Series Originator Note: Tina writes with passion and skill and we found a similar interest in the concept of victims who won't be victims. In many ways, Diana Hunter was one of the inspirations for Angel and Angel and I are very pleased that they got to meet.

Someday, the MIBD may call on you. Be ready.

Enjoy "By Dreams Betrayed"

Tyrone Slothrop

 

By Dreams Betrayed - Allentown Team

Slothtrop's "I Can See For Miles"

A Men In Black Dresses Adventure

by

Valentina Michelle Smith

 

 

October – Somewhere in the City

They stand as monoliths of concrete, steel, and glass in the urban jungle. Some are tall, proud, and distinctive, a gemstone in the crown called a skyline. Others are simply utilitarian, not distinctive in any manner. One such commonplace sentinel stands unheralded on a street neither busy nor deserted. People come and go from it throughout the day without much notice from passers-by. It is as undistinguished as any other office building in the city. But it is special; so special that, were I to divulge its actual location, I would have to kill you.

Fall in the city was a time of transition. The warmth of summer was fading into the cold of winter. Days were shorter and shadows grew tall in late afternoon. The shade between buildings, so welcome during the hot summer, now chilled pedestrians who traversed the sidewalks between the monoliths. One pedestrian, wearing a long black coat against the early chill of this autumn day, entered the main lobby of the building.

She was of average height, about five foot seven inches, with a slight build and shoulder-length brown hair. She walked up to the receptionist and presented a letter. The receptionist consulted a list on her monitor, compared it to the letter, and waved the visitor through the twin doors inside the lobby.

The guest entered a comfortable but spartan reception area. She was greeted by a tall woman in a conservative black suit with a crème blouse, tan hose and black pumps. Her blond hair framed an impeccably made-up face. Her carriage was sure and confidant, the mark of one accustomed to leadership. As she extended her hand, one could not help but notice her exquisite manicure. "Ms. Bolan? Good afternoon, I'm Mary Risberg."

Bolan took note of Risberg's large hands and other subtle clues that suggested a bit of deception. Risberg's makeup suggested high cheekbones that were not truly present. Cosmetics also camouflaged slight brow ridges rather effectively. To a casual observer, Risberg would not appear unusual. But Bolan was no casual observer.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Risberg," Bolan replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Did you have any trouble finding us?"

"Not at all. Mr N____'s directions were quite clear."

"Excellent. I'm sure you would like to get started. Would you come this way, please?" Risberg motioned to the elevator. "Oh, and before we proceed, I will have to ask you to leave your weapons in the safe."

Bolan removed a 9mm Beretta Cheetah from a shoulder holster concealed by her jacket, which she handed to Risberg butt-first. Risberg took the weapon and said, "All of your weapons, please. I'm afraid I must insist."

"I'm impressed," Bolan replied as she removed a .25 Beretta Bobcat from her garter holster. "You knew about my back-up piece."

"You were scanned when you entered the building, Ms. Bolan. We like to know who we are dealing with. I must also ask you to leave your stun-gun behind."

Bolan removed a plastic device from a hidden pocket on the side of her purse and handed it to Risberg. "Very effective scans, Risberg. Do you need my nail file?"

"You don't have one, and I don't think emery boards make very effective weapons." Risberg put the items in a safe and handed Bolan the key. "You may retrieve them when you leave. Now let's get to our meeting."

Bolan and Risberg maintained silence while riding the elevator. It ascended several floors smoothly, finally opening and discharging its passengers. Risberg led them down a corridor and through a door into a meeting room.

The room was small, well lit and comfortably furnished. Bottled water was available on a side table. Two women rose from their seats to greet Risberg and Bolan.

Risberg made introductions. "Denise, Diana, I'd like you to meet Angelica Bolan. Angelica, this is Agent Denise Colt and our associate Diana Hunter."

Bolan shook hands with Denise. She wore a black suit similar to Risberg's with a red bow tie. Hunter was the most colorful woman in the room, dressed in a floral sheath dress with a linen jacket. Her grip, like Colt's and Risberg's, was firm. All of these women were in superb athletic shape.

Risberg said, "This room is secure from any form of electronic eavesdropping. We are meeting to exchange information on cases we are all working. Our assessment is that the cases are tied together. Denise, why don't you go first."

Denise Colt rose. "Ms. Bolan, are you aware of this agency's mission?"

"The description Peter N____ gave was sketchy," Bolan replied. "How much do I need to know?"

Colt looked over to Risberg, who nodded approval. "We are a branch of the Justice Department charged with protection and security of transgendered assets considered vital to the security of The United States. Our agents are all transgendered, either transsexuals in various phases of transition, or crossdressers. The agency has no name and officially does not exist. We co-operate with other agencies such as the FBI, the CIA, NSA, and the Department of Homeland Security.

