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The Alphas By Cassandra Morgan Cat moved slowly across the floor of the nightclub, purposefully, the way she usually moved. Her head was held high, and she stared straight ahead as she walked. In front of her, the crowd seemed to separate as if it had a will of its own, splitting like the Red Sea, moving out of her way. She moved smoothly, almost like liquid pouring out of a bottle. She did not make eye contact. She did not ask to be excused. It was as if she was royalty, and the crowd was beneath her. She was a tall for a woman, almost 5-9, a former college swimmer. Lean, gorgeous. Her long brown hair flowed around her shoulders. She wore a shiny black suit, made not of leather - too hot - but of Spandex. Her bright red lipstick made her features pop. Her outfit was a clich?, she thought. She was dressed like 100 other Mistresses in the club. It was the way she carried herself that separated Cat from the rest of the room. She was attitude in heels, coiled and prepared to strike. She walked as if the music was her personal soundtrack. Around her, other patrons looked hungrily at her, like junkies looking at the Candy Man. There was need in most of them. The weak. The desperate. The yearning. Cat did not acknowledge their stares. She preferred to be above such common eye contact. She was not at The Stables for companionship. She was here to talk to others of her rank. She had been invited to a meeting of The Alphas, a collection of various mistresses in the bi- state area, all in their 20s, all dedicated to the lifestyle. Lesser Mistresses whispered their names in reverent tones. More long-standing Mistresses marveled at their power. She was surprised to have received an invitation. As she understood it, the Alphas usually reached out only if you were coupled, and then only if your particular twist was slightly different than any of the others in the group. For Cat, it had been a while. Her previous sissy had left her to undergo SRS. Cat did not hold that against her. Lord knows, sometimes it took a little surgery to get the body to match the soul. But she was alone - not lonely - which would have normally let her out of this eclectic group. No matter. They would allow her into the room, or they would not. Their choice. That is, when she got around to visiting their meeting. Cat walked toward the bar. Again the crowd separated, so she could stop at the bar. Gin, she told the bartender. Ice. A blond man with a gold chain looked over his left shoulder at her and smiled. "Hey, baby," he said. "Nice suit." She looked at him. Said nothing. She took a pull on her drink. "Did you sit in sugar?" he said. "Because you got a pretty sweet ass." "You try too hard, bucko," she said dismissively. "I am not here for you." "You sure? I think you washed your pants in Windex, because I can see myself in them." Cat rolled her eyes. She waved her left hand, as if shooing him away like an insect. "Does that rhetoric ever work for you, Ace? I know. Why don't you ask for my sign? Why don't you ask if I come here often? You are embarrassing yourself, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should find...a lesser woman. Someone at a speed you can handle." He started to say something. Instead, he picked up his beer and faded into the night. You don't go hunting for bear when you have a rabbit gun. Cat turned back toward the front of the room, shaking her head. Why are the knuckleheads all attracted to her? Did she have a Nerd magnet? That's when she looked into the mirror and noticed him. Most women might not have. There were taller men around, more handsome men. There were men with straighter teeth and wavier hair and better suits. He was short, maybe 5'6". He was small, maybe 140 pounds. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. He had nice eyes. His sandy hair sat unkempt on top of his head. Interesting. He was nursing a beer. Alone, evidently. He wasn't paying a lot of attention to the noise around him, either. She turned to him. Smiled. "It's a zoo in here, isn't it?" He jolted upright. She was talking to him? To him? A woman like her? "Yeah, I guess it is," he said shyly. "I guess that would make me the platypus." She looked at him. He blushed. "Sorry. I'm kind of out of place here." "Don't apologize," she said. "It was funny. Yeah, the music is kind of loud. But I kind of like it. Too many guppies, not enough real fish." He smiled. "I would imagine you could have whatever guppy you wanted," he said. "Maybe I don't want any of them," she said. "I'm fairly particular when I fish." He looked at his beer. "I guess you could afford to be," he said. "I'm Catherine," she said. Her smile made the club lights grow dim. "They call me Cat." "Suits you," he said. "I'm Gabriel. Gabe." "Nice to meet you, Gabe," she said, grinning. "Can I buy you a beer?" "I better not," he said. "I'm a lightweight. Too many of these, and I'll wake up on the pool table. Or underneath it." "And what if I want to get you drunk?" she asked, teasing. "Then I'll have 27 beers," he said. "No, I'm kidding. You'll have to forgive me. It's been a long time since I talked to a girl as pretty as you. I tend to get silly." Cat smiled. She loved this part of the flirting game, the dueling banter, the establishing of will, the laying down of the rulebook. For her, it had been this way since high school. She was the chick in the pick-up truck, the chick who left the boys waiting by the phone. She was the arm-wrestler. She liked boys, she could just do without them if need be. It was only sex, and most guys wanted her a lot more than she wanted them. That was key. Keep your distance. "Why has it been so long?" she asked. Gabe was quiet for a minute, as if he was deciding how much information to give away so soon. "I just got divorced," he said, finally. "I'm sorry," Cat said, touching his arm lightly. "Lot of that going around." "Yes," he said. "Want to talk about it?" she said. He shrugged. "She met someone else," he said. "It happens." She let it hang there. If he didn't want to talk about it, it was okay. "So you here drowning your sorrows?" she said. "Something like that," he said. "I heard it was a place...to meet people." "What kind of people?" "Women." "What kind of women?" Pause. "Strong women," he said. So there it was. Oh, it was obvious why he would have gone to a bar like The Stables. Lots of men came looking for Mistresses, if not to meet them then to imagine meeting them. Mistresses were like the sun. Some people didn't want to walk there. Some just wanted to bask in its warmth. "Do you like strong women, Gabe?" she asked. "Yes..." he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm a strong woman," she said, locking eyes. "I know," he said. "Right now, Gabe, I have a meeting to go to. I'll be there for an hour or so. You will be here when I'm done, won't you?" "Uh, sure," he said. "I mean, I don't see why not." "Gabe, I want you to do something for me," she said. "I want you to sit on your left hand. Just that. It is my hand now. You do not have my permission to use it. Okay? Drink your beer. Eat your peanuts. Wave to your friends. But do it all right-handed. You do not have a left hand. Understood?" "But why...?" "Because your Mistress has demanded it, Gabe," she said. "That's all the reason you need." And she spun and walked toward the offices on the right side of the bar. She did not look back. *** The table in the back office was in a circle. The Round Table, Cat thought. Like King Arthur. Like