INTRODUCTION The story you are about to read is a sequel to "The Export" by Jacki Pett. If you have not yet read the original three-part classic, I strongly urge you to do so now. You don't HAVE to read that story first to enjoy this one, but why deny yourself the pleasure?

I've been reading TG fiction on the net for a little more than two years and "The Export" was one of the first stories I read. The story was so shattering, had such an emotional impact on me, that I literally couldn't sleep for days afterward. What made it so hard to take was the utterly horrible situation the victim, Laura, found herself in at the end. Never being one to leave good enough alone, I started a campaign to encourage Jacki to write a sequel and extricate Laura from her awful situation. I was able to get in touch with Jacki, but she evidenced no interest in doing a sequel. I let that situation simmer for almost two years when, finally, I decided that if Jacki wouldn't write a sequel, I would ask her permission to do one myself. Please note that, although I am a professional journalist, I have never written a fictional story before. I submitted an outline of my story idea to Jacki and got her approval to proceed last summer.
This story just about wrote itself, primarily because I have been thinking about it for so long that all the twists and turns were pretty much worked out in my mind long before my hands touched the keyboard. In no way do I claim this story to be a match for the original. I do not have the flare for the dark and foreboding and titillating that Jacki has. What I hope I have produced is a fun story that will satisfy the casual reader, as well as fans of the original. Please write a review to let me know if I succeeded or failed.

I would like to thank Jacki Pett for producing the original story and being kind enough to allow me to attempt this sequel; Kelly Ann Rogers, another of my favorite writers, for encouraging me to try my hand at fiction writing and watching over my shoulder during this project; Nalofilk, the consummate professional, for her expert proofreading of every word written here; Hans Staden, without whom chapter three would have been incomplete; and the many wonderful folks on the FM Hyperboard who answered so many of my stupid questions in connection with this story. I couldn't have done it without all of you.

Finally, please note that there is a Portuguese/English phrase addendum at the end of the story with translations of the Portuguese words and phrases that are not translated in the body of the story. Warning: most of those words and phrases are somewhat salty!

 

The Return

by Bluto

 

Chapter 1 - Peoria, Ill.

Harold Lee was having a good night.

He'd already picked up five bales of cardboard and it wasn't even dark yet. The bales fit snugly in his Ford F-150 pick-up and at about 200 pounds each that was at least $30 at the current recycle price of 1.5 cents a pound. Hardly a fortune, but Harold didn't collect cardboard for the money. To most people who asked he said he did it either to help save the earth or for the exercise.

"Don't want to sit in front of the TV all day," he'd tell anyone who asked.

Harold was only 50 but he was already twice retired: once after five years as an undersized NFL running back and once after 15 years on the Peoria, Ill. police force. Injuries to the body drove him out of football and injuries to his pride out of the police, but he got good pensions from both; enough, combined with some sound investments, that he really didn't need to work anymore.

But he enjoyed collecting cardboard. It got him out of the house, it paid for gas and it allowed him to meet some interesting people. He was trying to decide if he should attempt to squeeze one more bail on the truck when he heard a woman screaming.

"Babaca, take your hands off me!"

The voice was coming from the direction of an empty parking lot in the large mall Harold was working.

"Bitch, I'll do whatever the hell I want with you!"

A man's voice. Even at this distance Harold could tell there was going to be some violence. Without a second thought he ran toward the disturbance.

He turned the corner of a building and saw a very large man with a powerful grip on a slender woman. His other hand was drawing back, preparing to deliver a blow to her terrified face.

"Hold it, man," Harold said. "Nobody hits a woman while I'm around."

The big man turned and glared at Harold.

"Ha, ha," he said with a sneer. "That's a funny statement in more ways than one, Sir Galahad. Now why don't you just turn around and make your black ass scarce if you know what's good for you."

