jumped in the shower. "I always thought Alex looked cute in this," he told me about the flowery skirt and leggings and a simple blouse. I told him it didn't go with my boots, but I wore it anyway. I was walking funny from being so sore. I was starting to think Jimmy had done me a favor. I'd had a pretty happy life, sure, but I'd had to fight the whole time against people that wanted to dominate me in some way. Now I liked being dominated and felt attractive in being somewhat vulnerable. It was strange but kind of wonderful. I liked Grant, but was suddenly having fantasies of getting dolled up and having a go a dizzying flurry of imaginary men in my head. I made a decision, though. Even if I liked being like this -- and I wasn't sure I wanted to be a girl forever -- Jimmy had to pay for messing with me. My crotch, even as sore as it was, grew tingly when Grant gave me a ride on his bike back to the billiard hall so I could pick up my car. He left, and I realized that I'd forgotten my belt back at his place. I drove my car (still breezy from the broken front window) back to Grant's and picked the lock to get in. I went toward the bedroom, but heard a woman ask, "Are those my clothes!?" right before something heavy hit me on the head. I didn't go down, but it sure as fuck hurt. The ex, name revealed to be Sally, was here to pick up her stuff at last. But I was a little mad and may have overdone it. I tied her up and gagged her with her own underwear, then took a bunch of her stuff in a garbage bag and threw it in my trunk. I went back into the house, where Sally struggled in vain to get free of her lingerie. "Sorry honey, but you hit the wrong girl," I told her. "When Grant gets home and frees you, tell him his new girlfriend is way, way tougher than the last one." I was happy. A good fuck, more new clothes, and some quick violence. I guess I still liked that. And, I really should have thanked Sally for more than the clothes. See, the blow to my head actually jogged my memory. Suddenly, I recalled that I had taken the plate number off Jimmy's car the night he bitched me. And I was heading straight home to run the plates. NOTE: stay tuned for part 4 -- the end wraps it all up.