the Viet Nam Peace talks. The women were sprawled in various positions. A black woman with a cape. A pudgy blonde in a well-tailored suit. A woman in black leather. A woman in an elegant purple dress. A woman in white, lace dripping off of her gown. A man in a billowy blue shirt with French cuffs. The Alphas. They were the richest, the youngest, the fiercest Mistresses in the area. Oh, there were dozens of self-proclaimed Mistresses. Anyone can call herself that. But in the underground, these were many of the women you thought of when you thought of the title. If Mistresses had their own money, these faces would be on the bills. The black woman was Widow, Cat would learn. The matronly blonde was Amelia. The woman in black was Victoria. The woman in white was Starlight. The woman in purple was Jade. The man was Blake. It was like a game of Clue. Cat could feel the power surge through the room. Maybe there were others. But the energy here was amazing. Once a month, they met here. Sometimes, they just drank and joked. It was good for business. If word got out in the alternative bars that The Saddles had the Alphas, then the subs came flooding in, hoping to get claimed by one of them or by one of the other Mistresses that would show up. Good business. So the Alphas drank for free, and they got the back office for their meetings. In the back of the room were also various servants. She would learn their names. Mittens, the woman in the kitten mask. Spartacus, the man with the scars. Samantha, the pretty girl. Lori, the girl with the wounded eyes. Brittany Ann, the little girl with the flouncing pink dress and the doll. And George, the big sissy in the corner. Together, they were not the complete rainbow, but they represented a lot of hues. Sexuality was like snowflakes. There were so many different preferences, so many different urges. Sissidom. Pets. Masochism. Toilet games. Infantilism. Bisexuality. Lesbians. Gays. Mistresses. A master. Sadists. All of it. "Ladies," Blake said. "Welcome to our ever-so-secret meeting. You all know the rules. We meet here once a month and we talk about whatever hideous thing that Widow is wearing. No, seriously, we talk about the lifestyle, and we trade insights. And if someone has a business tip, well, I'm all ears." "We also talk about whatever cocks you sucked lately, Blake," Widow said. "We ain't got that much time," Jade said. "Jealousy is everywhere," Blake said. "I can't believe you would say that to me when my wife is right here." He nodded toward George. "Ladies," Amelia said. "How is everyone doing tonight?" "Bored," Widow said. "What's up?" "I got a call today," Jade said. "You guys know Anita. She wanted to know if any of us would sit down for an interview with one of her sissies. A psychiatrist named Phyllis. She's doing a paper, evidently." "Fuck that," Starlight said. "If you ain't paying, I ain't playing." Victoria looked at Mittens and giggled. "Lot of not talking going around." Mittens cocked her head at Victoria. She blinked. She turned away. "That is some weird shit," Widow said. "I'm sorry. It's Just too fucking weird." Starlight frowned. "Come on, girls. A girl needs a pet, you know?" "Ha," Widow said. "What I want to know is if that fleabag shits in the litter box. Would she eat a live mouse?" "No," Starlight said. "She has far better things to eat." Everyone laughed. "So, Catwoman," Victoria said. "You own a kitten? What are you into?" Cat felt all the eyes turn to her. Be nice, she thought. She was the new member here. "I'm free, ladies," she said. "My last sissy left me, I'm afraid. She was very sweet while she lasted." "So you gonna get another sissy?" said Widow. Black Widow, the vanillas called her. "Another girly-boy? Maybe you can explain it to me. None of these other Madams seem to be able to." Cat grinned. "What don't you understand? I thought it was fairly clear." "Naw," the black woman said "Tell me this. Why do you take a guy, and you put him in girl clothes, and you pump up his boobs, and you make him wear makeup, and you put him in hose, and you make him sleep with guys, and you take his dick away and put it in a cage. Why not just start with a girl to start with and cut out the middle man?" "Here we go..." Amelia said. "I'm serious," Widow said. "My girl Sam can lick with anyone. She has boobs. She wears dresses. Why you got to mess with a transexual beats the shit out of me." "We've explained this to her a dozen times," Amelia said to Cat. "She's heard it before." Amelia turned to Widow, then started to explain herself again. "Widow, the emasculation is part of the satisfaction," she said. "You're making your sub give up her sexuality. Her manhood. It is a glorious thing to see as it is stripped away. My personal preference isn't for willing transexuals, either. I like forcing men into dressing like women, forcing them to have sex with other men, forcing them to clean like a scullery maid. I like bringing in their bosses and their friends and exposing them." "Even if they're little girls?" Victoria asked, glancing across the room at the sissy in the pink princess dress. "Especially then," Amelia said. "Can you imagine what Brittany Ann's brother thought last month when he came over and she was playing in her dollhouse? It was perfect. He will never look at her again without seeing the little girl. And her little peeny said that she was excited that it happened." Amelia looked over at Brittany Ann, who was curled up next to Samantha. Samantha was acting like her big sister. The two were playing patty cake. "Is your boyfriend a sissy?" Cat asked Victoria, looking at the hulking figure in the corner. "Spartacus?" Victoria said. "God, no. Spartacus is all man. Look at him. He's magnificent. And a great lover. He just likes...pain." "Pain?" Cat asked. "Yes," Victoria said. "He likes being caned. He likes being in handcuffs. He likes being smothered. Spartacus is a masochist. It's why he got into kick-boxing to start with. I'm afraid I'll hurt him some day. He likes bleeding too much. He likes being hit. He likes being tied." "Some folks like weird stuff," Jade said. "You're one to talk, pee girl," said Widow, laughing. Jade shrugged. "Lori likes what she likes. She happens to like golden showers. And brown showers. Lori is...damaged. Something happened to her when she was a little girl. This is how she copes. This is how she tells herself she isn't good enough." "Is your girl like that, Widow? Samantha, is it?" "No, Sam is your normal, everyday sub," Widow said. "She's proof that you don't have to be a guy to be a sissy. Nothing odd about her." "Nothing except that she likes sex in public," Amelia said. "Yeah, just that," Widow said. "And thank God for it." "You know, I'm biased, but I do think guys make the best sissies," Blake said. "They have bigger skulls, for one thing, so they have deeper throats, and they can suck harder. Trust me. I know." Heads turned toward George. He seemed a little odd to Cat, to tell the truth. He was big for a sissy, maybe 200 pounds. His chest was flat, without any sort of augmentation. She could see hair was still on his legs. His hands were huge. "I see," she said. "Ah, I can see by the look on your face," Blake said. "You want to know why George doesn't pass, don't you. It was by order of his ex-wife, I'm afraid. She wanted him to be humiliated. She wanted everyone to recognize that he was a man in a dress. She wouldn't even give him a feminine name. George. What a hoot." "But if it was his ex-wife who ordered this, how did he end up