Author’s Note: This four-part cliffhanger that took me months to write. There is plenty of sex but it is also a pretty good thriller, if I do say so myself. Please enjoy my offering and please leave a comment.

The Downtown Freezone – Balwyn Texas

Caprice Capshaw worked her corner dressed in black velvet hotpants, a red tube top and five-inch fuck-me heels. Her shoulder length light-brunette hair with cerise streaks was worn straight with bangs. She favoured coffee-coloured shiny pantyhose to draw attention to her long legs. She carried a shoulder bag that was nearly as big as her ass.

Caprice was what Darnell DeAngelo called a ‘twofer’. She catered to two kinds of customers: those looking to purchase illicit narcotics and those looking to purchase illicit sex. She prowled her corner seven days a week offering her wears, conducting transactions in the alley that ran behind the street, unless the john wanted long-time. In that case she led the john through the back entry into a sleazy hotel overlooking the corner where the clerk rented rooms by the hour.

“Hey chin-nuts, get your ass over here,” Darnell called from the alley.

Caprice hadn’t called her pimp for a reup and she still had three hours left on her shift but she knew better than to disobey him. She made her way into the alley, leaving her corner to the other two girls who also worked for Darnell. Darnell was leaning against the brickwork behind the dumpster where she usually conducted business and where he met her to reup her stash when she ran low.

Darnell was a tall slim black man with dreadlocks and a penchant for fashion streetwear and big bling jewellery. Standing beside him was another black man dressed almost identically but with cornrows instead of dreads.

“This my girl chin-nuts,” Dernell sniggered to his friend.

“My name is Caprice,” Caprice sulked.

Darnell had depreciative nicknames for all his girls and Caprice hated hers.

“Hand it over,” Darnell demanded and Caprice held out her shoulder bag.

“Don’t just stand there, show my friend Brody here why I call you chin-nuts,” Darnell snatched the bag.

Caprice kicked a couple of crushed vials and used prophylactics out of the way and dragged an offcut of raggedy shag carpet from under the dumpster and got down on her knees.

“You can fuck her if you like. All my girls on PrEP and tested every month at the free clinic,” Darnell mooched around in Caprice’s bag until he found her purse.

“Nah man. No offence to your girl here, she pretty n’ all but my taste don’t run to her type, you feel me,” Brody replied but he allowed Caprice to pull down his designer sweatpants and extract his cock from his Ralph Lauren underpants.

Caprice dutifully took Brody’s cock in her mouth and went to work. It tasted clean with a hint of Dior Sauvage Shower Gel. It was nice to be sucking on a dick that wasn’t sweaty. She worked her lips along the shaft and flittered her tongue around the corona of his glans and felt his phallus begin to engorge. She cupped his scrotum and softly massaged his testes and Brody’s cock was soon at full tumescence.

Brody’s cock was long, thick at the base, and quite the mouthful, but Caprice managed to get all of it in her mouth and she worked it with her lips and tongue, feeling the veins pulse and his glans bloat. As his precum began to flow Caprice lapped up the nectar and worked a little harder on the phallus that filled her mouth. Brody put his hands on her head and held her still as he began to fuck her face. Caprice continued to suckle the shaft with her lips and lash at his glans with her tongue, concentrating on his sensitive fraenulum.

“I see now why you call her chin-nuts,” Brody grunted as he fucked Caprice’s mouth, his scrotum bouncing on her chin as he slid his cock in out of her warm, wet, lipsticked suck-hole.

“Jesus!” Brody hissed as Caprice did something with her tongue that sent him over the edge and his cock juddered and filled her mouth with hot, salty jism.

Caprice dutifully swallowed Brody’s semen and continued to suck on his cock until his sac was empty. When he was done he pulled his cock from Caprice’s mouth with an audible plop and let go of her head. Caprice pulled up Brody’s briefs and sweatpants, and ever the gentleman, Brody helped Caprice to her feet and she brushed at her knees.

“She good, right?” Darnell said, not looking at either of them, instead he riffled the cash in his hand, mentally calculating Caprice’s takings.

“Gimme my bag,” Caprice petulantly held out her hand.

“Wait on bitch,” Darnell shoved the cash in his pocket and continued to rummage through Caprice’s shoulder bag.

He found a half pint of vodka and handed it to Caprice who unscrewed it and took a sip, gargled and swallowed, then she screwed the cap back on the bottle. She’d been microdosing vodka since the start of her shift. Darnell didn’t mind so long as it didn’t affect her work; whatever gets you through the night and all that shit. He preferred his girls use juice rather than the needle or the pipe because drugs aged the girls out a lot quicker than booze.

Darnell found her drug stash and did some mental math to calculate how much profit she had made and compared it to the wad of cash he had stuffed in his pocket. She’d made about half her takings from dope and the other half from sex. He checked her makeup bag and the other pockets in the big bag.

“Caprice always straight but you gotta make sure your girls ain't holding out on you. Every now and then you shake them bitches down and give them a slappin’ if they need it,” Darnell held out Caprice’s handbag to her and she snatched at it.

She put the vodka back in the handbag and took out the makeup bag and fixed her lipstick using the little mirror in her compact and kicked the carpet remnant back under the dumpster.

“My boy Brody here is taking over the corners on the south side of the freezone so I’m educating him,” Darnell explained.

“Darnell is a good pimp as far as pimps go. You be sure to treat your girls like he treats his,” Caprice said to Brody, mooching for her cigarettes and lighter in the Tardis that was her shoulder bag.

“Here is your cut. There is an extra hundred in there for you to get yourself done fine at the hairdresser and buy a new dress. Slocum wants you working the club tonight,” Darnell counted out some notes and shoved them in Caprice’s hand.

“Slocum never lets us street girls in the club and certainly never girls like me,” Caprice was very surprised at Darnell’s edict.

“I don’t question Slocum’s orders and neither do you girl. He the boss and the boss gets what the boss wants. I expect he know somebody important who likes girls like you. Just make sure you look fine and don’t be late. He got a party or sumptin’ starting at ten and he wants you there,” Darnell shrugged his shoulders and walked away with Brody in tow.

Caprice’s corner was located in the freezone: four city blocks filled with titty-bars, nightclubs, adult stores and greasy spoons where locals and visitors could taste something spicy whether it be something narcotic or sexually adventurous.