Harold said nothing in the face of the big man's threat and casual racism. He had heard worse. The man was much taller but Harold figured he weighed about the same as the loud mouth. They seemed pretty evenly matched and the man wasn't showing a weapon so he continued to walk in the direction of the fighting couple.

In a flash the man launched a roundhouse kick at Harold's head. It barely missed and Harold could hear the whiz of air from the missed blow.

"Oh great," Harold thought. "Looks like we got a kung-fu fighter here."

The man swiftly tried another roundhouse with the opposite foot. This time Harold blocked it with both his forearms and in the same motion grabbed his assailant's leg and flipped him on his back. Harold then planned to jump on the man to pin him down, but, showing surprising agility for one so large, the man back flipped to standing on his feet.

Just then a police siren could be heard in the distance, growing louder by the second. Someone had called the cops.

The big man took off like he was shot from a cannon.

"We'll meet again, bastard," he said as he jumped into his Mustang convertible. He revved up the powerful engine and in a moment he was gone.

Harold was wondering why the man was so sure they'd meet again when he heard a sob and turned to see the woman standing there with tears streaming down her pretty face. In the heat of battle he'd almost forgotten her.

"Don't worry, miss," he said. "The police will be here soon and you can fill out a warrant against your boyfriend."

The woman looked at Harold with a mixture of anger and fear and her green eyes flashed impossibly open as she spoke.

"He's not my boyfriend and I don't want to talk to the police," she said in a husky voice. "Can you please give me a ride away from here?"

Harold's cop training told him that the best thing would be to advise the young lady to wait for the police and keep his own nose out of it. But he had his own bone to pick with the local police and could feel sympathy for the frightened girl.

"Okay," he said. "Come with me."

They ran to his truck and got in just as a Peoria police cruiser passed by. Harold left the mall parking lot and stopped holding his breath five minutes later when it was apparent nobody had fingered his truck to the cops.

Harold drove down Jefferson Avenue, away from downtown. He didn't want to go anywhere near the police station.

"What's your name mam, mine's Harold," he said in what he hoped was a friendly voice.

"Laura," she answered. "Laura de Con—er, Laura Warren."

Harold looked closely at the young woman for the first time and he liked what he saw. Her hair hung below her shoulders, longer than most women he knew, brown with streaks of blonde, thick and rich. Her face was a perfect oval with a cute button nose, expressive eyebrows and those huge eyes. She had what Russ Meyer would call a "cupee doll" face, almost unnaturally cute.

She wore a simple green tracksuit so Harold couldn't judge what her legs looked like. At that moment she unzipped the suit's jacket and Harold nearly went off the road. She was wearing a pink T-shirt with some foreign writing on it (Spanish?) but it was what was in the shirt that grabbed his attention. Laura had two of the most fantastic breasts Harold had ever seen. They were very large, at least a 34 or 36 DD in his estimate, and very firm. They seemed to be putting a real strain on her flimsy black bra and Harold could easily observe the struggle.

"Those can't be real, she's too thin to have breasts that big," was his first thought. "Jesus I'm going to run into that mail box," was his second.

"Something on your mind?" Laura asked with a wry expression on her face.

Harold was quite embarrassed. He had a fondness for breasts and these next to him were prime, but he didn't like his sexual urges ruling him. That had gotten him into trouble before.

"Now she'll think I'm some sort of old pervert," he thought, but he said: "Your T-shirt, what language is that, Spanish?"

Laura took a quick glance at the twin mountains on her chest and she knew what Harold was really looking at. She'd been getting that look for years, but she decided that Harold was a decent guy and that she'd give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Actually, it's Portuguese," she said. "It's an advertisement for the Carnival in Rio."

"Oh, are you from Brazil?" Harold asked. He knew for sure Laura was not a local. There was something exotic about her; her deep tan, her slight accent, her impossible looks that told him she was not from Peoria.

"Most recently," she said and she closed her eyes as if thinking about a far away place. "I used to live in Houston, Texas, about a hundred years ago."