with you?" Cat asked. "She was tired of him, I guess. She gave him to me. We worked together. As I hear the story, he got in some gambling trouble. It was lucky they didn't fish him out of the river. Gloria went to the head guy, Nick, and she argued that some live bodies set better examples than a dead body. So George started wearing dresses, and he started sucking dick. Sends a message. The way I hear it, Nick kept coming round to check, and he and Gloria got cozy. Last I heard, they were together in Reno." "Does she...he like it?" Cat said, careful to use the masculine pronoun. "The gay sex?" "He says he doesn't. But I'll be honest. He's good at it. And as long as his mouth and his ass are mine, it doesn't much matter to me. We got married two months ago. I call him my wife, not my husband. Cat, I'm gay. I don't care if he dresses like a woman or not. But Gloria instructed him that he should, so he does. Even a mannish woman. Poor sissy. He still thinks she's coming back for him. I suppose it's his only hope, to keep being a sissy." There were so many variations on a theme, Cat thought. Later, she would find out that that was by design. Mistresses were hand-picked because of their main preferences. Oh, there was polygamy, of course. Widow might dabble with two or three lesbians over a month. But she was thought of as the expert on the subject in the room. "We're like a super-hero group," is the way Victoria explained it. "Or maybe a super-villain group," Jade said. The decision to invite Cat had been before Jessica, her ex-sissy, had decided to leave her. The others were nice enough, but they let Cat know that if she took on a lesbian, or a diapered adult, or a masochist, or a shower girl, or a kitten, that she would be uninvited. No hard feelings. The Alphas just believed in keeping their preferences individual. Oh, there could be more than one man, or more than one woman. But their leanings had to be different. That was fair, she thought. As it was, she was part of a closed fist. She was one of the Magnificent Seven. She was an Alpha. *** Gabe was still sitting there, still watching the dancers move, when Cat found her way back to the bar. She checked his left hand. Yep. He was still perched on it. This one had possibilities, she thought. A little guidance, a little paddling, and he might just work out. "Hello, Gabriel," she said, approaching him with a grin. "How is the sound of one hand clapping?" He blushed. He pulled his hand out, then flexed and unflexed his hand. "Why did you want me to do that?" he asked. "Because I could," she said. "And we both needed to know that I could. Just a little power, trip, you know?" "Great. Now it's asleep. I hate that feeling, like a thousand tiny needles are in it." He rubbed his hand with his right hand. "Gabe, you didn't come in this bar by accident. Do you know what I am?" "I assume you're a domme of some sort," he said. "I saw that movie about that stuff. Fifty Stripes of Gray." "Fifty shades. And a lot of us didn't think it was accurate." "Oh." "So does that sort of stuff intrigue you, Gabe? Do you wish to submit to someone? Maybe to me?" He looked at her. He wanted to lie, to tell her he just stopped by the Stables to meet a friend, that he wasn't one of the sheep that surrounded him. But he knew she would see through that. He was a moth and this bar was a flame. His palms were sweaty. He could not look her in the eye. "I'd like to know more about it," he said quietly. "What?" she laughed. "Are you doing a term paper? Or do you want to get in and get dirty? Do you want me to tie you up? To spank you? To make you my personal serving girl? Is that what you want, Gabby?" He flushed. This was too much. This was too soon. He looked at the exit. "Um, maybe, in time..." "Gabby, you can run for the exit now if you want. I saw you look at it. You can run back to the vanilla world, and you can tell your buddies about the night you wandered down here to check out the freaks. Or you can come home with me and have the wildest sex of your life. You can find...you. What's the line in Rocky Horror? Don't dream it. Feel it. Isn't it time you surrendered?" He could not speak. He felt himself nod. She reached out her hand, and he took it. He felt the other patrons stare. They knew. They all knew. "Hand me your belt, Gabby," she said. He fumbled with his pants. He pulled off his belt, a nice brown leather belt. His pants fit tight enough so they did not droop. She looped it, then pulled it over his head. She tightened it. It closed around his neck, a makeshift leash. Then she grabbed the other end, and she led him toward the door. And toward the next chapter in his life. *** Amelia sat by Brittany Ann's bed and read 'Goodnight Moon,' just as she did every night. Beside her, Brittany Ann smiled around her pacifier. She gurgled. This was perfect. She loved it when Mommy read to her, or stroked her hair, or played with her Beanie Babies with her. She scooted closer to her, putting her face against Amelia's breast. Her diaper was damp, but it wasn't to the point it irritated her yet. She looked up, trusting. She yawned. It was 7:30. Time for all good little girls to be asleep. Even those who used to be 31-year-old accountants. Amelia smiled at her little girl. She removed her pacifier and gave her her bottle. Granted, most 8-year-old girls would have given up their pacifiers and bottles long ago, but at bedtime Brittany Ann projected even younger. As Brittany suckled, her feet in the air, a maternal warmth spread over Amelia. Stupid outsiders. They thought this was something that Amelia tolerated. But for Amelia, it meant a chance to be a mom again. Her own children were grown and gone.She was born to nurture. And Brittany Ann needed her. She had met Benjamin at a convention for dominants and littles, a place where you could admit to enjoying ageplay without being judged. No, it wasn't pedophilia. People get that wrong. This was a lifestyle. So what if some of the adults role played to different stages of their lives, back to when life wasn't quite as complicated? Benjamin projected himself into being a 15-year-old girl in those days. The sex was tender, loving. Over the years, he had regressed to becoming Brittany Ann, an eight- year-old. She loved stories. She loved cartoons. And, on occasion, she liked being in diapers. He liked nursing from Amelia. And if she soiled her nappies, well, sometimes Mommy had to punish. Other Mistresses never got it, either, what with their adult submissives and sissies. They all wanted their houses clean and their clothes ironed. Brittany Ann couldn't do any of that. It was all she could do to not suck her thumb. But she was so loving, so trusting. And she looked so sweet in her little girl dresses. There was no chance of her passing, of course. Not when you swap in your gender and your age. But passing wasn't the point. Living was. At first, it bothered Amelia that Brittany Ann changed ages on her. It would have been easier to deal with one age. But a little girl who became a baby at nap time? That was delicious. Yes, they would occasionally break from their roles for sex. But that was happening less and less frequently. These days, Brittany Ann just sat and played with her dolls, as if she were shrinking into her roleplay, retreating from the world outside. Amelia stroked Brittany Ann's hair. She rubbed her diaper, feeling her peeny underneath. She looked into Brittney Ann's eyes to see if there was an invitation to sex. There wasn't. Amelia wondered what the trigger