The hierarchy in law enforcement had developed a strategy which was to confine so-called ‘victimless crime’ to the freezone so that the police could work real cases instead of spending their time rounding up hookers and dealers and putting them through the perpetual revolving door that was the justice system. That was just a waste of time, money and effort. The police deliberately kept a low profile in the freezone but diligently patrolled the adjacent streets and were intolerant of any miscreants who attempted to bring their unsavoury behaviours outside of the delineated area. The freezone was often called an island of crud in a sea of resplendence by the city's genteel population.

There were a few big players who operated in the freezone, like sharks swimming past the minnows through a sea of sewage, and Lester Slocum was one of the biggest. He had lieutenants like Darnell and Brody run the girls and the street dealers for him while he reigned from his castle which was Bedazzled. Bedazzled was a nightclub which catered to selected clientele. It was the kind of place where so-called respectable citizens might venture for an evening of discreet debauchery. Besuited bouncers on the door kept out the riffraff and street hustlers.

Caprice had no idea why Slocum had demanded her presence that evening but Darnell was right; if the big boss gave an order then the minions obeyed.

She spent the cash that Darnell had given her wisely, getting her hair cut, coloured and styled into a streaked wavy do and purchasing a silver sequinned minidress. She changed her makeup from ‘street slut’ to ‘club girl’ with plump lashes, smoky eyes and burgundy lipstick. She wore a semi-transparent red lace brassiere to support her meagre breasts and matching panties worn over her fleshtone sheer-to-the-waist Wolford pantyhose. In a discount shoe store she found a pair of silver four-inch strappy heels that matched her dress.

Caprice half-expected the bouncers to stop her from entering Bedazzled but far from it; one of them called her to the front of the line and lifted the red velvet rope out of the way so that she could enter amid the whining from the entitled masses lined up outside that nightclub who complained that Caprice was a cue jumper.

“Get your ass up to Slocum’s office. Follow Freddie,” one of the doormen whispered gruffly in Caprice’s ear as she scooted by him and she followed the dark-suited, refrigerator-sized hulk that was obviously Freddie, into the club.

Bedazzled projected an air of elegant mayhem. Disco lights, lasers and mirror balls projected coloured lights around the huge dancefloor where designer-clad men and women writhed and gyrated to the unce-unce-unce beat of the music pounding out of the speakers. The music was so loud that one had to shout to be heard. The DJ held court in an elevated booth overlooking the dancefloor, a headset can held to one ear; his free hand waving at the crowd to incite them to dance. Caprice thought that DJs were overrated, overpaid and had overinflated egos, playing other peoples music, pretending that ‘mixology’ was a skill or an artform.

Freddie skirted the dancefloor and the long crowded bar where the real mixologists performed, concocting cocktails; flamboyantly flinging cocktail shakers in the air. She and Freddie continued past rows of booths where men and women sat drinking said flamboyantly mixed cocktails and discreetly snorting illicit substances. The security guy lifted the rope at the entrance to the VIP lounge as Freddie and Caprice approached and nodded towards the staircase that led to the upper level balcony where the real VIPs sat and drank at small elegant cocktail tables watching the hoi polloi below them writhe and gyrate.

Lester Slocum’s office was located at the rear of the balcony and featured a huge one-way plate glass window from which Lester could look out over his domain. A number of well-appointed suites ran along the outer perimeter where young hostesses dressed in identical black cocktail dresses came and went, discreetly knocking before entering to deliver canapes, cocktails and champagne to the rooms occupants. Closing the doors behind them so that they could service the well-heeled clientele in privacy.

The security guard outside Lester’s office looked at Caprice like she was dogshit on his shoe but he nodded at her and opened the door for her to enter. Freddie left her there and made his way back to the entrance.

It dawned on Caprice as she made her way through the club that she looked tawdry and cheap dressed in her silver sequinned minidress, strappy heels with her coloured wavy do and club-girl makeup compared to the couture opulence of the moneyed elite that frequented Bedazzled.

“You must be Caprice,” Lester Slocum welcomed her warmly but his eyes were appraising her.

He didn’t offer her a drink or a seat but left her standing in the middle of the room as he circled her slowly.

“We normally don’t allow your type in here,” Lester sniffed and he saw Caprice bristle, her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed into a steely gaze.

“Don’t get all PC on me. I’m not commenting on your gender, I have a transgender lady on my staff here at the club. I’m commenting on your… shall we say… commonness,” Lester sniffed.

Lester noticed that at least Caprice had made an effort, ditching the two-tone hair for a more sophisticated hairstyle, wearing the cheap silver, sparkly dress rather than her ‘hooker garb’ and toning down the makeup a little. She still reeked of ‘street’ but she was young and sexy and if you were into petite transvestite hookers, she filled the bill.

Lester was a small, lithe white man who moved like a dancer with precise steps and flamboyant gestures but he was no pansy. He was the head of an organised crime syndicate that virtually ran the freezone and he had links to other crime syndicates and was rumoured to have ties into local government and law enforcement.

“Let’s get down to business shall we? I have a client in one of the entertainment suites who has a penchant for, let me put this delicately, ‘rough trade’. He likes young transgender women who still have a touch of the boy about them and when Darnell DeAngelo recommended you I agreed with him that you sounded perfect for the job,” Lester finally stopped circling Caprice and stopped in front of her and lifted her chin and examined her face.

“Well thanks; I guess,” Caprice tried to sound confident and she put a hand on her hip and pushed out one leg, putting on her best street pose.

“I know that accent and attitude is an affect. You might live on the streets now but you were raised middle-class. Keep up the charade, Shareen likes his girls a little rough,” Lester reached out and touched her bangs.

“Just do whatever the man asks of you. You will be well compensated so keep your hands out of his pockets and don’t steal any of his jewellery,” Lester smiled at her with perfect white teeth.

“I don’t steal from johns!” Caprice hissed indignantly.

“Of course you don’t. When were you last tested?” Lester changed the subject.

“Two days ago and I was clean and I take my PrEP religiously. The johns who have fucked me since my checkup all wore condoms except for blowjobs of course. Those white-bread, suburban daddies are shit scared of taking something nasty back to their tight-ass wives,” Caprice replied indignantly.

“Ok, settle down sugar. I was just asking. You need something to take the edge off?” Lester nodded to a well appointed bar where a small mirror with four lines of cocaine was laid out, the flakes glittering under the spotlights.