"Whew, you are very well preserved," Harold said, trying to keep the mood light. "How old are you, really? Twenty, 21?"

"I'm 28," she said. "Or is it 29? Yeah, 29, I think I just had a birthday."

Harold lifted an eyebrow at that strange answer. He had a real enigma on his hands and he wanted to know more.

"Who was that dude hassling you?" he asked. "He may not have been your boyfriend but he sure knew you."

"Oh, that was Jack," she said. "A private dick, although he doesn't keep his dick very private. I knew him in a previous life and it was not a pleasure, believe me."

"An ex-lover, then," Harold said.

"He's fucked me before, if that's what you want to know," she said almost matter-of-factly. "I don't think he'd want to now though. I think he likes boys more than girls."

"Err, okay," Harold said. This was more information than he'd expected. "Strange I didn't recognize him. I was a cop for 15 years and I thought I knew most of the local PIs. What's his last name?"

"Never learned it," she said. "You know, I thought there was something cop-like about you. You have that 'Just the facts, Mam' air about you. Why'd you leave the force, you can't be more than 40?"

"Actually, I'm 50," he said, taking some pride in the fact that she guessed him younger than he was. "Police work was all right but it got a little boring, you know. Peoria ain't exactly the big city. So I stayed long enough to get a good pension and quit."

He wondered if she suspected he was leaving out a few details. He could tell this girl was a perceptive one.

"Look," he said. "If I keep driving this way we'll be out of the county soon. Where do you want me to drop you off?"

"Oh, and we were having such a pleasant conversation," she said, rolling those big eyes around fetchingly. "Drop me off anywhere you like."

"Do you have a hotel room?" he asked.

"Hotels cost money and I don't have any," she said.

"Family... friends?" he asked.

"Nope, none of that," she sighed. "I have just what you see. Do you think I can find a place to stay using my looks?"

"Yeah, the jail, if the cops catch you using your 'looks,'" he said. After a moment of silence he added: "You can spend the night at my place if you like. I own a good size duplex and I live in the upstairs apartment. I keep an empty bedroom in case one of my kids comes for a visit but no one lives there but me."

Laura looked at Harold carefully. She had been hurt by those she thought she could trust before, hurt to the point that death seemed preferable to life. Should she trust this stranger after years of trusting no one?

"Okay, fine," she said. "You don't snore do you?"

"Like a sawmill," he answered. "But you'll be in another room and the walls are thick. I don't think you'll have any trouble falling asleep."

Within 10 minutes they were easing into Harold's garage. He lived on a neat, quiet, middle class street. His house was large, but not pretentious. Laura could see it had a fresh coat of paint and the lawn had that fresh mowed smell.

They climbed up one flight of stairs and they were home.

"Please excuse the dust," he said. "The cleaning lady is on vacation this week."

Laura was pretty sure Harold was kidding about the cleaning lady. Besides, the apartment wasn't all that dusty, it just looked well- lived-in. Harold asked if she would like a drink; she responded that she would like water or a diet soda. While he was preparing something for them in the kitchen Laura discovered a small piano in the dining room. It was covered in a thin layer of dust and had music books and sheets carelessly thrown on the music stand and the piano bench. The top music book was turned to "The Holy City" by Frederick Edward Weatherly and Stephen Adams. There were also some trophies and other mementos and a photograph of an attractive young lady Laura assumed was Harold's daughter.

On a whim she sat at the piano, uncovered the keys and began to play.

At first Harold thought she had turned on the radio, which he always kept tuned to WBCU, the Bradley University station. Then he heard some sour notes and soft mutterings in Portuguese.

"That piano is way out of tune," he said as he entered the room holding two glasses of ice water (no diet sodas in this house). "Still, you sounded pretty good. That was Chopin wasn't it?"

"Yes, the A flat Polonaise," she said as she graciously took the drink. "You don't know how hard it is to play with these fingernails."