for Brittany Ann's behavior was. What made this a need? When she tried to research the phenomenon, she found that little was known about it. But Amelia knew she was content. For now. Sometimes, she feared what might happen to Brittany Ann if she wasn't careful. The world could be such a mean place. Especially when you're a baby. *** Cat pushed Gabe onto the bed. She crawled over him, ripping the buttons from his shirt as she went. She bit his collarbone. "Baby, we should go slow," she said, not going slow. "I don't want you to think I'm some sort of tramp." She bit his shoulder. Gabe murmured his protestations. She was no tramp and she was an actual woman and she was special and they had a connection and blah-blah. What man, on the verge of sex with a hot woman, would not? He felt her hold his wrists downward. She looked down at him, kissed him again, ran her hands over his nipples. She pulled down his pants, still without a belt. She threw them across the room. She ripped his boxers away from his groin. She mounted him, slid across his chest, then turned. She ground her crotch into his face, hard. Then she reached down, and with her thumb and forefinger, grasped his penis. "It's so cute," she whispered. "And so little. We should name it ... Tiny Tim." She raised her voice to a cartoon level. "God bless us every one," she said. Then she engulfed him. Gabe felt like a ping-pong ball in a hurricane. It was all he could do to hang on. Her fingers probed his ass, gently, then harder. He was afraid that if he said anything, she would stop. She ground harder into his face, her juices flowing down his chin. There was an urgency, a need to her lovemaking. It was as if she was trying to squeeze 10 minutes of screwing into five minutes of time. Now, she had taken him into her mouth. Then he was coming. It was quick, so quick. It was plentiful, so plentiful. She took it all in her mouth, every drop of it. He collapsed on the bed. There hadn't been that many women, not really. Janet had been his third. He'd married her when they were still in college. She didn't cheat on him till mid-term. Maybe a little sooner. It wasn't Janet's fault. She was a size queen, and he was kind of...average. She even asked him to do her with a dildo, just so he would seem bigger. And he had. It probably hinted something about both of them. Cat shifted, and then her face was above his again. She kissed him, hard, deep. And then she squirted his sperm into his mouth. It was sudden, shocking, revolting. Just like that, his mouth was filled with his deposit. He tried to sit up, to spit it out, to reject it. She shook her head, lifted his chin, put her finger on his lips. "Swallow your snowball, Gabe," she said. "It's my gift to you. It's the best." He swallowed. He hacked. He swallowed again. He coughed again. Guys didn't do this! Not straight guys! But her tongue kept probing his mouth, and his revulsion gave way to the electricity she carried in her. She ran her hands down his sides, then across his chest. She tweaked one of his nipples. She smiled at him. "You are so sexy, cream pie," she said. "Our fluids are just flavors. Remember that. Just tastes of our essence. It's nothing to be uptight about." Maybe she was right. Why should he be disgusted? They were just human beings making each other feel good, right? Why should women take sperm and not men. He had almost justified it to himself when she said something chilling. "Now, sweetie, it's time," she said. She reached into an end table. She pulled out a large, ominous looking dildo. "I want your ass." His eyes widened. Hers danced, the light catching off of them. Was this what a domme did? She took you by force? She was a tornado, a typhoon, a wild beast. He rolled over. He felt her lubing his rear. Then she was aiming the bumpy looking dildo. He was about to get fucked. He was scared. He was intimidated. And for a million dollars, he would not have changed places with anyone else in the city. *** There were African masks across the wall of Widow's apartment. There was a Zulu shield. Certain African-American women are into their history. Widow thought of herself as very Afro-centric. She was proud of her heritage. She was proud of her parents. She just liked this white girl. That's all. She moved across the living room, and she rested her hands on Samantha's shoulders. Samantha smiled and turned. She loved when they were alone, when it was just them, when there was no noise, no intrusion. She stepped into her girlfriend's arms. She kissed her. ?"Who's my bitch?" Widow said. "I am." "Who's my sissy?" "I am." "Who's making my coffee?" Samantha smiled. "I am." She stood and moved toward the kitchen. Widow watched her move. Damn. She never would get just why other Mistresses liked submissive male sissies. Why get a man to imitate a woman when there were women like Samantha out there? Shit. How many men would pay to see an interracial lesbian couple go at it tongue and twats? And she got to see it every night. Sometimes twice a night. Sometimes, the world got to see. They had been caught in a confessional at church last week, her taking Samantha from the rear with her strap- on. They had been kicked out of McDonald's last month when Samantha was going down on her. It was a kick, a giggle. The dressing rooms at Macy's were nice. The restrooms at Kroger. >>>> Earlier that day, they had gone to a house-showing. They asked the realtor about schools, even though they didn't have kids. They asked about churches, although they didn't go. They asked how a lesbian couple would be accepted. Then Window leaned in. "Wildfire," she whispered to Samantha. So the went to roam around from room to room. When they got to the bedroom, she was all over Samantha, pulling down her pants, inserting her fingers. She reached into her purse and pulled out Beauty, a large dildo. She stepped into the panty that held it, and she rudely pushed it into Samantha. She fucked her hard, fast.she pushed her brown breasts into Samantha's pale ones. They came just before the realtor caught up to them. "Don't you love it? She said. Widow shrugged. "Not enough closet space," she said. Widow had always liked girls. Back to the high school days days when she ran track, and Bess Johnston ran the relay leg in front of her. She liked watching Bess's ass as it moved, two bobcats fighting in a burlap bag. A shame she was straight. Widow thought she squeezed out a puppy when she was 17. Widow came out when she was in college. Guys did nothing for her, what with their drooling and farting. The rough lesbian sex was better, and with it her ascension to domination. She found caucasian girls especially pliable. Fuck them, and they would purr. Like Samantha. She was a perky brunette, with short spiky hair dyed blue. It gave her the look of sass, an attitude she dropped when the the bedroom doors opened. But she kissed nice, and she could go for hours. And she wasn't shy. Public sex turned her on. Black women turned her on. Samantha returned from the kitchen. She handed Widow her cup, then knelt and held her saucer, a human coffee table. She looked up at Widow with the look of total amazement. How could this beauty pick her? Out of all the girls in the city, why her? Widow spread her legs and air-kissed in Samantha's direction. Samantha put the cup on the table, then leaned forward and kissed Widow's thighs gently, tenderly. She tugged her Mistresses' panties downward and admired the picture. Beautiful. Samantha had discovered girls in high school, too. Jolly Madison