“I’m good sir; I like to work straight. Maybe a little vodka now and then but I don’t need a drink right now,” Caprice took a breath and let her temper dissipate.

“Shareen has plenty of booze and mind altering substances in his suite and I’m sure he will make you comfortable in that regard. Now toddle off and look after him. Make him feel special and give him your best work. Freddie will come get you when Shareen is done with you and he will pay you good cash money. It’s all yours so take it home and stash it safely. Darnell has already been adequately compensated for your time,” Lester nodded towards the door dismissively.

“Suite twelve. Make him happy. Shareen is very important to me,” Lester waved her away and Caprice opened the door and stepped outside the office.

Caprice made her way down the corridor to a door that had the number twelve embossed on it in gold lettering. She knocked softly and entered, as she had witnessed the well-dressed young hostesses do.

Shareen Aziz was naked except for a shimmery silk gown that could have been worn by either sex. He was a big man, dark complexioned; swarthy with black oily hair and thick brows above his deep brown eyes. He was handsome and exuded confidence in a way that only rich and entitled middle eastern men seemed to do. His face lit up when he saw Caprice and he made his way over to her.

He reached around her and locked the door and held out his hand.

“Come, my little flower,” Shareen took Caprice’s hand and led her into the room towards a divan.

The room was discreetly lit by mood lighting and scented candles. The heavy drapes concealed a large lace-curtained window that looked out over the streets of the freezone, soft music played in the background, a small wet bar was set up along one wall and the divan faced an enormous screen on which pornography was playing with the sound muted. A satin-sheeted king bed took up nearly half of the room. A closed door led to a tiny ensuite bathroom.

Caprice had never been in a room like it before but despite the opulence there was no doubt that the room served only one purpose. It was a bordello. A very nice well-appointed bordello but a bordello all the same.

Caprice stood next to the divan and Shareen slowly circled her just like Lester Slocum had done. She could smell his cologne; something exotic, similar to Dior Poison which was Caprice’s favourite perfume.

Shareen lifted her chin and examined her face, he felt her breasts through her dress and gently stroked a thigh; like a buyer examining a broodmare.

“You are just what I asked for. You are very beautiful and feminine but you still have a little boy left in you; like an unfinished masterpiece,” Shareen whispered in Caprice’s ear.

It was the second time in a few minutes that Caprice had been told that she had ‘boy’ in her and she was getting sick of hearing the insult. Shareen saw her stiffen and pout and he smiled.

“I’m sorry my precious. I know that is the ultimate insult to a special lady like you but I did call you beautiful and feminine. I just meant that you are small-breasted and snake-hipped. I meant no disrespect,” Shareen took Caprice’s hand in his and kissed the back of it softly.

Caprice relaxed and thought of the money she was about to earn and recalled what Lester Slocum had told her: ‘just do whatever the man asks of you’. Shareen was handsome enough and a lot cleaner than most of her clients and she was in a luxurious bordello, not being buggered up against the wall in an alley behind a dumpster. She should be thankful.

“I’m not offended sir. You are a very handsome man if I may say so,” Caprice gave him her best smile.

“Oh, your voice is smooth like fine chocolate, and please call me Shareen. Let me get you a drink,” Shareen made his way over to the bar and poured ice-cold champagne into two fluted crystal glasses.

He came back to the divan and gestured for Caprice to sit beside him. His gown had fallen open and his penis lay across his thigh like a resting python. Caprice sat down and put her clutch down on the lamp table next to the divan. Inside it were what she called her ‘essentials’: her ‘burner’ phone, a soft pack of Marlboro menthol lights, a lighter, a pack of Extra chewing gum, a small tube of KY jelly, the key to her apartment, a small atomiser of Dior Poison perfume and a twenty. Caprice never carried ID. The only ID she had was in her ‘deadname’ and she had no credit cards or driver’s licence. Her current occupation required no formal identification and on the rare occasion that she might get pinched, fuck the coppers, they could find out who she was by using her fingerprints.

Shareen offered Caprice the glass of champagne and downed his own glass in one gulp. She could see that his cock was thickening and he was staring at her like a lion looks at a lamb. She gulped down the champagne and Shareen took the glass from her and pounced.

He kissed her passionately, almost violently, crushing his lips against hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Caprice seldom let johns kiss her unless they were really cute but this was different. She was no longer a streetwalker, she was a, what-do-you-call-it… escort, she thought to herself, and returned Shareen’s kisses with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

He pulled her close and drove her down into the divan, his large muscled body pressing her slender form into the cushions. His mouth was wet but sweet, probably from the locum on the sliver plate beside the ice bucket on the bureau. Caprice felt his cock harden against her leg, he was rutting his engorged appendage against her slinky pantyhose, making little mewling noises as he did so.

He put his hand inside her dress and pawed at her breasts through the diaphanous lace brassiere causing her nipples to harden. His other hand slipped under the hem of her dress and stroked her thighs, his cock was leaving a trail of silvery precum on her calf, his kisses were hot, wet and passionate. Caprice found herself responding. Her nipples radiated little sparklets of delight as Shareen teased and tweaked them, her thighs tingled to his touch, her silky pantyhose rubbing against her freshly-shaved flesh. His lips and tongue elicited licentious passion. She writhed under him like a Barbie doll under a giant teddy bear, holding him tight, returning his kisses, pressing her leg against his raging hardon.

“I like you very much Caprice. I like your little titties. I like your pantyhoses. I like your pretty mouth and pretty face and I want you to put your pretty mouth on my sword but first I want to fuck you a little,” Shareen gasped breathlessly, his accent heavier as he became concupiscent.

He climbed off her and guided her towards the big bed. Caprice took the hem of her dress in hand, intending to lift the minidress over her head but Shareen put his big paw over her tiny hand and stopped her.

“I want you dressed like that for now. I’ll undress you later if I feel the need. The illusion is everything to me,” Shareen chuckled and pushed Caprice gently on the shoulders so that she fell on the bed.

He removed his silk dressing gown and climbed on the bed, his cock rampant, already leaking pre-ejaculate. He lay down beside her, his bulk causing the bed to creak and he slowly lifted the hem of her dress up her legs, almost fastidiously smoothing out the material so that it lay evenly across her belly. He lowered but did not remove her panties and put his hand inside the waistband of her pantyhose and slid his hand between her legs where he found her cock held in place against her perineum by the gusset of her hosiery. Caprice was tucked but not taped and Shareen freed her cock and lay it against her pubis, adjusting it so that the seam of her pantyhose ran along the length of it. She found his punctiliousness almost amusing.

