‘Think I’ve got your boy. If so, I will establish control and maintain contact,’ the message reads.
Escobar reads then clicks to view the attached photo. It is indeed Renee, the transsexual who fellated him on videotape months before. Somewhere posted on the internet is high definition evidence of the depravity. And gratefully, after parting with the one million dollars... plus the $200,000 for the mysterious clue promised by Ramona Cortez... there have been no repercussions.
As unsavory as the deal was, the woman has been true to her word. No known disclosure of the web address... no request/demand for more money... and the clue... inspiring one of the many games that Ramona Cortez enjoys... was emailed forthrightly.
‘Take a walk in New York’s most noted park. I suggest a sunny weekend afternoon.’
The words meant nothing to Pablo Escobar. He engaged professional help. And now, gazing at the photo of Renee, the money seems to be well spent.
“Eduardo,” Escobar’s booming voice summoning his security commander, as he writes a message.
“Yes boss,” the ex soldier stepping into the vast tiled living room with haste.
“Go to the village, buy a disposable phone, and send this message to the number at the top.”
No one on Escobar’s staff, not even his most trusted lieutenants, knows of the homoerotic debauchery in New York. It will stay that way. Only his New York agent is aware of the intense desire to find some girl named ‘Renee’, the reason withheld.
A loyal Eduardo departs. Escobar sits and ponders, looking at his phone, rereading the message. Something is bothersome and it finally dawns...
His agent was given the clue and instructed to find a girl, offering one of Ramona Cortez’s less provocative photo’s, lengthy description as well... height, weight, hair color, style, etc... along with the suggestion that she could possibly be involved in the sex trade.
Yet... the text message received... I’ve got your boy!
***
New York, New York
Renee/Robert Warren
I arise with giddiness on Sunday morning. Though my mind reels in wonderment, I am physically calm and relaxed. Ridding myself of all that male goo? Obviously no orgasm to be had... but can the elimination indeed bring the castrated male to a glow of contentment similar to that of the ejaculating intact male? Sergeant Kelly had me drooling for nearly an hour... I believe I became as drained as with Nurse Sueann’s milkings.
Prior internet searches offered little information. It seems there is no scientific funding available to determine the level of sex drive and the needs of the neutered.
But I have a new friend! Sergeant Kelly! Commanding, authoritative, certainly not shrinking from the quirkiness... the kinkiness... of the demented needs I have developed.
After the extensive photo exposition, she took notes as she cross examined.
As a result she knows everything... adding to her knowledge of my name and address all available phone numbers... place of employment... type of employment... supervisor’s name... doctor’s name and address... counselor’s name and address... even Molly my hair dresser was duly entered into her notes.
Not disclosed... the regal Ramona Cortez... the imposing Maria Sanchez... and certainly not the frightening encounter with Pablo Escobar.
Our tête-à-tête ended with a warning similar to that offered to my prospect in the park... ‘from the 65th Street bypass down to Park Central South, you’re in my territory. So pass through with care... and keep your hands... and everything else clean.’
Offered in the patois of New York police enforcement, I suspect the advisement comes often. And in understanding her proposed arrangement, I will indeed refrain from seeking the sultry thrill of exposing myself and soliciting the resulting attention my loneliness craves.
‘I’ll stop in from time to time. When my shift ends – you’ll fix me a drink... make me dinner. I like to be served,’ my heart leaping as she first tweaked then continuously played with my right nipple and then left.’
She then stepped to the door, ending what could have been a most traumatic ordeal.
‘And clothing... you’ll need none... and you’ll feel better.’
Yes, she knows me... so aware of my needs.
***
Co workers look my way as my phone rings. I ignore their inquisitive gazes and answer.
Yes, it is Sergeant Kelly, as I suspected. Payable clerks receive few business calls... just paperwork.
“Buy me a bottle of wine... white... otherwise nothing special. Most times don’t know what I am drinking, but it soothes. You going to entertain me, little girl? Be naked and pretty for me...” the suggestive timber of her voice not in any way resembling that articulated when considering my arrest.