Harold looked at her hands and saw she did indeed have very long deep red colored nails. But some of them were chipped and broken as if she hadn't been able to care for them for a while.

"Do you play, yourself?" she asked as she began another piece, this time by Bach.

"No, I'm a singer," he said. "I bought that piano new a long time ago for $800. That was a lot of money to me back then and I figured if I went to all that expense I'd learn to play. I never did. Oh, I can pick out a tune with one hand but that's about it. That's mostly vocal music I have there. I used to sing in a church choir."

"Hmm, I'll bet you have a nice singing voice. Do you know this song?" she asked, pointing at "Holy City."

When he said he did, she started playing the intro. Harold put down his drink and began to sing. He had a rich baritone voice and sung with religious vigor:

Je-ru-sa-lem! Je-ru-sa-lem! Sing for the night is o'er! Ho-san-na in the high-est, Ho-san-na to your King!

He smiled at her when they finished.

"Nice playing," he said. "That's my favorite gospel song, the signature tune of Marian Anderson."

"Who's that?" Laura asked.

"A very important figure in black history I'll have to tell you about sometime," he replied. "For right now let me show you to your room."

The apartment had two identical bedrooms back -to- back in the rear. Harold took her to the one on the right.

"This is the room my daughter uses when she comes to visit," he said. "She keeps some things here and I'm sure she wouldn't mind you using them. You two are about the same age but you are a lot taller than her and she probably weights more than you. How much do you weigh?"

"Fifty Five kilos last I checked," she said as she entered the room. "Oh, in pounds that would be..."

"One hundred twenty one I believe," he said. "My daughter is closer to 145. She's husky like her Dad."

"I used to weigh 145 pounds... a long time ago it seems," she said with that wistful look on her face again.

"I bet you looked a lot different back them," he said.

"You have no idea," she said, shaking her head slowly.

Harold realized that he was missing something from this conversation, but he decided to let it rest for now.

"If you find anything that fits you're welcome to wear it," he said. "If there's anything you want me to put in the washing machine leave it outside your door. The bathroom is right across the hall if you want to take a shower or a leak. I'm going to the front room to watch a little Jay Leno."

Laura decided it would be good to take a shower. It had been a long time since she'd been able to bathe. She found a bathrobe that was big enough to cover her torso but was only mid- thigh in length. The pajama bottoms were too short in the legs but she wore them anyway. There were a couple of bras also but while they may have been big enough around, the cups were hopelessly too small to do her any good.

"Looks like I'll have to wash out what I have and go bra-less until it dries," she thought. "Hope I don't drive Mr. Lee crazy bouncing around this place."

She also found a plastic shower cap and a disposable douche. Good, she thought, I don't want to get my hair wet; it would take forever to dry. She stayed in the shower for 20 minutes and enjoyed every second of it. She actually felt clean, inside and out.

Harold heard all the commotion in the other end of the house but thought it best to stick to his television show unless Laura asked for assistance. He put her tracksuit and T-shirt in the washing machine but couldn't help imagining what she must look like in the shower, naked, the water bouncing off those magnificent breasts.

"Un-un," he thought. "Don't go there, man. That girl is young enough to be my daughter, and besides, she's here because she needs help. I am not going to try to put the moves on her. I know she caught me starring at her tits in the truck."

As was his custom, Harold switched to Letterman after the Leno monologue and watched that program until it was over. He turned the TV off, checked for e-mails on his PC (nothing but spam,) and prepared for bed. He hadn't heard any activity from the bedroom area for a while and went into the bathroom to perform his nightly ablutions. He was treated to the sight of a matching set of lacy black, bra and panties hanging from the shower rod to dry. Overcome by curiosity he examined the sheer garments. The brand name meant nothing to him but he could tell they were expensively made. He also noted the bra size was measured in millimeters.

"Well, at least she isn't lying about coming from abroad," he thought, as he headed for his own bed.