"The FBI was investigating the disappearance of a young boy, the 14-year-old son of an economist who advises on policy for the Federal Reserve Bank. The boy's PC was impounded. He had been visiting a number of transgender chat rooms, fiction sites, and home pages.

"Apparently the boy had made friends in a chat room with a person claiming to be a sympathetic woman who would help him to realize his desire to experience life as a girl. She promised to take him for a dress-up session in her apartment. He went to meet her at the New York Port Authority bus station. We know he purchased a ticket and rode the bus to New York. That's where the trail ends about two months ago.

"The Bureau consulted us for help investigating the transgender angle. This is when we made the connection to another case, one involving our associate Diana Hunter. I'll let her explain."

Colt sat down and Diana stood. "I'm not an agent of this organization. Technically, I'm a protectee. I'm the board chair and CEO of The Hunter Group. Certain of my firms have dealings with this agency.

"What most people do not know is just how my financial empire came into existence. I formed it from the remains of a shadowy group of women who called themselves The Sisterhood. They were unified by a hatred of men coupled with a desire to seek revenge. They exacted their vengeance by capturing, feminizing, and enslaving men. I was one of their victims.

"My captor was the financial genius of the group. She chartered a private bank that coordinated the financial affairs of The Sisterhood. I was originally hired to set up a computer network to facilitate the business of this bank. Unfortunately for me, I fit The Sisterhood's profile for an ideal slave candidate. Unfortunately for them, I am not easily enslaved.

"I killed my captor and transferred her financial assets to my control. I then proceeded to hunt down the individual members of The Sisterhood, neutralize them, and transfer each captor's assets to her former slave. I thought I had tracked down all of the members of The Sisterhood, but I have recently discovered some loose ends.

"The genius behind The Sisterhood was one Dr. Regina Tuckett. She was a scientific wizard. She designed the treatment that physically transformed the slaves, including myself, into a female form. She also designed a control collar that administered pain through nerve induction. She was the one who recruited new members into The Sisterhood. Apparently she had a few prospects on the line when I neutralized her.

"The shell organization that controls the private bank was recently approached by one of Tuckett's prospective Sisters. A business proposition has been made involving a forced feminization service being offered via the Internet. Although it is being pitched as a virtual service, it involves actual physical feminization accompanied with humiliation and sexual abuse of a living subject.

"And I believe, Ms. Bolan, that this is where our mutual interests converge. The floor is now yours."

Angel, for this was Angelica Bolan's actual identity, noted the grim determination of Hunter's mannerism. He was at once impressed and appalled at the casual description of "neutralizing" the various members of The Sisterhood. Angel knew Hunter only by reputation as the enigmatic CEO of The Hunter Group, a vast empire of corporations and holding companies with interests in biotechnology, cybernetics, finance, and arms. He now had a deeper insight into Hunter than most; a dangerous enemy, and a formidable ally.

"Thank you, ladies," he said. Angel was, after all, biologically male despite his androgynous appearance and a phenomenal ability to pass as a woman. He knew also that, despite their appearance, all of his companions in this meeting room were also men. But he maintained the polite fiction of using female pronouns when addressing them.

"My Group is working a case involving Internet sex. It involves a forced feminization scenario performed upon live subjects, in this case young teenage boys.

"The subjects are forced to perform in front of web-cameras. They will be coerced by a very flimsy plot device to disrobe and gradually don female garments. During the session they will be subjected to physical pain as a means of intimidation and gratification for the customers viewing the scenario.

"The scenario is menu-driven. Several master control customers make selections from a lineup of plot devices. The type of clothing, administration of spankings and cattle prods, the timing and direction of the action are all driven by customer selection.

"The master customers are fitted with PleasureJac receivers. It is placed over his penis and will reproduce any sensation acted on the PleasureJac master unit. This is a phallus-shaped device in the studio. The technicians will actually overlay the customer's own image over the VR image of the transmitter. At the end of the session, the now-feminized victims will be forced to perform fellatio on the PleasureJac master unit.

"The receiver will accurately reproduce every action performed on the transmitter. While the victim is performing fellatio, the transmitter administers a controlled dosage of drugs to the victim. This results in drug addiction. The victim must submit to the desires of the customer in order to receive his fix. It is a very effective control."

Angel sat down, his presentation concluded.

Risberg now spoke. "Is this a single operation?"

"No," Angel replied. "The PleasureJac unit and technology are supplied by Promisense. About half of its franchisees offer a special fantasy service. I believe that you were contacted by one of these franchise holders."

Hunter spoke up. "It's clear that we need to mount a rescue. What we need is a plan of action."