had kissed her and doors opened. Oh, there was nothing butch about her. She was soft, and she was pretty. She just thought girls were softer, smelled better, kissed better. And they had vaginas. She ran her tongue along Widow's crease. "You ready to taste rust, Sam?" Widow said. "You mean..." "Yeah. It's Red River time. I got my period today. That doesn't bother you, does it." Samantha just smiled. She flicked her tongue in deep, and the pungent taste made her smile. She felt Widow's hands on her head. She licked furiously. She loved her Mistress. She could live with the taste. She spread Widow's vagina wide. She pushed her entire face into it, feeling the dampness of the blood cover her face. She reached up, touching Widow's large breasts, trailing her fingertips across her belly. She looked up. She loved the image of her white skin on the black skin of Widow. The contrast got her every time. Widow leaned back on the couch. Looks like her coffee was going to get cold. It was the rest of her that was hot. Her strap-on was in the bedroom. Eventually, they would have to move. She intended to fuck Samantha that night. She ran her hand over the tattoo on Samantha's left shoulder. Two hummingbirds. One representing each of them. Nice. She shifted again. She pushed down on Samantha's head again. God, she was a bloody good lover. *** Gabe was up early. Cat liked a nice breakfast. Oh, he didn't have to make her food. She didn't demand it. Not exactly. That was the thing with Cat. She had a way of making him think that things were his idea. Doing the ironing, for instance. Mopping the kitchen. Those were his ideas, because he wanted to make her happy, because he didn't mind it. The lovemaking was still amazing. Oh, if he thought about it, he hadn't penetrated her that often the last few nights. But the oral sex was amazing, and she loved pegging him. To be honest, he liked it, too. He never thought he was a guy who would like being fucked, but he did. She would mount him, and her would feel her on his back. She would reach around and tweak his nipples. Gabby, she called him. Wasn't that a girl's name? He poured her tea into a cup. She had been upset at him last night. He called her Cat. She had said she wanted to be called Mistress Cat, because she deserved it, because she was as good as the other Mistresses, and didn't he agree? And he did. She was the most forceful person he had ever met. He was transfixed by her. He would call her Goddess if she wanted it. Was this healthy? His old friends probably wouldn't say so. Here he was, doing her chores, giving her titles. But he had read the stories. At least, he wasn't wearing women's clothes. She hadn't said anything about him growing breasts. She was just...aggressive in bed. She liked being on top. She liked giving orders. Was that so wrong? The body hair, for instance. Mistress Cat didn't care for it. So he used depilatory cream, and he shaved off the patches it didn't get. He didn't care. What was he? A bear? What was that? The bell? Mistress Cat had taken to ringing it, like Gabe was some sort of servant. He hurried upstairs. "Breakfast will done in five minutes, Mistress Cat," he said. "Am I running late?" "No, Gabby," she said, stretching. "Mistress just wanted a little nookie before you got started." He smiled. He didn't mention that he had started breakfast some time ago. He climbed into her bed. She kissed him. She put her hand over his right breast, as if there was something there. She left it there. "Lick me, sweet girl," she said. Girl? Again, Gabe didn't say anything. He twisted around, hoping she would be interested in a 69. She wasn't. She reached into her night stand. She pulled out a pair of yellow panties. She dangled them over his penis, the fabric barely touching its head. It grew erect, as if straining to be touched more thoroughly. She finally wrapped his cock in the panties and rubbed. He took a deep breath, then kept licking. Damn, she had a way of making him crazy. "Gabby," she whispered. "Put them on. Please put them on." He swallowed hard. He blinked. Turns out, they were a pretty good fit. *** Lori was in the bathroom. She had snorted her cocaine, the little bit that Mistress Jade allowed her each day. It went so fast. But too much, and she knew she would be dead. No big loss there, she thought. She looked at the circles under her eyes. Funny. She had always had had an innocent look, a Girl Scout look. But lately, she had begun to look weary. She washed her face, ran her hands through her hair. Sniffed one more time, as if there might be residue there. She walked out into the den. Mistress Jade looked at her, the question on her face unspoken. Lori nodded. She was okay. For now. "Can't I have a little bit more, Mistress?" she said quietly. "Just a bit?" "Now, Lori. You're lucky I give you any at all after that episode last summer. That was the one that made your parents give up on you. They were afraid of having to identify a body. You really need to get control of yourself." Lori smiled weakly. "...But I have you." Jade reached out and touched her hand. She traced the cobra tattoo that wrapped around her left arm. There were no fresh needle marks. That was good. It's funny. The bigger flaws some people have, the more others love them. Jade had met Lori at a rave last summer. Lori came up and started dancing in front of her, gyrating her young body without caring who saw. It's funny. They let Jade in the Alphas even though she was a lesbian like Widow. I guess they differentiated because of Lori's...peculiarities. Everyone looked differently at Lori, who was...flawed. But if they knew her, if they could ride the wild spirit there, they would think differently. Oh, part of Lori was not satisfied. She was still searching for herself. She had whored for the thrill of it. She had stripped. She had lived for two years as a female-to-male transexual. She had tried roleplay. None of it was enough degradation. When Jade met Lori, she did not consider herself a Mistress. She was just another divorced office worker in the city. But Lori needed guidance, hungered for it. It wasn't that Jade wanted to be on top. It was that Lori so desperately needed to be on the bottom. Jade bought her first strap-on because Lori begged her to. She bought her first handcuffs because Lori wanted them. Some drill sergeants are born. Some are made. Lori's drugs had kicked in now, and that familiar dreaminess settled over her. She rocked to an invisible song. She smiled at an invisible image. She approached Jade. She sat in her lap, kissed her neck. She was a brat, a smart-ass. But one thing could tame her. "Baby," she whispered. Jade knew what was coming. Still, she asked the question. "What do you need, my precious?" "I need...to be wet." She reached out and took Jade's hands. With a trace of sadness, like always, Jade stood and followed her into the bathroom. Lori stripped quickly, her small breasts bouncing when freed. Finally naked, she stepped in the shower and watched Victoria disrobe. She squatted, then sat on the linoleum floor. She looked up at Jade, expectantly. Jade leaned forward, her hands against the shower walls. And she peed. It was a solid stream, yellow, forceful. It splashed across Lori's face, across her hair. She opened her mouth and tasted the stream. She leaned into the flow, then kissed Jade on the vagina as the piss emerged from her. Lori smiled. She needed this. "Taste it, bitch," Lori said. "Smell it. Wash in it." It was a guy who had first peed on her. The two of them