“When I put myself inside you I want you to wrap your legs around my torso and rub your pantyhoses against my skin. I like how that feels,” Shareen whispered as he traced his finger along the seam.

Caprice nodded. She didn’t need Shareen to tell her how good ‘pantyhoses’ felt against skin. She had discovered this for herself the first time she had stolen a pair of her mother’s nylons from the laundry hamper and put them on when she was still a kid. Of course in those days there was nothing sexual about dressing up in her mother’s undergarments; that had come later.

Shareen seemed fascinated by Caprice’s penis as it slowly began to engorge, his featherlight stroking of it through the gossamer hose eliciting glimmers of delight, especially from her highly sensitive fraenulum. She did a ‘Kegel’ and her testes descended from her inguinal canals and filled her scrotal sac. He took her hand and guided it to his cock. Caprice could barely get her hand around the girth of it as she slowly stroked it, improving his erection until Shareen was rampant. His breathing became heavier and he rubbed Caprice’s penis a little harder and faster until she too was fully erect and tenting her pantyhose, a silvery bubble of precum surfacing through the sheer fabric.

“There; now we are ready,” Shareen breathed.

“Lift your buttocks for me please,” Shareen asked and when she did so he pushed a pillow under the small of her back.

Shareen got to his knees and put his hand between Caprice’s legs and snagged the fabric of her pantyhose adjacent to her sphincter with a fingernail and carefully opened the hole, being scrupulous not to excessively tear the nylon.

“The hole needs to be big enough for my manhood to pass through but not so big that it exposes your genitals,” Shareen explained and once again Caprice was amused by his assiduousness.

In her line of work Caprice had been with her share of weirdos but she had never experienced anything like this Arab guy’s attention to detail. Plenty, in fact most of her customers, fucked her fully clothed either standing against the wall behind the dumpster or on the stained sheets on a rickety bed in the hotsheet hotel that overlooked her corner. Some did it because they liked the feel of her nylons and panties against their skin as they fucked her and some did it because they didn’t want to see or feel her genitals because it wasn’t ‘gay’ to fuck a tranny if they didn’t see or touch her cock.

Shareen reached for the bottle of Uberlube that lay ready on the satin sheets and pumped a gobbet of the lubricant into his hand and generously coated her sphincter. Shareen patted her cock affectionately and then hitched up her transparent red panties back in place but left her dress hiked up to her waist.

“Ok, here we go,” Shareen coated his rigid member with the remainder of the Uberlube and knelt between Caprice’s legs.

He lifted her legs and put her ankles on his shoulders and eased aside the gusset of her panties and slid his cock inside the little hole he had ripped in her pantyhose. His bulbous glans pressed against her puckered bud and Caprice closed her eyes and tried to relax her sphincter and anus, expecting to be tore asunder by Shareen’s huge phallus.

Shareen leaned down and pressed his lips against hers and thrust his tongue into her mouth at the exact same moment that he thrust his cock inside her rectum. Caprice thought Shareen had done so to stifle the scream that she was sure she was going to bellow forth when that mighty organ ripped her anal channel open but she was pleasantly surprised. She tasted Turkish delight on his breath again and found it pleasant.

The Uberlube was silky smooth and provided a slipperiness that eased the passage of Shareen’s cock such that her sphincter opened effortlessly and painlessly; stretching to accommodate his tool. Shareen stopped pushing as soon as his glans entered Caprice’s anus. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. He was smiling down at her and he playfully kissed the tip of her nose.

“See, it didn’t hurt a bit did it?” Shareen beamed down at her.

Shareen was right. It didn’t hurt. Her sphincter was probably stretched as wide as it had ever been distended but Shareen’s cock had so far not caused her discomfort.

“Are you ready for the rest?” Shareen wriggled the bulbous tip of his cock inside her.

“Yes please,” Caprice smiled up at him and clasped her hands together behind his neck and leaned up and kissed him passionately.

Shareen slipped his tongue back inside Caprice’s mouth and slowly inserted the remainder of his cock inside her tight sheath until his scrotum rested against her pantied taint. She gasped into his mouth as Shareen’s cock stretched the walls of her anus to full capacity but the Uberlube fulfilled its purpose and his cock glided into her rectum without causing her pain. Instead she felt an overwhelming fullness that lit up the synapses of her pleasure receptors causing her to moan like a slattern. She kissed Shareen even harder and rubbed her panty-shrouded cock against his hard belly to increase her pleasure.

Caprice seldom experienced this kind of pleasure with her johns and if she did she suppressed it. Having this muscled, heavy, handsome man on top of her whilst she lay on satin sheets, her lover taking his time, ensuring that she experienced as much pleasure as he, was uniquely decadent and Caprice was determined to enjoy it to her full capacity. Then there was the huge monetary incentive that awaited her afterwards.

Caprice remembered what Shareen had said about wrapping her legs around his torso and rubbing her ‘pantyhoses’ against his skin and she dutifully removed her ankles from his shoulders and enfolded her legs around his waist and rubbed her calves against his sensitive flesh and immediately felt him shudder with delight.

Shareen began to fuck her.

He slid his cock in and out of Caprice’s tight, slick hole, retracting his penis until only the glans remained girded by her sphincter then pushed it all the way inside her until it was buried up to the hilt. His muscled belly pressed against her cock, her pantyhose and silky panties eliciting wave after of wave of pleasure combining with the deep resonance radiating from her prostate, sphincter and anus as Shareen’s cock slid in and out of her.

She clung to him and moaned, her body a receptacle of carnal delight. She writhed against him, raising her buttocks up off the bed to meet his thrusts, her fingernails scouring his shoulders, her nylon-sheathed legs rasping against his flanks, her high heels digging into his back, encouraging him to fuck her harder and faster.

Shareen was delighted with the little vixen lying underneath him. He could feel her tight asshole undulating against his rampant cock, squeezing it, massaging it, drawing his essences out of him. Her anus was snug and silky, her legs, sheathed in the gossamer nylons, felt wonderous as they rubbed against his sensitive skin, her luscious mouth was wet and inviting, her lips pressed against his, her tongue flittering. The feel of her tiny body, her laboured breathing, her hard cock pressing against his belly, the scent of her perfume, her pounding heart, all combined to drive Shareen to an earth-shattering climax.

