By the author of The Jessica Project, www.geocities.com/thejessicaproject/author
Hobson's Choice
by Nom de Plume
© 2003
Part Two
One month later, Andrea Hobson returned to her studio apartment after another frustrating day of selling shirts and ties. Her feet were killing her as she kicked off her heels, and she gratefully peeled off her nylons and slumped into a recliner in front of the television. Idly, she turned it on and flipped through the channels. At least that male addiction had not been taken from her.
She was about to skip past a local sports program when she saw a familiar face. It was her judge, standing in the VIP section at the Belmont Stakes. A race which Andrew Hobson had won three times during his brief but brilliant career. Andrea stared at the screen as the judge stood beside the owner of the winning horse, cheering along with him as their long-shot entry won an upset victory.
Andrea switched off the television and began to pace around her apartment. The favorite in that race, Buckaroo, had won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness with Andrew in the saddle, and Seacrest Stables had never found another rider capable of dealing with his high-strung temperament. If Andrew Hobson had not been standing trial for rape, he would have been on Buckaroo, guiding him to victory against the horse owned by the judge's friend. They must have won a fortune by betting against Buckaroo, who was the prohibitive favorite to win the race and the Triple Crown.
Andrea was about to dismiss the whole thing as a strange coincidence when the telephone rang. It was Ellen Marshall. "Andrea, how are you?"
"Life sucks, Ellen. I'm making ends meet as a sales associate at a department store, in the fucking menswear department, but if it weren't for the money I saved up when I was riding, I'd be out on the street."
'I'm sorry to hear that, Andrea. Look, we need to talk. I have something I need to show you."
"What, another legal bill? I told you, I'll pay you as soon as I get back on my feet."
"No, it's not that, Andrea. It's something about your sentencing."
* * *
They agreed to meet the next day at a fancy restaurant near Ellen's office. Andrea was almost used to getting dressed up by now, and she went through the motions with her hair and makeup before selecting a conservative skirt and sweater to wear to the restaurant. It was late autumn, and she completed her outfit with opaque tights and high heels, having come to accept them as a necessary tradeoff for her new-found height.
Ellen was waiting for her at a quiet table in the back. They shook hands awkwardly, and Ellen waited until they ordered their salads and iced tea before pulling a file out of her briefcase. "I was in the courthouse yesterday, and it occurred to me that I had never seen those documents which the judge signed the day he changed your name. I had a little time on my hands, so I went to the clerk's office and asked to see the case file." Ellen handed a document to Andrea. "This is the report of your court-appointed psychiatrist. It is different from the report which was sent to me before your sentencing. Read it."
Andrea started to skim through the report, not believing what she saw. "The subject admits to a lifelong fixation with wearing women's clothing, and expressed the desire to undergo sex reassignment surgery."
"This is bullshit!" she shouted. After months of hormones, and hours of voice lessons, she had developed a woman's way of speaking, but suddenly she sounded like Andrew again. "What the hell's going on?"
"I'm not sure, Andrea. Obviously somebody tampered with your record, and put this report in there to back up the judge's decision to order your surgery. The question is, why?"
Andrew handed back the report. "You mean, if this report wasn't in there, I wouldn't have been…changed?"
"That's what I'm suggesting. The question is, who had the motive?"
Andrea's head was spinning. Her whole life, his whole life, ruined because of a bogus report? There had to be more to it than that.
"Let me ask you something else," Ellen went on. "The girl you raped. How well did you know her?"
"Hardly at all. She came up to me at the track one morning after an exercise session. She practically dragged me down to the backstretch and pulled her pants down. When she started screaming, I couldn't believe it."
"I know. And suddenly there were witnesses everywhere, backing up her story that you raped her. I always thought it seemed too convenient, too contrived…so I did a little checking. What I am about to tell you could subject me to a malpractice suit, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't let you know."
"What are you talking about?"
"She was not under-aged, and she never got pregnant."
"What?"