“Yes... Ma’am,” offered my sotto voce.
Those who can hear are intrigued... interacting with a woman... who would bother with me? What have I to offer?
The day finally ends and I prance... a young girl in love... to the wine store... then to home.
There I ice up the wine, disrobe and spend inordinate time on my makeup and nails. Sergeant Kelly wants me naked... and pretty.
The Vice Squad has an offsetting shift... beginning the day later than their compatriots... ending the day later. Very little vice to pursue early in the day. So my buzzer sounds near seven and I offer entry without exchanging words over the intercom.
I know who visits.
“Why look at you!” Sergeant Kelly gushes moments later as I swing open the apartment door.
She just stands without entering, knowing to let me blush, aware of the relative arousal as my hairless skin turns to pink, my circulation rushing. I have added rouge to my nipples and empty scrotal sac, highlighting where her fingers grazed over the vestiges of the doctor’s openings.
“Such a cute little naked girl to greet me.”
For some reason I curtsy. I don’t know why. It just seems appropriate. Finally Sergeant Kelly steps within, satisfied that she has spurred the cascade of senses and emotions leading to a drooling member.
As she unwinds... gun belt unbuckled, badge dislodged, hand cuffs withdrawn, all placed on a credenza near the door... I dash to the kitchen, open and pour two glasses of wine. When I return carrying on a tray, she feigns concern.
“Two glasses? Little girls don’t drink,” she politely admonishes.
I offer her glass then return mine to the kitchen. As always with a domineering woman, I am obedient... and learning... and open to the whims of she who controls.
She sits on my couch and points... to her shoes. Not stylish, practicality required in patrolling many acres of park. I go to my knees and begin to untie the shoe laces.
“No silly girl, I want them cleaned first.”
I rise to retrieve a wet cloth and a strong hand moves to my shoulder, pressing me back to the carpet.
“With your tongue,” offered with a smile but a firm no nonsense tone.
I am careful in complying, having spent the past hour making myself look pretty for her, not wishing to smear anything.
“You must remember, Renee. I watched you in the park the other day. Saw more of your act... and your inducement... than you think... lifting your little skirt... then swishing that barnyard tongue of yours... touching it to your nose... naughty little girl.”
I smile sheepishly. The doctor’s quick scalpel did imbue certain talents... and my tongue usually seals the deal... so to speak... after flashing my charms.
And so I learn how Sergeant Kelly likes be served... most obsequiously... without an iota of compassion or concern for my dignity... having me lick clean her shoes while relaxing with a glass of wine.
Minutes pass, a second glass of wine is presented, and then it is back to my knees to remove the shoes and begin foot massage. It is much appreciated. When I bend lower and kiss, she insists that I reach up beneath her skirt, roll down her stockings and begin laving her bare feet with my tongue as well.
“Oral
servitude... very important.”
She sips... I lick, finding that touching a woman there... under her skirt... brings new joy.
“You have your penis tied down again, Renee,” she notes.
I pause to nod.
“You don’t like showing it to me?”
A hand lowers to tug on my left ear, signaling an end to the oral servitude.
“It shows... makes a bump in my panties,” I explain.
“But you don’t have panties on. I want you naked when I am here and you’re serving me. It makes you feel better. Very docile... very meek... very subservient. A girly boy like you enjoys that.”
I lower my gaze and nod in agreement. The penis thing is problematic, the cable tie tugging constantly to remind me it’s there... yet when I free it, it either flops about sans underwear or makes a telltale bump in the front of my panties. Neither is welcomed.
What’s this ‘girly boy’ to do?
Sergeant Kelly senses my glumness. The hormones constantly affecting my thinking, I tell myself. I have not before had difficulty making decisions, trouble doing the logical thing. I need guidance. She seems to sense that. I am grateful.
“Got something for you,” she announces with enthusiasm. “Go get some hand cream.”