He drove her down into the bed and jackhammered his cock in and out of her anal sheath as his scrotum began to roil, his heavy load of semen ready to erupt. Caprice was unable to hold back her climax any longer and she clung to Shareen as a paroxysm of sexual release raged through her body, she was quivering, her cock erupting, her anus palpitating as an orgasm of unprecedented potency overwhelmed her.

Shareen felt the little poppet under him shake and quiver as she moaned into his mouth, her legs shimmying, her hot musky spend erupting from her cock, saturating her pantyhose and panties and smearing against his belly. She drummed her heels on his back and bit his lip. He could feel her cock juddering and her anus spasming. He let out a mighty roar and drove his cock all the way inside her and orgasmed with such intensity that Caprice swooned beneath him, her vision dimming and her mind floating away in an ecstatic fugue as Shreen’s cock juddered inside her and filled her with his warm, creamy essences.

Caprice was in such trancelike delirium that she never heard the door crash open. The fusillade of gunfire that followed sounded muted. She heard Shareen scream and felt his body jerk as the bullets raked his body and suddenly he became a dead weight on top of her, almost crushing her. The reek of cordite and arterial blood filled the air. She came out of her fugue, her face covered in blood; she could taste it in her mouth. She looked up and briefly saw the two assassins approaching the bed, smoke drifting up from the muzzles of their weapons. One of the assassins raised his gun and fired again and she suddenly realised that she too had been hit. Darkness enshrouded her as she drifted away.

Balwyn City Hospital – Trauma Recovery Ward

“Finally awake chin-nuts,” the tall, slim man in the wrinkled suit, with an unlit Marlboro sticking out of his mouth grinned evilly at Caprice exposing his perfect white teeth.

Caprice at first had no idea where she was. She felt groggy and her upper arm hurt. When she tried to put her hand to her shoulder she realised that it was handcuffed to the bedside rail. She looked down and saw that her other hand had a cannula inserted into a vein with a tube leading to a plastic bag filled with clear liquid that hung from an IV stand. The crisp sheets, comfortable bed, bright lights, the smell of disinfectant mingled with the smell of cafeteria food could mean only one thing: hospital.

Caprice looked at the guy in the wrinkled suit with the cigarette sticking out his mouth and thought: ‘Cop’.

“Am I under arrest?” Caprice’s voice was croaky; her throat and mouth were dry.

The cop didn’t answer, instead he lifted the clipboard hanging from the bottom of the bed and studied it like he had any idea what was written on it.

“My name is Caprice, not chin-nuts,” Caprice spat indignantly when the cop refused to answer.

“Says here your name is Cameron Capshaw. The space for ‘occupation’ is blank. Shall I put in cocksucker or would you prefer drug dealer,” the cop gave Caprice another brilliant white-toothed grin.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” Caprice tried to reach for the cool refreshing water in the jug just out of her reach.

Before the cop could answer a nurse with a non-nonsense look on her face entered the room and gave the cop a scowl as she took Caprice’s vitals and scribbled on the clipboard. The nurse was wearing hospital scrubs and white canvas shoes. Her scrubs had little blue unicorns printed on the pink fabric,. She was in her forties and pretty but the scrubs did nothing to accentuate her curvy body.

“Whatever happened to the days when nurses wore those sexy white uniforms, cute little white hats and white stockings?” the cop asked.

“Whatever happened to Officer Friendly, you obnoxious fuck,” the nurse snapped back at the cop.

“Get that cigarette out of your mouth. This is a non-smoking facility,” she growled at the cop who reluctantly returned the cigarette back to the packet in his jacket pocket.

“You want something to drink sweety?” unbidden, the nurse poured water into a plastic cup and handed it to Caprice who gulped the water down and held out the cup for more.

The nurse refilled the cup and left the room informing Caprice that a doctor would see her soon and then dinner would be served.

“Ok Cameron, are you going to talk to me?” the cop asked.

“If you ever call me by that name again I’m going kick you in the nuts,” Caprice hissed.

“Big talk from a tranny whore handcuffed to a bed,” the cop chuckled.

“I drove a Chevvy Caprice back in the day. Good car. Plenty of legroom,” the cop continued.

The interplay was interrupted by a young doctor who looked at the clipboard on the bottom of the bed, took her vitals again and examined the wound in her arm. He ignored Caprice’s questions, his distain for her obvious.

“What’s the verdict doc? Can she talk?” the cop asked.

“The patient has a non life-threatening GSW to her upper right arm. The wound is a through-and-through and no major blood vessels or bones were hit by the bullet; what you people call a flesh wound. She passed out when she was shot due to shock and loss of blood,” the doctor studied the clipboard.

“There is really no such thing as a superficial gunshot wound but the wound is non-fatal and the patient can be released in a few hours, provided that adequate follow-on medical care is provided,” the doctor replied in a clipped tone.

Caprice was astutely aware that the doctor was addressing the cop rather than her. She was justifiably pissed given that she was the patient, She also noted that the doctor refused to use any gender specific pronouns. As a medical professional the doctor would have undertaken anti-discrimination training. In his role as a doctor working in a public hospital he would be expected to treat people of all race, gender, age, disability, and sexual orientation without fear or favour but his contempt for Caprice was not very well hidden. He talked about her as if she wasn’t even in the room. Caprice could tell that he thought of her as just another lowlife criminal who had probably gotten what she deserved.

“My name is Caprice!” she bellowed at the doctor as loud as she could given her dry, aching throat.

The doctor turned and looked at Caprice as if she was an oddity. Nodded curtly to the cop and left the room.

“Okay sugar-tits, now it’s just you and me and we are going to talk about what happened yesterday at Bedazzled,” the cop approached the bed menacingly.

“I ain’t telling you jack shit creepo,” Caprice made a gesture of zipping her mouth.

Just then the door opened and a tall woman dressed in a business suit entered the room. She projected an air of superiority and Caprice saw the cop scowl and back away from the bed.

“Hello Caprice, I hope you are not feeling too much discomfort but I need to ask you some questions. My name is Julie Sanderson,” the woman smiled sweetly at Caprice and ignored the cop who had slunk away to the corner of the room and parked his ass in a visitor’s chair.