My group," said Angel, "is preparing to do just that. We have identified several franchise holders. You have discovered another. I suggest we combine our efforts for a coordinated strike.

"I cannot stress enough that Promisense is a ruthless and amoral entity. Its employees will not hesitate to use deadly force. I was already the target of an assassination attempt, which is why I must remain en femme. Our action must be coordinated if we are to successfully rescue the victims."

Risberg looked at the faces of all assembled, one by one. "All right, our mission is defined. Let's plan a rescue."

 

* * * * *

October 31 – Allentown, PA – Airport Industrial Park

Allentown was a city betrayed by the American Dream. Once a thriving center of commerce and industry, its citizens had been comfortable and secure. A young man with a high school diploma could earn a very good living in the steel mill in neighboring Bethlehem or in one of the many subsidiary industries spawned by the industrial juggernaut that was Steel. But the juggernaut faltered, the blast furnaces went cold, and the industrial river that fed so many tributaries dried up, sacrificed on the altar of corporate expediency. An entire generation learned the bitter truth about the implied social contract.

Allentown did not go quietly into the night. Many clung to the promise of the Dream, and when the newly emerging service economy grew, young people once again hitched their wagon to Allentown's star. With their newly acquired degrees and technical certificates, so far beyond their parents' high school education, this new army of young professionals breathed fire into the sagging economy of the Rust Belt. New structures sprang up to accommodate the new ventures, clustered in parks removed from the residential developments. Once again, the future seemed secure.

And again, the giant faltered. Dot com went dot bust. IT professionals found themselves training foreign replacements who would perform their tasks in China or India for a fraction of their wage. The service sector found itself outsourced, and a second generation was betrayed.

Many buildings erected to accommodate the new economy, some so new that they still smelled of fresh paint, stood empty in the Industrial Parks. Owners anxious to recoup some small portion of their loss were willing to part with their properties for a fraction of the price they once commanded. High technology had been supplanted by telemarketers and dollar-store managers for those buildings fortunate enough to be occupied.

And in one facility, there was a very unusual enterprise.

It was in many ways perfect. The former software house needed high-speed web access and was willing to pay dearly to have the lines installed. That access now fit exquisitely into this entrepreneur's plans.

The grounds were minimally maintained. The lawn was cut, but no attempt was made to trim the shrubs or prune the trees. Defiant weeds emerged from cracks in the parking lot. The building itself was in fair shape with sufficient wear and tear to be marginally shabby. It really was not very different from its neighbors.

Unlike its neighbors, this facility dealt in human misery.

A virtual reality studio now occupied the space once filled with modular furniture, cubicles, and PC's. Web-cameras were placed at strategic angles. The walls and carpets were a uniform green to facilitate overlay of any desired virtual background. A number of high-end PC's, servers, routers, and monitors were in a control room adjacent to the studio. It was from here that Miranda Shane directed the action broadcast to subscribers across the world wide web.

"Lucy," she asked her partner and technical wizard, Lucille Johanson, "how's our star performers tonight?"

Lucy clicked a link on her monitor. Three young boys were sprawled on the floor in the studio, seemingly in catatonic states. "They're sleeping right now, but they'll wake up soon. They knows what they have to do."

One of the boys in the studio, Jerry Wilson was lost in his memories.

For most of his life, Jerry wanted to wear girl's clothes. He had secretly been trying on his older sister's things since he was five. His sister had caught him at it once and forced him to put a bow in his hair and play with dolls. He pretended to resist, but secretly he had loved it. Then, when he was 11, his mother found a pair of panties in his room. His parents had dragged him to their minister, who filled the boy's head with visions of hellfire and brimstone, and then led the family in a prayer session to purge this poor sinful lad of any "homosexual" tendencies.

Jerry pretended to be "...cured, praise Jesus!" He hid the truth from his parents, his siblings, his friends, and especially his minister. But he could not hide from himself. Once he discovered how to circumvent the ridiculously crude blocking software his father had installed on the PC, Jerry discovered the transgender world of the Internet.

He felt freedom. He invented a screen name, Tanya, and a screen persona. He found comfort in chat rooms where he was finally accepted as a girl. But lacking experience, he put his trust in the wrong person.

It seemed so wonderful! He found a friend who invited him into a private room where Jerry poured out his heart. His new friend, Lady Miranda, was sympathetic. She understood his pain and wanted to help. She offered to teach him the mysterious ways of womanhood, to initiate him into the marvelous realm of the feminine. At first it was just talk, but Jerry soon became frustrated at being unable to really try out the dressing and makeup advice Lady Miranda gave him. So his new friend offered to give him his heart's desire. She would take him under her wing and actually transform Jerry into Tanya.