Ellen pulled another document out of her file. "Her real name is Hilda Speyer. She is a professional actress, from Germany." Andrea stared down at a professional portfolio, showing the girl Andrew Hobson had supposedly raped in a variety of poses. The text was in German. "She's twenty-four years old, Andrea," Ellen said softly. "I found this out by doing a simple web search."
Andrea was bewildered. "What about her parents?"
"More actors. Oh Andrea, I'm so sorry. If I had been doing my job right, I would have never let you plead guilty."
Andrea closed here eyes as she tried to grasp the enormity of it. "So I never committed a crime?"
"Of course not. You were set up, Andrea, by somebody who wanted you out of the way. When the new law passed requiring judges to offer the surgical alternative to convicted rapists, they altered your file to hedge their bets. Either way, they got what they wanted."
"But who would want to do this to me?"
"I don't know, Andrea, but whoever was behind it must have had a powerful motive, and considerable means. You know, I always wondered why your operation took place so fast, and I was surprised at your sentencing when we were told your new name. Why, it almost looks like the judge might have been in on this…."
In a flash, Andrea understood. The judge who ordered that Andrew Hobson be turned into a woman…and then made sure that Andrea Hobson would never ride again…in an owner's box at the Belmont, cheering as Buckaroo was upset by a dark horse owned by the man next to him….
When Andrea spoke, her voice was deadly calm. "Ellen, what do you know about the judge?"
"Judge Hauk? Well, as you could see for yourself, his judicial temperament leaves a lot to be desired. He's been reprimanded by the chief judge many times for his comments from the bench, including that Hooter's crack he laid on you."
"I'm not asking about his temperament. Is he a crook?"
"Andrea, you can't say things like that! Not without evidence to back it up."
"What if I told you I think I have your motive. Will you help me try to nail him?"
"I don't know, Andrea. I'm not a private detective. If you know something, we should go to the police."
"No, thanks. My faith in the criminal justice system has just taken a hit. I'm asking you to help me prove that the judge is on the take. I think I know who is paying him."
"Who?"
"Ronald Brewster."
"As in Ronald Brewster, the billionaire? The Ronald Brewster who owns hotels, office buildings, car dealerships…."
"And racehorses."
"Oh, my God. Andrea, this is too big for us. We have to go to the police."
Andrea snapped. "Ellen, I'll never forgive you for not picking up on all this before it was too late. It was almost better before…at least I thought I had this coming to me in some way. But now, to find out that I had my balls cut off so some greedy pig could fix a horserace….I need you for this, Ellen. Tell me you'll help me," she pleaded.
Ellen shook her head. "Okay, I'm in. What are we going to do, sister?"
* * *
Andrea quit her job at the department store, and for the next two weeks she spent day and night in Ellen's law library, scouring the Internet for everything she could find about Ronald Brewster. His controversial business dealings, his spectacular divorces, and his flamboyant lifestyle were all grist for the media, fanned by his insatiable lust for publicity. Andrea took particular note of his taste in woman: the billionaire had a weakness for short, perky blondes.
One afternoon, when Andrea returned to Ellen's office after a long lunch break, she was stopped by the receptionist before she could pass into the library. "May I help you, Miss?" Andrea smiled to herself. With her shoulder-length hair dyed ash blonde and styled with pretty curls, she bore no resemblance to either Andrew or Andrea Hobson. It was time to put her plan into action.
Some of Andrew's old friends on the backstretch were Mexican illegals, and they helped Andrea acquire a new social security card in the name of Fawn Healy. Buttressed with a phony resume and glowing references provided by Ellen and Janet, who posed on the phone as former employers, Fawn had no trouble landing a clerical position at Brewster Enterprises. She started out her first day on the job like any other working girl, confined to a small cubicle while she spent eight hours a day grinding out memoranda, arranging travel schedules, and bringing coffee to the higher-ups. She hated every minute of it, awakening at six o'clock each morning to comply with the Brewster dress code for secretaries - skirts or dresses, heels and stockings – and returning home every night with aching feet and freezing legs from the winter cold.