Julie Sanderson was a tall woman even in her low heels. She was slim, her business suit fitted to her lithe frame. Caprice could see where the tailor had cut a bespoke side seam in her jacket to allow for the nine millimetre automatic she wore at her waist. She wore a plain white shirt under the charcoal suit, black low heels and tan nylons. She was dressed more like an FBI agent than a regular city cop.

She wasn't pretty but she had an interesting face. Her emerald-green eyes were framed by a brunette, shoulder-length blunt-cut bob which looked a little severe. Her makeup was minimal except for her red lipstick. Caprice picked her for a lipstick-lesbian but there was no doubt who had authority in the room.

“Before we begin I would like to tell you a little bit about myself. I used to be a detective in New York where I specialised in violent crimes where transgender women were the victims or the perpetrators. I now work for the FBI investigating organised crime. I have been assigned to your case specifically because of my unique abilities,” Julie pulled a chair close to the bed and put her briefcase in her lap.

“So you're a tranny cop,” Caprice gave Julie a withering look.

“As a transgender women yourself, you know that the word ‘tranny’ is quite derogatory and insulting to us,” Julie didn’t bite, instead she opened her briefcase and took out a slim file.

She uncuffed Caprice’s wrist and poured her another cup of ice water and handed it to her.

“What are you two? Mutt and Jeff? Good cop, bad cop?” Caprice swallowed the water greedily and Julie refilled the cup.

Julie ignored the question and continued.

“Everything we know about you is in this file but it isn’t much. We know your DOB, where you lived before you hit the streets and your arrest record. From interviews I’ve conducted, I know that you come from a broken home and that you are self-managing your transition, paying for it by prostitution and drug dealing,” Julie flicked through the few pages in the file.

“You know jack shit! My life is not just a few pages in a file,” Caprice hissed.

“Well tell me Caprice. What happened to you that led you to being where you are now?” Julie implored.

“You wanna know what happened to me? Ok here is the whole sorry tale,” Caprice began to tell her life story.

Twenty Years Earlier…

Cameron Capshaw was born into a nice middleclass family who lived in a nice middleclass neighbourhood. His father Travis had served in the Marines and had undertaken three tours of duty in Middle East and now worked as a security consultant and travelled extensively whilst his mother Deanna was a homemaker.

For as long as he could remember Cameron knew that he was different from other boys. He was short, slim, graceful and more inclined to spend the day looking at fashion magazines whilst listening to ‘boy bands’ than he was inclined to play sport or get involved in the rough-and-tumble games that most boys his age played and he mostly preferred his own company. When he did play with others, Cameron hung around with two girls named Belinda Mumford and Tracy Moore, who lived on the same block and he enjoyed dressing their Barbies and talking incessantly about Buffy, Sabrina and the 90210. When Travis was home he tried his best to ‘toughen-up’ his son but Cameron showed little interest in camping, hunting, watching sports or shooting bad guys on a video screen.

Belinda Mumford’s mother burst into her daughter’s bedroom unannounced one day and found that Belinda and Tracy had dressed Cameron as a girl, right down to the makeup and heels. She had to look twice to recognise Cameron, thinking another young teen girl had joined her daughter and Tracy for a dress-up party. Of course she couldn’t wait to tell Deanna Capshaw that her son was a pansy and the gossip was just too good not to share with her friends.

Deanna was horrified but not really surprised when Bettina Mumford told her that she had found Cameron dressed as a girl. She searched her son’s room while he was at school and found a stash of girl’s clothing hidden in his bedroom. Cameron had not long turned sixteen and had grown out his hair and started wearing androgynous clothing. The clothing that Deanna found secreted away was not androgynous; it was decidedly feminine: panties, brassieres, pantyhose, skirts, blouses and even a party dress. There was even a little stash of makeup. Deanna knew that Travis would blow his top, especially now that the gossip about Cameron’s crossdressing had spread around the neighbourhood. By now their marriage was on shaky ground and she suspected - no that’s not right - she knew that her husband was playing around on her while he was away.

The confrontation in the Capshaw household when Travis returned from his travels erupted into a full-blown free-for-all, with Travis accusing his wife of not only defending their ‘queer-ass son’ but also encouraging him. Deanna got into Travis about never being home and neglecting her and Cameron when he was and that was the opening Travis needed to announce that he was leaving for good and that Deanna and her ‘faggety-ass’ offspring could fend for themselves.

With Travis gone, the neighbours gossiping and her income reduced to a pittance, Deanna decided it was time for a fresh start. She moved to Balwyn Texas to be close to her sister Rose but things went south from the get-go. Rose was a teacher at Balwyn High School and when Cameron turned up at school looking more like a girl than a boy Rose knew that it would not go well for her nephew in the new school. Cameron’s aggressive attitude and lacklustre performance in class didn’t help things and Rose breathed a sigh of relief when Cameron eventually dropped out.

Deanna had hoped that her sister might take Cameron under her wing and make things easy for him and when Cameron quit school she unjustly lay some of the blame on Rose and the sisters drifted apart. Forced to work for a living and with no previous vocational training, Deanna took a job as a cocktail waitress at a shady bar on the edge of the freezone. Deanna still had her looks: nice tits, long legs and a pert ass and she made good tips. The problem was that it was night work and Cameron, now left to his own devices, started dressing as a girl full-time and insisted on using the name Caprice. As her eighteenth birthday came and went Caprice was working part-time at a convenience store but spent most of her time lazing around the house.

At the store Caprice got a lot of ‘is she? – isn’t she?’ looks from some of the customers. The store manager, Brad Bilson, was a nice guy and when Caprice got the hang of working the register he let Caprice take on her own shifts unsupervised. Caprice worked hard at first and put up with the inquisitive looks and sometimes downright slurs from the less tolerant customers. Her gender dysphoria was raging and she was feeling directionless, which was not surprising given that she had been abandoned by her father and home supervision was almost non-existent.

She channelled her directionless angst into being a ‘badass bitch’. Caprice stole cigarettes and liquor from the store and hung around with two nineteen-year-old goth boys who shared her outlook on life. Eventually she got around to necking with them both and providing them with handjobs after not very much pressure. This progressed to blowjobs, which Caprice justified as the price of acceptance and friendship. After her shift she would meet up with the goths in a woodlot out back of the convenience store and they would smoke cigarettes and drink the pint of Thunderbird she had hidden in her backpack and fool around, all three heading home after the liquor had been consumed and Caprice had provided the goths with either hand or oral relief.