Jerry bought the bus ticket with money he had taken from his mother's purse. He packed a few things in his backpack and boarded the bus to New York. His friend, Lady Miranda, met him at the Port Authority bus terminal. She took him to an apartment in Brooklyn and then proceeded to transform him.

Jerry, now Tanya, was overwhelmed at the generosity of his new benefactor. She bathed and shaved him, arrayed him in fine lingerie with high-tech breast forms, made up his face, and dressed him to kill. Young Tanya felt resplendent in her nylons, heels, wig, and jewelry. And she was simply overwhelmed when Miranda took her to make the rounds of clubs in New York. Yes, she was underage, but Miranda's clever use of makeup and prostheses presented Tanya as a much older woman. And at the particular clubs Miranda took Tanya to, age could be overlooked for the right price.

It was on this first outing that Tanya was introduced to her new mistress, cocaine.

It didn't take long to become addicted. Naturally Tanya's friend Miranda was happy to supply her with her needed drugs. And in short order Tanya was also introduced to heroin. The addiction was like a seduction. And soon, Tanya was willing to do anything to get her fix.

Anything included performing for the web-cams, participating in a contrived feminization scenario, submitting to pain and humiliation, and finally sucking a virtual penis. And now Jerry/Tanya was part of a stable of captive boys, performing in a perverted actualization of an insane forced-feminization fantasy. The dream he had wanted to live had become a nightmare.

Unlike Jerry, Allen Crosby had a different dream. For as long as he could remember, he knew that somehow nature had played a cruel trick on him. He should have been a girl.

When he first expressed his desires, his parents were horrified. They dragged him to a series of therapists to somehow correct their wayward son's obvious inability to accept his own natural sex. Therapist after therapist all returned a diagnosis of Gender Identity Disphoria, all of which were rejected out-of-hand by Allen's parents. Allen soon learned to keep his feelings to himself.

Like Jerry, Allen discovered the world of the Internet and set out to find a way to realize his dream. When he discovered Miranda and she sympathetically offered to help him transition, he thought his prayers had been answered. He saved the price of a bus ticket to New York and met Miranda in the Port Authority terminal.

Miranda had been so wonderfully helpful, taking Allen to a "doctor" who prescribed hormones and other necessary drugs for Allen's transition to womanhood. The necessary drugs turned out to be cocaine and heroin. Allen found himself addicted, a helpless slave to the woman he thought was his benefactor, and willing to do anything to get his drugs and hormones; willing to act in an absurd bondage and feminization fantasy, willing to suck a plastic phallus in order to simulate fellatio, willing to sell his body.

Joel Beckman, the third captive, had a much different tale of woe. He had been adopted by a single woman who desperately wanted to "have it all" but had no desire to share it all with a man. It was a privately arranged adoption with a minimum of record-keeping. Unfortunately, the woman died in a tragic auto accident when Joel was only five, and the attorney who had arranged the adoption had left the country under dubious circumstances. Having no family of record, young Joel was placed in foster care.

He bounced from one abusive foster home to another, always ending up in the care of persons who were more motivated by greed or sexual perversion then virtue. By the age of eleven, Joel had become hardened. He fled the system and lived on the streets, surviving by begging food and money and by doing whatever he could for a buck. He was running drugs for a small-time pusher when he crossed paths with Miranda.

At first it didn't seem so bad. So what if he had to wear ridiculously frilly dresses and suck a plastic cock. It was a lot better than what he endured in foster care. And the drugs provided a comfortable numbness from the reality of his captivity. On the whole, he reflected, things could be a lot worse. Maybe if he kept repeating this he might eventually convince himself.

A door opened, and another person entered the room. Joel looked up to see his web-cast co-star, Candy.

"Hey, kids," Candy said, "we have some potential investors tonight. I want you to make this show extra good." She lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, inhaling, and loudly expelling a blue cloud of smoke. "Who wants a smoke?"

Joel thought briefly about accepting Candy's offer. The rush of nicotine could stave off some of his drug cravings. "An extra good show?" he asked, his voice betraying very little emotion. "Sure. I'll put on a great show. What do you want me to do?"

"You really have to sell the humiliation angle, kid. And this goes for everybody. Really play up how you don't want to go through with this. You only do it because you don't want the spanking. Our customers are paying for the fantasy. They want to see you humiliated, and they want to drive the action. The blow job at the end is just icing on the cake."

"All I care about is the drugs," Jerry replied. "Just make sure I get them, and they can butt-fuck me for all I care."

"We were thinking of adding that to the scenario, but that will have to wait for an equipment upgrade. For now, just play humiliated sissy-boys. And show some animation."

"Sure. Animation. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Jerry, Miranda wants you to really sell the cocksucking scene. You naturally resist, but as you take it in your mouth you realize that this is what you always wanted. You're tasting a cock for the first time. Show how you love that cock in your mouth, and how much you always wanted to be a cocksucking sissy. Think you can do that?"