She bided her time, gradually learning enough about the office routines to find out where Brewster kept the files on his race horses. They were located just outside his massive office, near the main reception area. One night just before Christmas, a snotty young executive dumped a huge mailing for a new condominium project on the secretarial pool, and Fawn volunteered to stay late to get it out. She waited until the other girls all went home, then another hour to make sure all of the executives were also gone, before she got up from her cluttered desk and walked nonchalantly to the file cabinets outside Brewster's office. They were unlocked, although she had been prepared to jimmy them if they weren't, and she started to look through them, methodically searching for any evidence about the connection between Ronald Brewster and Judge Hauk.
When she found it, it almost smacked her in the face. The name of the horse that pulled off the surprise upset at the Belmont was Heady Days. The file on Heady Days included a syndication agreement indicating the names of the owners of the horse. On September 16th, the day Andrew Hobson's name was changed to Andrea Hobson, Oliver Hauk was admitted into the syndicate, and granted a 20% share in the horse's winnings for the rest of his career. The document was back-dated to the day before the Belmont Stakes. No consideration was paid.
Andrea put the document on top of the filing cabinet and kept rummaging until she found something else: a copy of a letter written by Brewster's executive assistant to the judge the day after Andrew's arraignment on charges of aggravated rape. It contained directions for the Judge's lunch meeting with Mr. Brewster the following weekend out in the Hamptons. She put the letter next to the syndication agreement, and continued to paw through the file until she found the smoking gun: a telefax from a Frankfurt bank containing the wiring instructions for an account held by the German actress who had posed as Andrew's rape victim.
Andrea was feeling sick to her stomach as she walked into the copy room and xeroxed the three documents. She stopped by her desk and stuffed the copies into her shoulder bag before she returned to the file cabinet and placed the evidence back in the file. She was just closing the file drawer when she heard a noise behind her.
Turning around, Andrea found herself face to face with Ronald Brewster. He was wearing a tuxedo and a white cashmere scarf, and his rugged face was flushed from too much to drink. She had kicked off her shoes to avoid making any noise, and the billionaire stood almost a foot taller than her in her stocking feet. Andrea was trying to figure out what to say when he spoke first.
"Working late tonight, Miss…Healy," he said as he bent down and read the company ID badge pinned to her suit jacket.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Brewster. All of the other girls had Christmas parties or shopping to do, so I volunteered to stay late."
"That's very commendable. You're new here, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're cute. Would you like to see my apartment?"
Ronald Brewster's apartment was the stuff of legend, occupying the entire top floor of the Brewster Building. "I don't know, Mr. Brewster…."
"Come on, it's the least I can do for you after you gave up your night for us. We'll have a glass of Christmas cheer."
Although he was close to sixty, there was a boyish charm about him that took the edge off his raging machismo. "That would be nice. I just have to finish up a few things."
"Take your time. I'll be in my office."
She returned to her cubicle, trying to figure out how to get away from him. If she ran out, he would become suspicious…after his latest divorce, Ronald Brewster was the most eligible bachelor in town, and no girl in her right mind would pass up the opportunity to see his place. She put on her shoes and went to the ladies room, where she brushed her hair and put on a fresh coat of lipstick before returning to pick up her purse and her shoulder bag which, in addition to the incriminating documents, was crammed with junk like the sneakers she swapped for her heels during her nightly trudge to the bus stop. She put on her overcoat and walked hesitantly into Brewster's mammoth office.
He was waiting for her at his enormous mahogany desk, in front of an entire wall filled with framed magazine covers showing the great man in various moments of triumph. "My ego wall," he chuckled as he got up from his desk. "Let's go."
They rode upstairs in silence in a polished brass elevator. When the door opened, they were standing in the foyer of his spectacular apartment. Brewster took her coat and shoulder bag, hanging them himself in a closet by the door. "I've given the staff the night off, for the holiday," he explained.
"You mean we're alone?" she asked as they walked into his sunken living room. The lights of the city went on as far as the eye could see.