Brad Bilson eventually fired Caprice when he discovered discrepancies in the register takings and stock holdings. Without access to cigarettes and booze Caprice was no longer an attraction for the goths who knew plenty of girls who were willing to blow them and a couple who would fuck, so their mutually dependent relationship dissolved and Caprice just stayed at home and lazed away the days and nights thinking about other ways that she might become a ‘badass’.

Deanna meanwhile had hooked up with a sometime gambler and fulltime barfly named Lyle Pendleton who was goodlooking and had the gift of the gab. When he moved in with Deanna, Lyle and Caprice immediately locked horns. Lyle taunted Caprice and Caprice taunted Lyle. Lyle told Caprice that she should cut her hair, dress like a boy, behave like a man and get a job. Caprice thought the last comment was particularly hypocritical given that Lyle hadn’t held a full-time job for years and was either flush with money from his winnings or bare-assed broke. Caprice sassed Lyle and gave as much as she got, calling him a coke-hound and a drunk-ass, loser.

Deanna did her best to keep Lyle and Caprice from fighting but she always took Caprice’s side when they wrangled. Caprice mostly stayed in her room when Lyle was home and Deanna was at work but now and then she would go into her mother’s bedroom and put on one of her mother’s cocktail waitress uniforms and come out and taunt Lyle, asking him who looked better in the uniform, Caprice or Deanna? Lyle would chase her around the house until Caprice retired to the safety of her bedroom.

Lyle came home one evening high on cocaine and found Caprice dressed in one of her mother’s cocktail waitress uniforms and lost control. He dragged Caprice into her bedroom and threw her on her bed calling her a faggot, a queer, a homo, a fruit, a tranny, a whore and every homophobic and transphobic slur he could think of.

“You wanna play at being a girl! Well I’m gonna treat you like one!” he bellowed.

Caprice hated it when he pushed her face down in on the bed and hiked up her skirt. She hated it when he ripped off her panties and tore the ass out of her pantyhose. She hated it when he spat in his hand and lubed his Johnson. She hated it when he thrust his Johnson into her tight puckered bud, causing her to scream in agony. She hated it when he pressed her face into the pillows to stifle her screams as he began to bugger her. She hated it when he fucked her harder and faster, screaming obscenities into her ear. She hated it when she felt his cock suddenly tremble and shudder inside her aching anus and sensed his creamy issue filling her void.

But what she hated most was that she had secretly enjoyed every second of it and had climaxed right along with Lyle, her prostate radiating pulses of intense pleasure and her sphincter ringing with sparklets of delight as her rock-hard cock jetted her spend into the crotch of her pantyhose.

“Here… whores get paid for their work. Buy yourself something nice and you better keep this between you and me if you know what’s good for you,” Lyle threw a twenty on the bed before he left the room.

Caprice lay on her bed sobbing, her ass aching, Lyle’s semen dribbling from her sphincter along with a tiny smattering of poop. She eventually arose, stripped off her mother’s skirt, blouse and little bolero jacket and used the shower. Relieved that Lyle had left the house, probably to hit a bar and drink off his guilt, she checked her mother’s little black skirt to make sure there were no stains on it and returned it and the blouse and the sequined bolero vest to her mother’s closet.

Then she saw the twenty dollars lying crumpled on the bed like an accusatory note. She felt dirty and used but she also felt something else. She had enjoyed the sex. She revelled in the fact that that despite his transphobic rants, Lyle found her attractive and seductive. She could use the money to buy more clothes, shoes and makeup. Caprice realised that a psychiatrist would have a field day interpreting Caprice’s conflicting emotions and corollaries regarding what had happened to her. She never dreamed of going to the police and the very thought of telling her mother about ‘the incident’ (she refused to use the word rape) made her feel physically ill.

Instead, her response to what had occurred surprised even her. She taunted Lyle even more, knowing that he couldn’t do anything about it. She wore her skirts shorter when he was around or she wore skintight lycra leggings and tight-fitting tube tops, she wore heavy makeup and perfume; deliberately bending over in front of him or sitting with her legs open or brushing up against him. It amused her to witness his confusion. Lyle continued to call her a sissy and berate her but she could see the lust in his eyes too.

On the nights that her mother worked the late shift and Lyle went out carousing with his buddies, Caprice would wait up for him dressed provocatively, her skirts ridiculously short, her makeup slutty, her heels ludicrously high, her nylons sheer, her panties translucent. She would be douched and pre-lubricated, knowing what was going to happen. Lyle would come home high or drunk and would rant and rave about her being a nancy-boy faggot and drag her into her bedroom and brutally fuck her and Caprice would pretend to fight him off but eventually submit.

Then something changed. Lyle continued the charade of publicly humiliating her but when they were alone he stopped being brutal with her. He began to kiss her and fondle her and engage in foreplay and fellatio before they fucked. They experimented with different positions. She was no longer the helpless poppet he threw on the bed and ravished and he was no longer the raging maniac who raped her. They engaged in consensual sex. She no longer pretended that she didn’t really like it and he no longer pretended that he was punishing her for being a Nancy boy. Lyle still gave her money afterwards, it somehow eased the guilt he felt for engaging in sodomy and for cheating on Deanna.

Caprice liked it that Lyle, despite being more than twice her age and a dope fiend, and an alcoholic, and her mother’s boyfriend, was enraptured with her. She liked it when he kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth, crushing his lips against hers. She liked it when he sucked on her little underdeveloped titties. She liked it when he stroked her legs, his fingertips rasping on her nylons. She liked it when he rubbed her hard cock through her satin panties and sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. She liked it when he forced her head down into his lap and stuck his cock in her mouth.

But most of all she liked it when he stuck his long, sleek cock inside her asshole. She liked it when he fucked her missionary, sucking on her mouth like an animal while he rutted at her, her nylon-sheathed limbs locked around his back. She liked it when he pushed her down on her knees and fucked her doggystyle, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her buttocks hard into his groin. She liked it when she rode him cowgirl until her cock erupted and her jism spattered on his belly and chest.