***

 

Jack Mitchell went directly from the shopping center to the new headquarters. It was located 30 miles out of town in an undeveloped rural area. It used to be a medium-size farm but had fallen into disuse. The owners had died and their children weren't interested in farming so had put it up for sale. The property consisted of a large two-story house with attic, a small cottage for the live-in help and a substantial barn in good condition. The sellers were "motivated" and the price was right and Jack paid in cash so few questions were asked. Renovations were needed, of course, and Jack had supervised those with the help of a couple of handymen/goons he knew who could supply muscle and keep quiet.

Tina and Connie lived here now in the main house, although Connie maintained an apartment in town in case of bad weather or when she had to work late at the insurance company. Margaret was happily living in the cottage. It allowed her to be around "her girls" 24 hours a day. Jack stayed some nights with Connie, but he was too restless to move out to the sticks on anything like a permanent basis. He was only here tonight because he saw a crisis looming.

"I knew it, I knew that bitch was coming back here," Tina said as soon as Jack entered the living room. "When Connie found out that Constanza had been killed and they couldn't find the killer, I knew."

"Oh please," said Jack. "How could you know that Laura would manage to get here from 4,000 miles away? I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen her staking out the old loft."

The loft was the previous headquarters for this little group and their highly profitable and illegal business. It was located downtown in the heart of the Peoria business district and had served them well for years. But due to the nature of their business it was decided that to stay in one location too long wasn't very smart. So after a careful search they had moved here about a year ago. Now they were all happy they did.

"Man, nobody has ever come back before and Laura's not even from Peoria," Connie added. "What do you think she wants?"

"That's a silly question," said Jack. "She wants revenge, that's what I'd want if it had happened to me."

"But you're sure she hasn't gone to the police?" this was Dr. Ben Rompat speaking, another member of the crew.

"I doubt it," said Jack. "She's wanted for murder in Brazil. The police are going to ask her a whole lot of questions she's not gonna want to answer. I'm pretty sure we have an extradition treaty with that country."

"But didn't you say the man who ran you off was a policeman?" Rompat asked.

"Hey Doc, the nigger didn't run me off, I heard the cops coming," Jack spit out. "And he's no longer on the force, I told you. I know who he is: Harold Lee, aka Harry 'Legs' Lee, former Bradley University football star, mediocre NFL player and failed cop who quit because he didn't like the way the local police operate."

"Well, I'm glad you recognized him because I couldn't tell him from Adam," Tina chimed in.

"Oh he was big shit at Bradley when I was a kid," Jack said. "I think he still holds the record for rushing yardage there. That didn't get him very far in the pros, though. They put him on special teams and he got his leg broken twice. Pow!"

"Yeah, I remember him now," said Rompat. "Looks a lot like Jesse Jackson."

"Reggie Jackson," Jack corrected.

"I don't care if he looks like Michael Jackson, do you think he'll go to the police?" Connie asked.

"Not likely," Jack said. "Not unless he feels he's in a real jam. He has no love for the local police."

"Well, if he decides to help Laura the first thing we must assume is they'll try to find us, " Connie said. "And if I'm not mistaken, Tina's the only one of us who's last name she knows."

"You aren't in the phone book are you Tina?" Jack asked.

"Not for years," said the attractive blonde. "But we still have our ads in the personals newspapers. Think we should stop answering that number?"

"Naw," said Jack. "We screen those calls anyway. The only thing she'd get if she called would be an answering machine."

"We need to go over the details of everything we remember about Laura's stay," Connie said. "Who she met, where we took her, anything that might give her a clue as to where to find us. And, Tina, you need to call Justino, he's supposed to take delivery of our latest export soon and this might upset the timetable."

"Don't sweat it, babe, if she does find us that may be a good thing," said Jack and then he told the group his plan.

***

 

Laura awoke to the smell of frying bacon. It had been a long time since she had experienced that smell and it was divine.

"Mmmm, I wonder if Mr. Lee is a good cook?" she thought as she stretched and yawned in the bed. She had slept dreamlessly, the best sleep she'd had in two weeks. There was a knock at the door.