were on some lovely Angel dust, and he was too stoned to screw. So he had pulled it out and pissed on her, on her clothes, on the floor. She was appalled. And excited. It was vulgar beyond words. Gross. Wonderful. Others never understood. There was such delicious depravity in the act. It was such a sweet sickness, wading in the stream. Who would allow this? Well, she would. And later, she would lick ass. It had been that way since their neighbor, her father's friend, had abused her. It was as if she could not get the shame off of her, and so she let it envelope her. She rubbed a cheek against Jade's pussy as the warm pee slowed. She rubbed her hair against Jade's public hair. She thought about the pee that had run through her eyes, her mouth. Another Golden moment, she thought, sliding her fingers into her damp vagina, bringing herself to climax. She deserved to be peed on, she told herself. *** Gabby went to the bathroom mirror to touch up her lipstick. It was in good shape, she thought, but she freshened it anyway. Mistress would demand it. She brushed her hair off her earrings. No need to wear danglers unless you intend to let the world see. She lifted her false breasts. She checked her maid's dress. She looked again at her eye-liner. Oh, she knew it would come to this, of course. She had read the stories. These days, being a submissive sissy male doesn't sneak up on anyone. Cat had prodded her toward this from that first night when she snowballed her. Gabby really hadn't fought it. Now, Gabby was dressed en femme every day. She had quit her job, because evidently, Cat had plenty of money. She was a maid, a servant. It had surprised her brother last month. He had brought her golf clubs, as if they were going to go out and be men on the back nine. Him. A sissy. Gabby. She liked being feminine, if you wanted to know. She liked the clothes, the fragrances, the appearances. She loved the message in the mirror. She loved being a sissy. She was born for this. She flounced through the apartment, humming as she worked. She felt her hose rub against each other, the hem of her dress tickle her thighs. Her heels clacked. God, being a sissy was perfect. Cat came into the bathroom, looked at Gabby and smiled. She was coming along nicely. She needed her own boobs, of course. But Cat had decided she could keep her penis. She didn't deserve to be a real woman. "How about a salad for lunch?" Cat said. "I don't want to get fat." "Yes ma'am. You won't, ma'am. You're perfect." "You're sweet. By the way, no shopping today. The pesticide guy is coming by. I need you to tend to him." "Yes, Mistress. I'll be here. Like always." Cat started to leave. Then she stopped. "Gabby?" she said. "Are you happy?" "Certainly I am, Mistress. I love being yours. I love the dresses. I have even grown accustomed to my cock cage. I think it's beautiful now. " Cat smiled. She was happy, too. And she was going to get happier. *** Mittens moved on all fours in the darkness. She slinked across the room, then rubbed against her scratching post. Starlight reached down and rubbed her head. She purred, then moved from the post to Starlight's legs. Starlight reached down and dropped catnip onto the floor. Mittens nosed at it, then ate it. She lifted her nose toward Starlight as if to ask for more. Starlight smiled, then in baby-talk, said "How's my widdle kitty, huh? You feel like a panther tonight? You feel like a tigress?" Mittens was wearing no clothing but her knee-pads. Oh, sometimes she wore an outfit - a catsuit, what else? - with a mask and whiskers and ears. But not tonight. Tonight she was au natural. Her enhanced breasts dangled toward the floor. So did her limp penis. Anymore, it did not feel naughty. It felt...normal. Starlight bend down and adjusted Mittens' collar. She reached over and fondled her breast. Mittens looked at her quizzically. There was lust in her eyes. But not now. Not while she was a furry. For Starlight, all of this had all begun three years ago. She had been in a D/s group when she got into pet play. Like most things, it was a gradual progression. She had played a little, and then she had played big. And finally, she was taking Mittens home in a box. A large box. Humans as pets was one of the ultimate submissions. You gave up comfort, even speech. When her collar was on, she gave up everything. Yeah, it was a little kinky, even by Mistress standards. Mittens was a sub and a sissy and a pet. It was as if she was on a game show: What's My Kink? The pet dynamic worked simply. When Mittens' collar was on, she was a cat. When her collar was removed, she became a sissy named Melissa. If Starlight forgot, well, that could make for a long weekend for Mittens. Oh, she still had a submissive soul whether she was human or a pet. She still liked to roam around outside and yowl. But when the collar was off, she could converse. In those hours, she was only a sissy. Only. The way Starlight saw it, she had the best of all worlds. Most sissies surrendered human dignity. Her sub surrendered even being human. She was a Mistress whose sissy turned from female to feline. And sissies, like cats, cleaned up after themselves. When she was a cat, she licked her paws. When she was a sissy, she licked Starlight's pussy. It's funny how humans gravitate toward certain worlds. Starlight had been the daughter of two hippies, conceived on a very nice LSD trip, raised on communes with naked people all around her. She was a pacifist, so becoming a Little felt natural to her. But the more she was in it, the more naive she saw the other Littles to be. She tried being a Big, and damn, she liked it. When she met Melissa, Melissa was already living as a woman. She hadn't been Marcus for a year. There was no forcing her to dress or to wear makeup. She was already there. And she was beginning to dabble in pet play. She was not a bitch, so to speak. She wasn't a dog. She wasn't obedient, either. She considered being a wild creature, maybe a rabbit. Or a farm animal, maybe a lamb. But in the end, it was the independence of the kitten, and the playfulness, that won her over. Even as a human, she had feline qualities. She nuzzled. She licked. If you made her cum, she would purr. She loved her time as a kitten. She could get lost for hours with a ball of yarn. She was happy to sleep on her mat. It wasn't her regular diet, but she thought that Kibbles and Bits had a nice aftertaste. Then her collar came off, and Starlight saw the most amazing thing. Melissa actually became gentler, more docile. She dressed mainly in nightgowns when she was a human. It was funny. For Starlight, there were too many personalities. It was like dating the three faces of Eve. To her, she was Mittens the Kitten. Then she was Missy the Sissy. She was never Marcus the gender outlaw. That was good. There wasn't room enough for all of them in bed. *** Gabby was hers now. She moved through the apartment in her maid's dress, offering each guest a curtsy, flirting with the men, smiling at the women. Her makeup was flawless. Her nails were perfect. Cat watched her move, happily. Gabby had taken to all of this so quickly. Often, it took a month before a sissy surrendered her rear, six months until he was in a dress. This was like turning on a light bulb. Gabby evidently had been looking for this ever since his wife left. There was no forcing her anymore. Gabby was a girl. Maybe she always had been. Her transition was too quick for any other explanation. Why? Cat really didn't care. It probably had something to do with