"Whatever," he replied. "When do we start?"

"Soon. The investors should be here shortly. Then we can start the web-cast."

Jerry just stood there. In his mind he was retreating into his sheltering fantasy world, drawing protective psychic shields around himself. Soon the narcotics would bring him blessed surcease from the reality of his miserable existence.

Miranda, watching and listening to the exchange from the control room, smiled. Her control over the boys was nearly complete. She noticed the effects of the female hormones that were being administered with their daily fix. Soon these kid wouldn't need forms, they were on the way to developing tits of their own.

Candy had been like them once, a runaway boy snatched from the streets. She was Miranda's first subject. Her breasts were now too big for her to be a convincing victim, but she was still useful as the dominatrix. Once vulnerable and innocent, she was now a hardened veteran in the world of live Internet pornography. At sixteen, she looked like a woman in her late twenties, and the combination of drugs and hard living would soon take its toll. Her appearance was already suffering from drug abuse. When her looks would inevitably deteriorate, she would be disposed of in one of the Mexican whore-houses the company maintained. By that time Jerry or one of the others should be developed enough to take over the dominatrix role, and other runaways would be cast as the victims.

Miranda glanced at a clock in the control room. It was nearly time for the meeting.

Stone Harbor, New Jersey – Whitson Residence

Harry Whitson impatiently waited for the webcast to begin.

The population of the Jersey shore dwindled in the fall as the summertime tourists, dubbed "shoebies" by the year-round residents, packed up and went home to their winter abodes. There would still be some die-hard week-enders (or "WEB's," short for Week End Bastards) visiting until it began getting cold, and a few folks who would come to their vacation homes for holidays. But for a townie like Whitson, the end of tourist season was a cause for celebration.

Halloween was always great as far as Whitson was concerned. There weren't all that many kids in town to bug him for candy, so he could keep his porch light off and his door shut without fear of interruption. And he wanted no interruptions tonight.

He was sitting at his computer, already connected to the "School For Bad Boys" site. The PleasureJac receiver he wore was plugged in to the USB port. He already had an erection in anticipation of tonight's show. And he got to control the action as one of the high-paying domme-level participants. The VR presentation would actually put him in the position of the dominatrix. And he was ready for that as well, dolled up in a leather bustier and skirt with fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. Yes, tonight's trick would be an incredible treat!

Aurora, Colorado – Halloran Residence

Legions of kids were making their way through the development. Doris and Steve Halloran stood sentinel at the door to their home, manning a bowl of snack-sized candy bars and raisin bags.

"Doris, why in the hell don't we get Mitch to do this?" Steve complained. "He didn't go out trick-or-treating, he's just up in his room."

"Now Steve," said Doris, "you know the boy's too old to dress up and beg for candy. And he has two projects to finish for school by next week. We should be glad that he takes his studies so seriously. Why even now he's doing research in the Internet for one of his projects."

"So he can't take off an hour to help us hand out this yearly extortion?"

"Why Steve Halloran, you sound as though you never went trick or treating when you were a boy. It means so much to the kids, and the costumes are just so cute!"

While Doris and Steve argued over the annual rite of fall as practiced in middle class America, young Mitch Halloran was indeed surfing the Internet in the privacy of his room. But the web site he was visiting had little to do with the ecological balance of middle-latitude deciduous forests in North America.

Mitch had already made the payment for access to tonight's presentation of "School For Bad Boys." At the $50 per hour voyeur level he was unable to control any of the action, but that was all right. Mitch had a different reason for watching the show. He would be imagining that he was the victim, the poor, helpless boy who would be forced to wear frilly female clothing, who would be degraded by torture and humiliation into being a simpering sissy and gratifying the dominatrix sexually. He was getting an erection just thinking about it.

Allentown – Industrial Park

A Midnight Blue Mercedes with blackout windows pulled into the parking lot of Lehigh TransTalent Enterprises. A woman wearing a chauffeur's uniform with a short skirt, black stockings, and mid-heeled black leather boots emerged from the driver's side, and another woman in a conservative gray maid's uniform exited from the passenger side. They closed their respective doors and opened the rear doors. From the left side, a tall woman dressed in a black suit with a knee-length skirt, tan hose, and mid-heeled pumps emerged. Her shoulder-length brunette hair styled in a retro fashion a la Lauren Bacall lent an air of intrigue to the woman that was accented by her white blouse, red tie, snap-brim fedora and black gloves. The woman exiting from the right wore a pinstriped navy blue suit with a crème blouse open at the neck. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, affecting a school-marm appearance enhanced by her tortoise-shell glasses and pearl earrings. A matching pearl pendent hung from a delicate chain about her neck.