Caprice had no idea how a man was supposed to treat a woman and she equated sex with love because Lyle was only nice to her when he wanted sex, which was as often as he could get it. He was still fucking Caprice’s mother; she heard them going at it through her mother’s bedroom door often enough. But Lyle never missed an opportunity to molest Caprice. If Deanna went down the street for cigarettes Lyle would force Caprice to fellate him while her mother was out of the house for those few minutes. He once fucked Caprice up against the wall of the kitchen while Deanna was in the next room watching TV. He pulled down her lycra tights and pushed himself inside her, using margarine from the kitchen counter as lubricant. He put his fingers in her mouth to stifle her moans and shoved a twenty dollar bill in her hand afterward to assuage his guilt.

Of course the inevitable happened and Deanna came home early from her shift one Thursday evening and found Lyle and Caprice en flagrante delicto and of course Deanna blamed Caprice and threw her gender-confused nineteen-year-old progeny out of the house.

Caprice walked the streets of Balwyn with everything she owned packed in a small suitcase and only seventy five dollars cash in her purse. She had no vocation, very little money and nowhere to stay. She drifted down to the freezone seeking accommodation at one of the cheap fleapit hotels and that was where she ran into Darnell DeAngelo, a handsome black man who possessed wit, charm and sympathy for her plight. He took her home and seduced her. He bought her clothes and bootleg female hormones and told her that everything was going to be alright.

Then he turned her out on the street to work alongside the posse of streetwalkers already in his employ. The other girls taught Caprice how to deal drugs and sell her ass, how to spot the freaks and rip-off artists, how to spot the narcs and eventually, how to take a bust. The freezone was considered neutral territory by the cops and criminals but it was an uneasy truce. The cops tolerated so-called victimless crime but every now and then a respectable citizen would complain that they had been ripped-off or robbed by a hooker and the pussy-patrol would sweep the streets.

Before the sweeps, the cops tipped off the crime bosses, who tipped off their lieutenants, who tipped off their pimps and dealers, and the pimps and dealers would send out a few low-level street dealers and prostitutes as sacrificial lambs for the vice squad to round up. The cops could claim a victory and make the most of the press coverage, organising ‘perp-walks’ for the cameras whilst illicit trade in the freezone continued unabated. The rent boys, hookers and low-level pushers who had been arrested were released on bail after spending the night in the slammer and went back to work with only a misdemeanour recorded against them and it was back to business as usual in the freezone.

When Caprice took her first bust she was booked under the name Cameron Capshaw because she was still legally male. The female hookers went into the ‘pussy palace’, a holding cell where they put prostitutes and female offenders overnight but the cops threw Caprice and a transvestite hooker named Flame in the drunk tank with the usual assortment of male street scum. Two of Darnell’s dealers kept the drunks and lechers away from Caprice and Flame and, other than having to spend the night sleeping on a metal bench, Caprice didn’t think getting pinched was too bad. She and Flame blew the two dealers in the back of the cell by way of compensation and when she was released Darnell gave her an extra fifty dollars for being a good girl and not snitching.

Caprice had finally become the badass bitch she always wanted to be.

Caprice had been one of Darnell’s girls for just over a year when she was told to report to Lester Slocum at Bedazzled. The hormones that Darnell gave her were bootleg and Caprice had no idea of their quality but she had no other avenue to acquire them and once she started working the street she had to pay for them. Once Darnell had a girl bound to him, nothing he gave her was free. But the hormones were having some effect on her small, thin, rectangular shaped body. She had developed small but noticeable breasts and her nipples were more pronounced and sensitive. Fat had started to collect around her hips and her arms and legs were smoother and her face became more feminine. She had very little facial or body hair anyway but the estrogen prevented any facial hair growth. It used to take her ten or maybe fifteen minutes to fully shave her torso, legs, arms, pubes and face but now she need only pluck random rogue hairs with tweezers and shave her legs and pubes once a week.

By scrimping and scraping, Caprice had saved nearly enough money to pay for breast enhancement surgery. She liked her little A-cup titties but she would like her breasts to be a little bigger. Nothing ridiculous because she was small framed but filling a C-cup brassiere would be nice.

Present Day

“So here I am. A girl forgotten. No family, no identification, no one who really cares about me. But don’t think that you can play the sympathy card with me. I’m an army of one; a badass bitch,” Caprice finished her story.

An orderly arrived with a food tray and interrupted the interview. Julie and the tall cop vacated the room, nodding at the uniformed officer stationed outside the door to Caprice’s room, leaving Caprice to eat in peace. Caprice looked at the food on the plastic tray: Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes and gravy with a side of green beans. She was never a big eater. In her profession, the more you ate, the more you had to douche out the next day.

She gobbled down the meal in a few mouthfuls and then turned to the Jello cup. The taste reminded her of the locum that she had tasted on Shareen’s breath when he kissed her and she couldn’t stomach more than a mouthful. The image of the two shooters approaching the bed filled her head and she shook away the thought.

Outside Caprice’s room in the passageway Detective Bobby Keen collared the doctor who had tended to Caprice. He pushed the doctor against the wall and got right up in his face.

“You treat that girl with the respect she deserves Doctor fuckface! She’s scared, she’s hurting and she’s alone. You treat her like that again and I’ll have my partner here pull your medical licence and you’ll be working in some free clinic in Bumfuck Idaho as an orderly,” Bobby hissed.

The nurse dressed in the blue unicorn scrubs witnessed the incident and smiled. The asshole cop wasn’t a bad guy after all.

Outside in the smoking area Bobby Keen finally lit the Marlboro that he had been dangling from his lips in Caprice’s hospital room.

“You were a little rough with the doctor in there,” Julie commented.

“Fuck him, the transphobic fuck. Where’s the care and compassion?” Bobby passed the cigarette across to Julie.

“I shouldn’t. I’ve given up. If Tommy knew he’d spank me,” Julie smiled wryly and took a drag on the cigarette.

“Lucky Tommy. How the fuck is Detective Lomax anyway?” Bobby asked taking back the cigarette.

Bobby Keen looked like an uncouth tower of a man filled with suppressed rage; an image he fostered but underneath the visage he wasn’t a bad guy.

“Tommy is Tommy. She made us you know. She knows we’re partners not adversaries,” Julie commented, changing the subject.

“She’s a smart kid,” Bobby nodded.

“How long do we have to turn her?” Bobby asked.

“Not long. I hate having to send her back to work for Lester Slocum but we need someone inside,” Julie sighed and reached for Bobby’s cigarette.

“Ain’t life a bitch,” Bobby sighed too.

To be continued…