her small dick. She smiled. That psychiatrist they were talking about? I wonder if he has ever done any studies on penis length as it applies to sissies. All the ones she had known had been pimple-dicks. Were they a lower form of being? A higher form? She watched Gabby move across the room with a tray of drinks in her hand. She was pretty. This was her now. Surgery or not, she would never go back to being Gabe again. They both knew that. Were the Alphas right? Was the stripping away of a sissy's manhood much of the thrill? You take his dignity, you take his dick, you take his masculinity, you take his self-esteem, you take his money, you take his time. What is left? Just a sissy. Just a weak, domestic sissy, happy in servitude. Or was this love? Was this a way of molding, of guiding someone toward their true self? If it was that, you were doing them a favor, weren't you? Take a spanking. Who gets the most out of a spanking? The one with the hand, or the one with the ass? Both, she thought. Both. She looked across the room. Seth Franklin looked back. They nodded. She waited, then took Gabby by the hand. "Come with me," she said. She led her down the hallway to the guest bedroom. Seth was already sitting on the end of the bed, nude. His cock was erect. His eyes were on fire. Cat knew Seth from his days as a bartender at Saddles. She knew he was openly bisexual. It's why she had called him. It was time for Gabby to surrender something else. His heterosexuality. Gabby looked at Seth, and concern filled her face. She had given up so much to Mistress Cat. But not this. "Mistress, please..." she murmured. "It's time, Gabby," Cat said quietly. "You knew this would happen. You have to do this to be a girl." "No," she said, at the same time she sank to her knees. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She sobbed once, openly. Then she opened her mouth, and she took the tip inside her. For Gabe, it was the ultimate surrender, the supreme sacrifice. She was finally a cocksucker. She was a dicklicker. She sighed. Then her head started to bob, and her hand held his cock still. This was actually...fun, she thought. She sucked harder. She pushed the cock into her throat. It fit. When he came, she glanced over and saw Cat. Who was smiling at her girl. Gabby smiled back. *** Victoria ran her hands across the broad, hard chest of Spartacus. My God, was he built! Her hands drifted down, lingering on his stomach. She pushed, feeling the muscles tighten. He was like one of those men in the 300, a body- builder, a model. She inhaled from her cigarette. She looked into his face. His strong chin jutted out. She took her cigarette. She touched it to the skin of his chest. Gently, then harder. He exhaled quickly once, twice, three times. He did not cry out. He did not ask for mercy. He ... endured. He was chained to the wall, writhing. There was a drain at his feet for when she turned the pressure hose on him. There was a cane nearby for when she needed it. There was a mask and and a ball gag, all of the toys for sensory depravation. She was the Marquis de Sade, and he was her volunteer. There were times when Spartacus was free that Victoria feared for her own safety, times when she wondered what would happen if this man every lashed out in rage. She would be hurt, just as badly as he wanted to hurt her. But he didn't want to hurt her. He wanted her to hurt him. That was the point. She was a lion-tamer. She was a snake-handler. She juggled nitroglycerin. Spartacus - she thought his real name was Steven or some normal kind of name - liked pain. He liked being caned. He liked being cut. It reminded him that he was alive. He could conquer pain. He could endure. So bind him. Beat him. He would turn off the nerve endings, and he would go somewhere else in his mind, and he would absorb whatever punishment you had in mind. He did not mind the taste of his own blood. He was no sissy. He detested the pussy boys, the ones who couldn't wait to put on a dress and suck a cock. That was not him. Oh, his Mistress had fucked him, lots of times, but that was just another way of delivering pain. She had caged his cock, but that was like the nights he slept in handcuffs. It was just one more form of restraint. She made him sleep in a dog cage, but he was comfortable there. He twisted and felt the bones in his spine pop. He stretched as Victoria looked on. On his shoulders, there were a small cobweb of tiny white scars. There were bruises across his ass and the small of his back from this morning's caning. His left eye was still black. There was a cut on his forehead. His bottom lip was swollen. Victoria stood next to him. She shoved a pillow into his face and kept it there for a long time. A minute maybe. She pulled it away, and she heard him gasp for breath. Waterboard! She should have waterboarded him. She picked up her lighter. A cheap Bic. She flicked the flame to life. She wondered how close she could get to his balls while catching his pubic hair on fire. Wasn't that an old song? Great balls of fire. * * * For the moment, Gabby had caught up on her chores. She was alone in the apartment. She had time to read her romance novel. Or time to watch the soaps on TV. Instead, she climbed the stairs. She went into Mistress's bedroom and opened the closet door. There they were, her dresses, hung neatly in a row. She touched them lightly, admiring the softness, the sexiness. Every day, she became more feminine. It no longer bothered her, if it ever really did. She had begun to unlock old memories, of putting on one of her mom's skirts when she was a toddler, of masturbating into his sister's panties, of having an old girlfriend put lipstick on him. A lot of guys have those memories, he thought. It was only when you realize you were a sissy all along that they seem like clues for a life to come. Maybe he had always been like this. No matter. He was here now. He liked his clothes, soft and pretty and form-fitting. Even when he had a rare off-day, he wore a dress. Cat didn't tell him to. But she expected it. He knew it. Men? Men were looking pretty damn good to him these days. He didn't say it out loud. He didn't want to admit it, and he didn't want to let Cat know that he loved cocksucking for fear she might take it away. A door opened, closed. Could Cat be home? She backed carefully out of the closet. "Oh, Gabby, my sissy! Come here and say hello to our company." Company? Gabby left Mistress's room. She descended the stairs. The woman across the living room had her back to him. "Hello..." she said. And then she turned, and it was her ex-wife Janet, and the world flipped over on her. She felt light-headed. She collapsed onto the chair, her skirt riding up as she did. "Well, hello, Gabe," Janet said. "Anything new?" The humiliation was overwhelming. Her skirt seemed impossibly short. Her breasts felt enormous. Her dress felt tight. For all she had been through, this felt like the last circle of hell. "Hello, Janet," she said quietly. Janet smiled. She loved this. All of her guilt over dumping a husband because she had found a larger penis left her. Her husband was a homosexual. A simpering fag. That changed everything. "Oh, Gabe...Gabby," she said. "I always knew. It was obvious that you liked dick. You were just in denial." "No..." Gabby said. "But you were, darling. I had to sleep with Paul before you tried to. I could see how you looked at him. You know, everyone knew you were queer. Gabby slumped, beaten. Mistress had found the only way left to expose her, to make