The servants followed the women into the front office, where they were greeted by Miranda. "Ms. Marshall," she said, "we meet at last. I'm Miranda Shane."

The woman in black removed her hat and gloves, handing them to her chauffeur. She extended her hand. "Gloria Marshall. I've come to witness the production. This," she said, indicating her companion, "is my technical expert, Dr. Beverly Masters. From your description this operation could be quite lucrative, but my associates require certain assurances."

"Of course, and I will be happy to demonstrate. Would you please accompany me to the control room? We are preparing for tonight's production."

The two women and their Servants followed Miranda into the control room. It was filled with monitors, each labeled with the number of the camera it was tracking. Another monitor displayed several status items.

"Ms. Marshall, this is my partner and chief engineer Lucy Johanson. She will direct the action based on the inputs provided by the domme-level subscribers. The actors perform in a bare studio. Using digital chroma-key techniques we can overlay any background and props that might be required. Of course certain props must be real, such as whips, clothing, cattle prods, and similar items. Please be seated, we're about to begin. May I get you any refreshments?"

Marshall sat in the indicated chair. "Mineral water, please," she said.

"Can I get you anything, Dr. Masters?" she asked.

"Mineral water would be fine. And I will need access to your equipment. I will be monitoring the webcast on my own system."

"Of course. My partner can assist you." She regarded Marshall. "May I offer your chauffeur some refreshment?"

"It requires nothing," said Marshall, " I furnish its needs."

"It?" said Miranda, startled.

"Gender terms are inappropriate since it is neither male nor female. It occupies a niche between the two genders."

"I see. So is she, err, it your feminized slave?"

Marshall turned to look directly at Miranda. "May I presume that Dr. Tuckett demonstrated her slave to you?"

"Yes, she did when she first attempted to recruit me into The Sisterhood. I have to admit I was fascinated, but I had to pass due to other commitments. By the way, how is Regina?"

"Dr. Tuckett has retired and lives in seclusion. I manage the financial interests of The Sisterhood. Dr. Masters is our technical expert."

"I see," said Miranda. "I must confess that I am disappointed. I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with Regina."

"I am certain that Dr. Tuckett will be happy to meet you on a social level. Tonight, however, we are discussing business."

"Quite right, Ms. Marshall. Shall we proceeded?"

"By all means."

By this time, Beverly had attached a laptop and several monitoring devices to the network, including a sophisticated network sniffer and a powerful protocol analyzer. The webcast began.

Masters continued to monitor her instruments as the performance progressed. Candy, the dominatrix, proceeded to strip all of the boys who had been sent to her "school" on a very flimsy pretext. She had put one in diapers, frilly panties, and a ridiculous baby dress complete with a bonnet and pacifier, while the other boys were "forced" into wearing training bras, frilly panties, and little-girl dresses complete with ribbons, Mary-Janes, and frilly anklets. The action looked quite contrived in the studio, but with the virtual backgrounds overlaid presented a more realistic scenario on the screen.

Denise was becoming a lot more nervous. She maintained her stony exterior as Gloria Marshall, but inside she was seething. She felt every bit of pain as the boys were beaten with brushes, paddles, and riding crops. She raged as they were all forced to their knees and one by one began to suck on the PleasureJac unit.

Beverly looked up. "I have all the information I require," she said.

"Excellent," said Denise, who then withdrew a Glock 17 from her shoulder holster. In her other hand she held a badge. "Federal Agent," she announced. "You are under arrest for trafficking in child pornography, violations of anti-slavery laws, and possession and distribution of controlled substances."

Miranda looked back from her position at the two-way mirror. She was not expecting what she saw. Not only was the woman she thought of as Gloria Marshall holding an automatic pistol, but her chauffeur had a pair of Ruger KP90's, and Dr. Masters' maid was brandishing a Smith & Wesson 910.

Miranda stood frozen, not daring to move in the face of such overwhelming firepower. Her partner, however, was not so hesitant. She lunged for a lever at the far end of her control panel.

Diana Hunter, who was dressed in the chauffeur's uniform, pivoted and pumped three rounds into the technician. She slumped and died, but not before reaching her target. The momentum of her lunge brought her in contact with the lever, and the weight of her dying body activated it.

A harsh klaxon pierced the air. Denise grabbed Miranda and shoved the barrel of her Glock under her trembling chin. "All right, just what the hell was that?"

"S-s-s-self-destruct mechanism," she stammered. "We have to destroy the equipment if we get caught so there's no evidence."

Denise looked over to Dr. Masters. "Beverly, is there any way you can disconnect that thing?"

Beverly took a quick look at the panel. "It's a chemical reaction. I'd have to take it apart to disable it, and I don't think there would be enough time."