"Just you and me, Fawn. What can I get you to drink?"
"Some white wine?" she asked.
"Why not. I have an excellent white Bordeaux that I'd like to share with you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I take off this monkey suit." Andrea sat primly on the edge of a white suede couch, wondering what to do.
Her mind raced back to her Internet research on him. What was it one of his ex-wives had said about their sex life? When the idea came to her, it was so wicked that she put it out of her mind at first, until she reminded herself what this monster had done to her. She got up and tiptoed back to the hall closet, rummaging through her shoulder bag until she found what she was looking for. It was a small object, which she had purchased at a tack store and carried around with her in the hope that one day she might run into the surgeon who had altered Andrew Hobson. She slipped it into her suit pocket and returned to the living room.
She was back on the couch, her shoes off and her skirt pulled up above her crossed knees, when Ronald Brewster returned, dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, a glass of wine in each hand. He sat down next to her, and they sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes. "You're very pretty, Fawn," he said at length.
"I can't believe I'm all alone with Ronald Brewster. Are you sure there's nobody here?"
"Absolutely."
Andrea put down her wine as she uncrossed her legs provocatively. "Aren't you going to show me your bedroom?"
* * *
Ronald Brewster lay spread-eagled on his four-poster bed, tied at the wrists by $100 neckties to the posts on either side of the headboard. Stripped down to her bra and panties, Andrea was teasing his engorged cock with her long fingernails as he writhed in anticipation. After his Viagra kicked in, she had brought him to the brink of orgasm again and again, observing ruefully that his celebrated manhood was half the size of Andrew's old schlong.
"Now, baby," Brewster moaned. Andrea slipped off the bed and retrieved something from her piled up clothes on the floor. She returned to Brewster's naked body and lowered her head to his ear.
"Ready for something really special?"
"Oh, yes!"
Andrea slipped a ring-like device around his testicles and snapped it into place.
"Aagh!"
"Does it hurt?"
"Shit! What did you do to me?" He tried to look down at himself, beads of sweat running down his face, as his penis collapsed into its nest of gray pubic hair.
"It's not supposed to hurt."
"What?"
"It's a clamping device they use to crush the testicle cords of farm animals, resulting in the bloodless atrophy of the testicles. It's supposed to be painless. Of course, the animals can't talk…."
Brewster let out a blood-curdling scream as he twisted and turned on the bed, desperately trying to free himself. Andrea got up and started to put on her clothes.
"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" he asked in a strangled voice.
Andrea sat down on the foot of the bed and eased her nylons up her legs. "Let's just say I knew Andrew Hobson very well."
"Oh, my God!" Brewster cried, as he realized what was happening to him. He watched her with terrified eyes as she pulled on her slip and stepped into her skirt. "That was all a mistake!"
She zipped up her skirt and started buttoning up her jacket.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm a working girl, Mr. Brewster. Got to get up early tomorrow."
"Don't leave me like this! I'll give you anything you want!"
"Can you give me Andrew back?"
"Look, I'm sorry about what happened. Tell him I'll make it up to him."
"It's a little late for that," she said as she stepped into her heels. "But I will tell him what I did to you." She turned to leave.
"I'll pay whatever you want. I'm one of the richest men in the world."
"Not for long."
"What do you mean?" he said, his chest heaving.
"In a few hours, your balls will be dead. They'll probably fall off by morning. You've been gelded, Mr. Brewster."
He screamed again and again, pulling vainly against his restraints until he fell back, exhausted, onto the bed.
She paused at the door. "By tomorrow, you'll be the richest eunuch in the world. That ought to sell some newspapers."
His screams were echoing through his eight thousand square foot apartment as she wiped her fingerprints off her wineglass and put on her overcoat. After making sure that the documents were safely tucked away in her shoulder bag, Andrea shut the front door behind her and rode the elevator down to the lobby. She treated herself to a taxi back to her apartment.