I jump to my feet, naked toes pattering to my bedroom, returning with a jar of stuff that makes my smooth skin moist and even softer. Meanwhile Sergeant Kelly retrieves a hideous looking lump of rubber from her pocket.
“Visited one of those seedy sex shops we keep our eye on,” she explains. “Got a nice butt plug for you. Notice the shape?”
My eyes widen in apprehension. I suppose it will fit. All types of bumps and ridges, the carved conical shape tapering to where it appears my rectum will hold it in place. Sergeant Kelly takes the jar, opens and slathers.
“We really need to keep that prostate in condition,” echoing the words of Nurse Sueann. “Come, across my lap. Head down, part your thighs for me.”
I scramble to assume the demanded position, finding that pressing my nakedness against her warm thighs feels good. I feel the fingers of one hand splay my plump cheeks. Then the tip of the monstrous lump begins to glide up and down my crevice, spreading the hand lotion.
I gulp in concern, but then I recall the only faint pleasure received at the hands of a woman... the bi weekly fluid samples extracted by the imposing Nurse Sueann.
“And in we go,” a laughing Sergeant Kelly proclaims as my tight, rarely challenged sphincter is made to yield.
“It’s too tight, Sergeant Kelly! Too big!”
“Relax. Stop whining little girl. You’ll get used to it. And we’ll move on to bigger and bigger sizes... you’re going to be one popular little girl.”
She is correct of course. As I learn to relax my muscles there, the pain of the tension eases. Noting that I calm, she pats my buttocks and rubs. It is a rapturous feeling. Finally, all squirming curtailed, she gently pushes me from her lap.
“Walk for me. Be a good girl. Work it in nice and deep for me.”
I do and feel the well designed shape wield its magic. With each step it feels like Nurse Sueann’s fingers have returned. The footfalls bring a smile... and Sergeant Kelly notes the reaction.
“Too much neglect back there, Renee. Though you’re a girl... thinking... acting... and presenting yourself as such... you need to take care of your male gland.”
I begin to prance in happiness. Sergeant Kelly beckons. I approach and she brings out her pocket knife. She wants to see my penis... and she shall. I pause, careful to remain motionless as her hands work between my thighs. The frightening sharpness quickly slices the cable tie and my unimpressive three inches dangles in view. Sergeant Kelly smiles then takes the tip between thumb and index finger to gently pinch and diddle.
Then her hand retreats and she shows me the slickness, the anal insert spurring the flow of ooze.
“There now... that’s better. So nice and soft for me. Walk some more. I want to see it flop about. Lift your knees for me nice and high. Yes, that’s a good girl.”
Yes, I enjoy being under control of a governing woman... and entertaining... and pleasing.
“To the kitchen, more wine,” handing me her glass and patting my right cheek.
***
Tame stuff, but needed I suppose, thinking about last night’s antics as I grind away to shuffle about the papers on my desk. I was and am once again being acclimated, I realize.
Toward evening’s end, Sergeant Kelly noted the cheap earrings, expressing disappointment that I was not wearing the ‘gift’ of my plastinated gonads.
‘If you don’t feel good wearing them, then let’s get you some nice pretty ones. Something real.’
I gushed with the thought, telling her of the pair of pendants seen in Tiffany’s window. And of course that I could never afford such.
‘We’ll see. I think you’d like to earn some fine jewelry. You’ll both feel good and look even prettier.’
The phone rings again, ending my thoughts. The ancient clock tells me it is Sergeant Kelly. She calls while on her afternoon break.
“Let’s go out tonight. Meet me downstairs at 7:00 p.m. Look pretty and be naked...nothing... not even shoes.”
“I can’t be seen like that!” I whisper.
“You will meet me in the lobby barefoot and naked, little girl. You’re going to learn to trust me. I have something for you. And have your little bottom lubricated. You can keep your penis secured while we’re out.”