"Hey sleepyhead, how do you like your eggs?" she heard Harold say from outside her door. She noted and appreciated the fact that he did not just barge into her room without permission.

"Over easy," she said. "And add some peppers if you have them."

"Well, shake a leg, baby, food will be ready in 15 minutes," he said as he strolled back to the kitchen.

Laura didn't want to miss breakfast so she hurried out of bed, grabbed her purse, wrapped her robe around her body and headed to the bathroom. She took a large comb from her purse and quickly ran it through her luxurious hair. Despite the lack of care in the last few weeks, her hair had remained remarkably tangle-free. She finished and tied it into a ponytail. She took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She didn't need to use makeup for breakfast but the habit was hard to break. She quickly applied red lipstick and some subtle eye shadow, brushed out her eyelashes and dabbed on some Amarige, her favorite perfume. She took stock of herself in the small medicine chest mirror. She'd been on the run for two weeks and she still looked gorgeous.

"I'm a fucking work of art," she thought to herself with a sigh.

She entered the kitchen and sat where Harold indicated. He loaded her plate with bacon, eggs and toast. To drink there was orange juice and hot tea. She ate the food with relish and noted that Harold was also having his eggs over easy with peppers.

"I hope you appreciate that I don't usually eat such a tasty breakfast," he said. "Usually I just have cold cereal and skim milk but having a guest inspires me to go all out."

"Sorry you troubled yourself over me," she said. "In Brazil we don't usually make a big fuss over breakfast. Just some fruit, and toast and coffee, lots of coffee."

"No trouble at all, Laura," he said as he poured himself another cup of tea. "I'm not much of a coffee drinker. Never developed a taste for it."

"After drinking Brazilian coffee for five years I probably wouldn't like the American brands anyway," she said. "Our coffee is much stronger than yours."

"How does our Florida orange juice compare to the Brazilian variety?" he asked.

"Not bad, but I must say the Brazilian juice is fresher," she answered. "Remember they grow coffee and oranges in Brazil. In fact, I lived on a coffee plantation."

She took a good look at her benefactor. He wasn't super handsome, like a Denzel Washington, but he had a rugged attractiveness about him. The gray hairs on his temple and in his neatly trimmed beard added a solid, dignified appearance. He spoke well, like a radio announcer and she noted that even though he was about the same age as Paulo when they first met, he seemed much younger and more full of life.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said. "Or whatever they call it in Brazil."

"The word is centavo, Mr. Lee," she said. "You've been very nice to me and you don't even know me. In the less than 24 hours I've been around you, you have shown me more kindness than I've experienced in more than five years. I know you have some questions about me and yet you haven't pressed me to tell you anything. I've decided to tell you something about myself—but I warn you, it's a long story."

"That's okay, I've got nothing else to do," he said as he took a sip of his tea.

"The reason I don't want to go to the police is because I am probably wanted for murder in Brazil," she said and was instantly amazed at how far Harold could project tea out of his nose.

"Awark," he sputtered. "You what?"

"I killed a man in Brazil, a very horrible man who made my life a living hell for five years," she said steadily. "And I've come to Peoria to get revenge on the people who sent me to him against my will."

"Anything else?" Harold asked as he tried to finish his tea.

"Yes," she said. "My name's not Laura Warren. It's John Warren. I'm a man."

Awark!

 

Chapter 2 - The Export

Harold Lee couldn't believe his ears.

He had one of the loveliest women he'd ever seen in his house and she was either crazy or a man or a murderer or a crazy man murderer or...

"You mean you're a transsexual?" he asked. "Lord, I had no idea, none at all."