* * *
Fawn Healy did not show up for work at Brewster Enterprises the next morning. Her hair cut short and dyed back to its natural brown, Andrea kept out of sight for a few days. She had covered her tracks well, and she was surprised when there was nothing in the news about Ronald Brewster. Evidently there was such a thing as bad publicity.
Armed with the information Andrea found in Brewster's files, Ellen Marshall had no difficulty convincing the District Attorney to convene a grand jury investigation into the corrupt activities of Judge Oliver Hauk. The investigation was temporarily sidetracked by the news of Ronald Brewster's suicide, but eventually the judge was indicted on multiple counts of extortion. He was sitting in his courtroom, presiding over a murder trial, when the sheriff came to take him away in handcuffs. In short order, he was convicted, defrocked, disbarred, and incarcerated.
The inmates were waiting for him. It is said that the first time the judge was gang-raped in the shower, his squeals could be heard by the boys in solitary.
* * *
After Andrew Hobson's conviction was overturned, The State Racing Commission reinstated his license, in the name of Andrea Hobson. She thought briefly about undergoing reverse SRS, but after the doctors explained to her that she would never regain her ability to function as a man, she decided against it. Instead, she focused all of her time and energy on her riding.
The first time she put on racing silks again, it almost seemed like the whole nightmare had never happened. She started her comeback slowly, riding in claiming races at second-tier tracks until she regained her confidence. If anything, her riding was better than before, and when the other jockeys teased her about fitting better in the saddle, she knew that they accepted her as one of their own.
Seacrest Stables wanted her back on Buckaroo. The horse had become impossible since the Belmont, bedeviling every jockey who tried to rein in his mercurial temperament. Finally, Andrea felt she was ready. The sporting world was electrified when Buckaroo was added as a late entry to the Santa Anita Handicap, the richest horserace in the world, with Andrea Hobson up.
Over seventy thousand spectators jammed the venerable racetrack that Sunday afternoon, swept up in the nationwide fascination with Andrea Hobson. She was the cover girl on four national magazines the week of the race, but her concentration was only on one thing: the big black stallion that had shown such brilliance under Andrew Hobson.
Buckaroo had seemed to recognize Andrea, and he had responded well to her in practice runs, but he was almost uncontrollable as post time approached. He bucked wildly when the stewards attempted to put him into the gate, and Andrea had to hang on for dear life while the other horses were led in.
Finally they were off, and Buckaroo stumbled badly as he started out of the gate. By the time Andrea had him back on stride, they were far behind the leaders, dead last in the crowded field. Andrea let him settle into his rhythm, reveling in the sensation of riding a 1400 pound thoroughbred moving at 40 miles per hour. She waited until they were almost down the backstretch before she tugged on his right rein and steered him towards the outside of the solid pack of horses ahead of them. Then she leaned forward and shouted in Andrew's old voice, "GO, BUCK!"
The great horse responded as if he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. Ears pinned back, nostrils flaring, he lowered his head and surged forward. One by one, they started to pick off the other horses as they rounded the clubhouse turn. Buckaroo was in fifth place and closing fast when they approached the grandstand, and the spectators roared as Andrea whipped Buckaroo's flanks. Fourth place…third place…with only ten yards to go, they pulled head to head with the favorite, and when they crossed over the finish line, it was Buckaroo by a nose.
It was one of the most spectacular finishes in horseracing history. Over the last half mile, Buckaroo had shattered the record for that distance set by Seabiscuit in his valiant attempt to win at Santa Anita in 1938. Buckaroo might have missed out on the Triple Crown, but he was once again the most valuable horse in the country, and his jockey had been elevated into the pantheon of the racing gods.
Seventy thousand voices called out to Andrea as she guided Buckaroo back towards the grandstand. She pressed herself against the pommel as her frisky stallion trotted along the track. By the time she led him into the winner's circle, Andrea was basking in the afterglow of her first female orgasm. It was a celebration to be repeated again and again, at race tracks across the country, as Andrea Hobson relinquished her grief for Andrew, and reclaimed his stolen destiny.
By the author of The Jessica Project
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