The call ends and my shaking hand hangs up the phone. My building has no lobby to speak of really. Just an outer door, a short hallway serving as a small foyer where the mail boxes and intercom reside, then an inner door with the electronic lock. Not much traffic. There are ten floors, but few apartments per floor. Mostly older folks. But there comes more panic as I realize that 7:00 p.m. is dog walking time.
So even if I successfully skulk to the foyer, there are sure to be tenants nearby on the street.
Well... Sergeant Kelly can certainly foster thought and concern.
What am I to do? Obey of course.
Arriving home I bathe, prink and preen... prettying myself. My thoughts run wild. Whenever I attempt to envision what Sergeant Kelly has planned for the evening, I cannot mentally get past the foyer.
I recall the walk from the park... my ‘arrest’. Will that be the gambit? She will ‘arrest’ me again?
Mine is not to question, I tell myself.
The mirror suggests everything looks good. I really am accomplished with makeup.
So I liberally slather my gluteal cleft and look at the clock. If I am not to raise the unwanted attention of my fellow tenants, my timing must be superb.
Next I take the main door key and the apartment door key from my key ring. The demand is for nakedness... nothing to be brought with me... yet I must be able to return.
So, at 6:59 I poke my head out the apartment door. Nothing... no one to be seen. I prance down the hall, feeling the divine squishiness of a well lathered backside.
The stairs, my only salvation. The older tenants never use them. Particularly those on the eighth floor. My bare feet tapping noiselessly on the linoleum, I push open the door and begin my descent. I feel excited... stimulated. Yet I must be careful as I approach the lower floors. Tenants living there sometimes have no patience for the elevator. So at each landing I pause and listen for activity.
Nothing.
I slow my pace to better hear, soundlessly taking one step at a time, instantly prepared to reverse course should I hear the squeakiness of a heavy swinging fireproof door.
Finally, the bottom floor. I push open the heavy metal barrier and peek. No one in the hall and at the far side of the security door, through the glass meshed with wires, I spy the silhouette of a woman.
I pray it is Sergeant Kelly. I hold my breath and dash. Now it must be Sergeant Kelly. If not, there will be much to explain.
“One minute late, little girl,” I smile in
hearing the rebuke.
She tweaks a nipple. I giggle, indeed like a little girl. Under her tutelage once again, the entire world can observe my nakedness now.
“Very good. Very obedient,” she compliments with a smile of her own. “I have something for you. You don’t look enticing enough in grown up clothes.”
As I stuff my keys into my mailbox she reaches to her pocket and produces two of the tiniest wads of pink cloth imaginable.
“Hands over your head like a good little girl.”
Stretchable, some type of spandex, she pulls at it right to left. It is a loop. Broader than a rubber band, but not by much. Sergeant Kelly reaches up and threads it over my extended arms pulling to stretch and lowering so it goes over my head and shoulders. Finally it encircles my chest at my nipples and she slithers out her hands.
It is a tube top only extremely brief... designed for young girls without developed mammary glands.
The second wad is dropped to the floor. Her booted foot adjusts to form a circle. This second wad of pink is broader than that about my chest... but not by much.
“Step in.”
My bare feet move to comply. I can just about fit within the circumference. Sergeant Kelly stoops and again stretches the material right to left, this broader garment requiring much more effort. She lifts, over my ankles, calves, knees and thighs up to my hips.
“Feel good?”
I am more exposed than during those naughty walks in the park, for when stretched the thin material outlines every bump, nook and cranny it covers. Such depravity!
But then, I am a little girl. It appears I am coming from the beach... or a swim party.
Oh, the dichotomy of thought this presentation will foster, I realize. I appear to be a very alluring but underage girl... very fuckable. Males will look with guilty lust... females with contempt.
My gushing smile answers her question.
“And what do we need to make you feel even better?” Sergeant Kelly inquires, holding up another anal plug.
A larger version, I begin to protest again as she turns up the hem of my tube bottom. It is to no avail. I am impaled... and though larger... I note it slides inward with more ease.
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