Harold quickly thought of all the transsexuals he had heard of before: Christen Jorganson, Rene Richards, Wendy Carlos, the freak shows on Jerry Springer. Laura wasn't like any of them. There was nothing at all artificial or manly looking about her. Her voice was a little deeper than normal for a woman, but not as deep as, say, Lauren Bacall's. And that whisky voice, combined with her cute face, just made her seem all the more desirable. She was all female, effortlessly female. Maybe she'd had some plastic surgery, but - a man?

"I am not a transsexual," she said, noting Harold's confused expression. "I am a normal man who was changed into a woman against his will."

"Is such a thing possible?" he asked.

"The proof is sitting before you and I'm going to tell you how it happened," she said. "I've felt depressed and even guilty about these things for a long time and I need to tell someone. Some of this I didn't discover until long after the fact and there are still gaps in my knowledge of these events."

Before the story could be told, Harold escorted Laura to the living room. He turned off the news program he was halfway listening to on the television and had her take a seat on his leather sofa while he sat opposite her on a Lazy Boy recliner. She took a sip of water and began.

"As I told you my name is John Warren and I lived in Houston, Texas. I was a fairly average 25-year-old guy, just getting started in my first decent job and full of hormones. I was a salesman for Wells Products and had been there for six months. One job brought me to Peoria to make a sale at Smith's Industries. I finished early and felt like doing the town so I looked up the local date sheet. It's funny, but I can remember that ad word for word: "SWF SEEKS SWM. Looking for the right man to teach to appreciate what a woman desires. If you're under 5'7", slender and anxious to please me, call Tina. We'll explore new worlds together.

"There was a picture of Tina, but what I liked was the cocky nature of the message. 'I'll teach her a thing or two.' I thought in my male arrogance. So I called her. I had to go back to Houston before we got together but apparently I was what she was looking for, so I got a message to visit her here as soon as possible.

"It wasn't until much later that I discovered why she was so interested in me. I was shorter than the average man and had somewhat feminine features. I also had no close family or friends and had always been something of a loner. And I had more than $20,000 in savings in the bank.

"We met in Peoria one month later. I was on top of the world! She took me to what I thought was her home. Here was this beautiful woman and I was going to get her drunk and get lucky. Too good to be true. Then she slipped me a mickey, just like in a B movie. In no time I was paralyzed, I couldn't move or speak, but I was aware of everything that was going on around me. Tina wasn't alone. Her partner, Connie, joined her and they stripped off my clothes. Then they smeared a depilatory of some sort all over me, washed me off and put me in a diaper. Not a Depends, mind you, but a real cloth diaper with safety pins. They talked to each other like I wasn't there and when they did speak to me it was like I was a bocal, an idiot, or a baby, a female baby.

"Then I met the doc. Doc was the only thing they ever called him around me and he must have been a plastic surgeon at one time, but it's hard to believe a real doctor would get involved in this sort of operation. He was telling them all he was going to do to me and they were actually making jokes about it. Then he shot me with a sedative and I was out. The next few days were a blur but I eventually woke up enough to find myself covered in bandages.

"I'd been given breast implants, smaller than what I have now, but big enough to be very noticeable to me. They did something to make my butt grow. They tightened up the area around my eyes and bobbed my nose. They narrowed my chin and made my lips all pouty. I'm sure they also started giving me some concentrated female hormones. They didn't cut off my dick, but the doctor chemically castrated me. My dick was useless and my balls shrunk away to nothing."

Harold shuttered and quietly covered his crotch with his hands.

"So, you're a she-male?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I had sexual reassignment surgery later in Brazil but I don't want to get ahead of myself."

"Did they do something to your vocal cords to make your voice sound so feminine and natural?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she said. "My voice wasn't all that deep to begin with and I never had much of an Adam's apple. They insisted that I always speak in a high feminine voice. Connie said all men have two sets of vocal cords, a lighter pre-adolescent set and a heavier set that gets used starting at puberty. It hurt at first to use my lighter cords, but I got used to it and it feels quite natural to me after so many years.