"Jesus!: she said. "Diana, we have to get the boys out of here. Come help me. Lenore," she said to the maid, who was Agent Lenore Chase, "cover this scum while we get the kids out of the studio, then get the hell out of here!"

Lenore turned her weapon on the still-trembling Miranda as Diana and Denise ran into the studio. They found one of the boys still sucking on the PleasureJac, getting his dose of drugs and hormones. "All right, kids," said Diana, "we don't have time for introductions. This place is going to blow and we have to get out of here now."

Candy turned to face the two invaders. "Now just a minute," she said, "who the hell do you..." She said no more. Denise pressed a small plastic device to her side and Candy fell like a sack of potatoes.

"What was that?" asked Diana.

"A new toy the girls in armory cooked up for us. It directly stimulates the brain's pleasure center, dropping the subject with a burst of ecstasy. We call it the Tickler."

"Nice. But now we have to get these kids out of here." Diana managed to pull the one protesting boy from the PleasureJac. She began to guide them to the emergency exit, then turned. "Denise, hand me that Tickler, will you?"

Denise, who was bending to hoist Candy in a fireman's carry, tossed the unit to Diana. "Press and hold the red button it takes three seconds to charge."

Diana pressed the button. A crackling bolt made its way across the electrodes and a reassuring beep sounded. Then Diana pressed the Tickler against the PleasureJac.

Stone Harbor, New Jersey

Harry Whitson was pissed. What the hell was going on? Two broads had burst into the School for Bad Boys set and dropped the dominatrix. Then one of them pulled the little cocksucker away from the PleasureJac. This was definitely not what he was paying for! Just then one of the tall broads pressed some sort of a plastic thingie against the PleasureJac and Harry began to scream! He was still screaming when the Feds broke in and surrounded him.

The few neighbors who remained in Harry's neighborhood were all watching. A panel van full of what looked like SWAT cops pulled up and broke down Harry's door. And a few minutes later they carried him our, clad in a leather skirt and bustier, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. He was handcuffed and writing in agony.

Allentown – Industrial Park

Lenore motioned with her pistol. "Come on, bitch," she said to Miranda, get the lead out. We have to get out of here."

Miranda just stood, frozen in terror and unable to move.

"Look, idiot, this place is about to blow the hell up! If we don't get out now we will die!"

Miranda would not move.

"I'm not wasting any more time on you," Lenore said. She pulled back her hand and smacked Miranda across the face with her pistol. Now unconscious, Lenore picked her up and ran out of the emergency exit.

They were all running when the plant exploded.

A blast wave knocked them down, sparing them from the flying debris. As they looked back, the plant was engulfed in flames. It was a thorough job of devastation.

Denise pulled what looked like a cell phone from her apron pocket. She flipped it open and keyed in a sequence of numbers. Then she spoke. "Charlie Oscar Lima Seven Five Two Backslash. Go secure."

There was a series of tones as the Secure Electronic Network completed the encrypted connection. "Mary's Dress Shop," said a voice on the other line, "how can I help you?"

"Control, this is Spirit," said Denise. "Subjects secure. One bad guy down, one in custody. No agents lost. The facility is a total loss. Request extraction."

"Spirit, Control," the voice replied, "Understand subjects secure. Extraction en route. And we have identified all users. We are now taking steps to apprehend."

"Understood, Control. Spirit out."

Denise looked up to see a helicopter circling the burning plant.

"Is that our ride?" asked Diana.

"No," replied Denise, "it's a news 'copter."

Aurora, Colorado – Halloran Residence

Steve Halloran was just about ready to turn in for the night when a loud knock at his door summoned him. Who the hell could this be? He peered out of the peephole and saw a tall woman in a black suit flashing some sort of government badge.

He opened the door. "Alright, miss, just what the hell is this about?"

"Mr. Halloran," said the woman, "my name is Rebecca Saunders and I'm an agent with the Justice Department. We need to discuss the sort of Internet sites your son visits."

November 1 – Somewhere in the City

Mary Risberg paused for a sip of coffee. "The operation went well despite the loss of the facility. The rescued boys are being treated now. They will need a great deal of counseling, naturally."

"I presume they are going back to their parents," Lenore said.

"Two of them are," she replied. The older one, Candy, is going to need extensive therapy and possibly reconstructive surgery. She was given breast implants to create those absurd DD-cups."

"And what about the other boy?" asked Diana.

"He has no family, and I don't think returning him to foster care would be appropriate. He's been damaged badly. The scars may never heal."

Diana said, "Why don't I take him in? I can make sure he gets the therapy he needs, and give him something he never had, a real home."

"I'm not so sure about this, Diana," said Mary. "We do operate on the fringes of the law, but this might be stretching things a little too far."