her feel small. Maybe Janet was right. Maybe she'd been gay all the time. Cat watched the interplay as if it was a tennis match. She loved Gabby, but this was what Gabby craved. Some form of humiliation. Some form of exposure. Her cruelty was the ultimate kindness. "Gabby, you would never believe it. I ran into Janet downtown. Well, I didn't run into her, exactly. I met her for lunch. Well, I didn't meet her, really. I called her and asked her. She was so glad to hear that her ex-husband was a sissy these days. Maybe you two can share a penis sometime. Would you like that?" Gabby stared at the floor. She tugged down on the hem of her skirt. She had loved two women in her life. Now they were both laughing at her. And God, was she hard. *** George had just finished the morning dishes when Blake entered the kitchen. He leaned against the fridge. "Hello, beautiful," he said. George stared at the floor. As usual, he felt lost, abandoned. He was straight, and he had a husband. He was normal, and he was in a dress. His hands were mannish, but they bore a woman's wedding ring. "Why do you want me, Blake?" he asked in hushed tones. "You're a handsome guy. You're sweet. You could have any man you want." "Oh, sweetheart. No one sucks a cock like you. No one has a sweeter ass than you. It's why I married you. That's forever, darling. I love you." George looked up at him. How could Gloria have loaned me to a gay Master? How could she have ordered me to do his bidding, whatever it was. A tear rolled down his left cheek. Blake walked up to him, took him by the shoulders, kissed him deeply. He was gay. George was right. He could have other men. But he loved the way George had surrendered. Yes, he had always been gay. Even his parents figured that one out early. And if he tried hard enough, he could make George love him. He knew he could. They went everywhere together. Pride parades. Gay rallies. Same sex weddings. Blake liked to hold hands in public, to kiss, to shock the straights. He was completely out. Because of that, George was, too. Everyone in his old life thought he was gay. Gloria had seen to that. In the kitchen, Blake took George's hand. He placed it on his penis. George felt Blake's bulge. The frightening thing was, he didn't mind it as much today as he did yesterday. Last night, when he was sucking Blake's cock, he had realized that he had an erection. That scared him. Was he turning gay? Could you even do that? Or was it the familiarity of it all? He was sucking cock regularly. Wouldn't it be natural to start to look forward to it? Soon, he told himself. Soon, Gloria would be back, and she would take him away from all of this. No more dicks in his ass. No more sperm on his breath. He would be a man again. Blake was pushing down on George's shoulders. George knelt. He unzipped his husband's pants. He pulled out his dick. He kissed it. Then, on his own, he leaned forward and licked his balls. Why had he done that? Returning to Blake's penis, his tongue swirled around the tip. He gripped the penis, then deep-throated it. Then again, looking at the grimace on Blake's face. His head bobbed. He was getting good at this. He was the best straight cocksucker he knew. Blake cupped his chin. George looked up. Blake pulled out, the sound of it audible. He sank to his knees. He didn't want a blow job.He kissed George again. "Lay back, love," he said. George was used to getting fucked by now. But he preferred it from behind. It was more like being raped then, which wasn't his fault. But face-to-face was intimate, tender. It was the position of lovers. He didn't like that. Blake tugged off his panties. He lifted George enough to place a pillow underneath. He began to lube his wife. He rubbed his dick up George's crack, up and down. He rubbed George's chest. He lifted George's legs. He rubbed his cock across George's backside. Slowly, tenderly, he began to insert his dick. George whimpered. A little further. A little deeper. He was in. He had a nice cock, big and thick, but it had disappeared. He began to rock, finding his rhythm. He felt George's erection against him. He smiled. He loved this man. George's pain disappeared. Once again, he was getting fucked. Damn, Gloria, he thought. What's keeping you? *** They met again on a summer's night at The Stables. The bartender had left them three pitchers of margaritas and three of daiquiris. "I see you have your sissy now, Cat," Widow said. "Is she sucking cock yet?" "When I instruct her to," Cat said, smiling. Gabby stood to one side of the room with the others. She did not blink. She was wearing a red maid's outfit and a bow in her long hair. Her glasses were gone. Her cleavage had arrived. She was holding hands with George. Beside her, Brittney Ann stroked Mittens. Lori and Samantha were huddled together, talking about piercings. Spartacus stood by himself, telling himself that he was different from the rest of these subordinates. "I swear. I just do not get it.," Widow said, "Why would you ignore a perfectly good woman for a guy..." "Oh, shut up, Widow," Amelia said, laughing. "Have you people ever thought about polygamy?" Starlight said. "I've thought about getting another sub.' "I'd want four," Widow said. "Litter-bearers. To carry me like I was Cleopatra" "It would take four to haul your fat ass," Victoria said. Widow threw a napkin at Victoria. "Bite me," she said. "Oooh, can I?" Victoria joked. "Here's an idea," Jade said, interrupting the joking. "It comes to us in a letter from a Mistress Y. I don't know her. You guys?" "No." "I don't think so." "No." "Well, anyway, she wrote a nice letter asking to join. In it, she wondered why we don't all swap partners for a weekend. Just for a little strange, you know. Just to spank a little different ass." The Mistresses all chuckled. Jade and Victoria swapped high-fives. The submissives, on the other hand, looked around nervously. Say what you want about Mistresses, there was comfort in the pain you knew, angst in the pain you did not. Gabby looked on. These were superior creatures, he thought. This must be how pets looked at their owners. She glanced at Mittens. Finally, she understood. The pet. The pain. The pee. All of it. "Well, let's talk about it, just for grins," Starlight said. "Who would get whom? I guess I would get Gabby, since he's a sissy. I'm used to that." Cat looked up. "I'd want Spartacus," she said. "I'd like to feel a real man's cock again. You wouldn't mind, would you, Gabby? He'd spend most of his time deeper than you could reach anyway." "I wanted Spartacus," Blake protested. "Okay, give me Brittney Ann. At least she has a dick. And I can watch porn while she watches Barney. You know what they say: If you can't be with the dick you love, love the dick you're with." Widow laughed. "I'm a lesbian. Give me the girl. Lori? Don't worry, Lori, I'd be good to you. For your birthday, I'd shit on your chest." Amelia looked sad. "I could never leave Brittney Ann. But she's close to Samantha. Maybe Samantha could take her place. We could fuck in the park.' ' Jade smiled. "You could mold George into a kid, I'd bet. Or a dog. I'll take George. I'll make her pretty if you want. Best in show." Victoria looked around. "So who does that leave me with? The Kitten? Mittens? Well, here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." Mittens looked at her. She turned. She lifted her ass. She walked away. They laughed. It sounded deep. It sounded rich. It sounded musical. They were the Alphas. They were in control. (c) 2015 by Cassandra Morgan