"Nonsense," said Diana, " I have the facilities of The Hunter Group at my disposal as well as my personal fortune. Whatever obstacle there is can be overcome."

Mary hesitated. "Perhaps. Let me see what I can do. But if you don't mind my asking, why do you want to do this?"

"Last night," said Diana, "I killed somebody. I did it instinctively and dispassionately. I thought I had left all of that behind me. Now...now I find that demon avenger was there all along, just waiting to be invoked for bloodshed. I don't like that part of myself."

Diana stared deeply into Mary's eyes, as though she were baring her soul. "I need to do something life-affirming again! I need to banish this demon once and for all. And maybe, just maybe, giving this poor boy a loving home is the way to do it."

Mary considered Diana's request for a few minutes. "Well," she said, with a bit of reluctance still in her voice, "I suppose it would be better than throwing him back into the foster system. Go ahead, Diana."

"Thanks, Mary. I owe you one."

"No you don't, sis. We owe you. What's that you always say, pay forward? Consider this a payment forward."

Lenore cleared her throat. "Not to interrupt this touching scene, but can we get on with the briefing?"

"Of course," Mary said. "Naturally an explosion that big just outside of the airport can't exactly go unnoticed. This is the biggest story to hit the Lehigh Valley since the Hess's implosion. Fortunately we have operatives in the various Federal agencies that investigate these disasters. The explosion will be the result of improperly stored chemicals for which the company did not have a permit. Politicians will all posture about the need for more stringent oversight and the like. Eventually, it will be yesterday's news."

"And the devices?" asked Lenore.

"All accounted for. The users will all be facing some heavy time for child pornography. We'll probably offer them a deal to testify against TransTalent. Probably several years of litigation ahead, but with this much evidence they might plead out."

"What about the lower-level users?" asked Denise.

"We have them dead to rights on child pornography charges. Surprisingly, some are juveniles using their parents' charge cards. I'm not sure how this will play out, but Justice wants to prosecute."

There were several other matters to discuss, but they were mostly procedural. The meeting adjourned.

Diana and Mary made their way to the residence area of the building. "You're sure you want to do this, Diana?" Mary asked.

"I'm sure. The sooner I get him into a loving environment, the better. He needs it."

They entered the room where Joel was waiting.

Diana was surprised at the way Joel was dressed. He was wearing a skirt and a blouse with tan hose and court shoes. The lines of a brassiere showed through from beneath the blouse.

"Hey kid," she said, " the show's over. You don't have to wear that kind of stuff any more."

"Maybe I like it," he said defiantly. "Besides, I got tits from those drugs the bitch was feeding me. I might as well wear a skirt. Tits look stupid on a boy."

Diana almost cried, remembering the shock she felt on discovering how she had been forcibly feminized. It's probably the same for him, she thought. But he's been living with it for months.

"Okay, kiddo, you can wear whatever you like. Nobody's going to force you. But I have a neat idea. Why don't you come home with me for a while? We can sort out the clothes as we go along."

"Sure. Go home with you. What kind of stuff are you going to make me do?"

"Really nasty stuff, like make your bed, clean your room, go to school, and maybe I'll teach you to cook. And if I really get kinky I'l take you to meet my Mamma."

The boy looked up at Diana. "You mean it, don't you?"

"Yes. I do. With all my heart."

Joel thought about it for a few minutes. "Okay, I'll go home with you. But no kinky stuff or I'll run away again. I know how to survive on the street if I have to."

"I know you can, Joel. But you will never need to beg food or rummage through a trash can again. Word of honor."

"And I will NOT call you Mommy or Mother or Mistress. Got it?"

"I get it, kiddo. My name is Diana, and that will do just fine."

He thought for a minute. Then he extended his hand. "Okay. My name is Rose."

"I thought it was Joel?"

"I like Rose, and I sure as hell don't look like a Joel."

"Okay. I promise to call you Rose if you promise not to swear. Deal?"

"Deal." They shook on it.

"Okay, Jo- err, Rose, let's get your things and go home."

"I don't have any things."

"I see. In that case, our next stop is Target."

"Uh, Diana, can I get something to eat first?"

"Sure. Let's head for Dean and DeLucca's Do you like Italian?"

"Love it!"

"Good, because that's what I'm going to teach you to cook."

The two new friends made their way to the garage, and drove off in Diana's Lincoln.

 

END

Diana Hunter, Mary Risberg, Denise Colt, and Lenore Chase are characters created by Valentina Michelle Smith. They can be found in the following stories.

Diana Hunter stories:

"Best Served Cold"

"Endgame"

"Whatever Became of the Sisterhood?"

"The Academy" (in preparation)

Men In Black Dresses stories:

"Men In Black Dresses"

"Terror in the Skies"

"The Bear Market"

  

  

  

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