"When I woke up I had no idea where I was. There were no windows, no clocks, no radio or television. I was kept sedated and I believe they used a muscle relaxant on me as well, because I couldn't even stand up. The whole idea was to keep me disoriented, helpless and dependent on others for everything. I was kept in diapers and forced to urinate and defecate on myself. Someone always came in to clean and wash me. It was humiliating and they wanted it to be that way. They never used a male pronoun in addressing me, always 'she' and 'her'. I actually got used to it. I'm not sure how long this went on, perhaps weeks; it seemed like months. All I knew was that room and my captors. They had an older woman, Aunt Margaret, who was my nurse. She cleaned me and dressed me and fed me and acted like she loved me to death. But, oh, if I crossed her, she spanked me mercilessly. She was a large woman and very strong. I would be punished for anything; talking back, using profanity, not referring to myself as a girl. Anything.

"I was bored to death. For days I had nothing to do but lie on the floor or in a big crib. They fed me intravenously at first and then with a baby bottle. When they finally allowed me to read all I got were women's magazines and children's books. And they gave me three Barbie dolls to play with. I would have nothing to do with them at first, but after a while I started to play with them, to dress them up in the little outfits they provided, anything to relieve the boredom and loneliness. And I kept asking myself why, why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve such a horrible fate?

"I was in this mess because I'd tried to go on a date with Tina and I guess she became something like the 'bad cop' while Connie became the 'good cop'. It was a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome, I was becoming closer and closer to my captors, my worst enemies. I thought Connie really cared for me but it was nothing but a sham. All the time this was going on, I later learned, they were erasing my past. They emptied my bank account back in Houston, then they gave my landlord notice that I was leaving and I'm sure they told my bosses at Wells I was quitting. They sold everything of value from my apartment and my car, which was practically new. They must have made more than $40,000 from the whole deal and they somehow convinced everyone who knew me that I had just disappeared."

"I wondered how they financed this operation," Harold said. "But surely that wasn't enough to make it worthwhile. How many people were involved in this scheme?"

"There was Tina Foshe and Connie, they were the brains of the operation," she said. "And Jack, you met him. And Margaret and the doctor made up the core group of the loft, which is what they called themselves."

"Did anyone punish you in addition to the nurse?" he asked.

"Margaret was the only one who whipped me, but there was something else they did," she said. "Sometime while I was having my surgeries they put something in me that caused extreme, nauseating pain whenever I did something they didn't like. I blamed Tina for the pain, but I realized later that they all could do it to me. It got to the point where I was afraid to do anything that I thought might make my masters mad."

"Classic brainwashing," he said.

"You ain't kidding," she said. "By the time they were done with me I was glad to go out in public wearing a dress and make-up. Anything to make them happy and get out of that awful place. So they took me shopping for women's clothing, dresses, panties, bras, shoes, the works, and I was overjoyed to get them. They spent more than $12,000 on one shopping spree and I actually felt guilty that they were spending so much on me. Can you imagine, it was my own money! They took me to a spa and I spent hours there getting a massage, manicure and pedicure. I was taken to the steam room, given a pro makeover, everything they had to offer. I was afraid people would recognize I was a man and make fun of me or have me arrested. It never happened. I was actually flattered when people, strangers, would complement me on how nice I looked. I was encouraged to exercise and I did aerobics. I was instructed by Tina and Connie in female behavior, how to walk in high heels, how to put on make-up, how to be led around the dance floor."

"Did they keep you drugged?" he asked. "Did they use hypnosis?"

"No, damn it, they didn't. They didn't have to," she said in anguish. "I was so weak. They knew, somehow they knew I wasn't a man, not a real man. A real man wouldn't have let them do this to him, would he? A real man would have fought the odds and beat them all or at least gone down swinging. A real man would have died instead of letting them do what they did to me. I did nothing. I acted like a wimp and now I'm a punk!"

Harold saw Laura was getting very agitated. He joined her on the couch and gently laid her head on his shoulder.

"Look, baby," he said, "those days are over. If talking about this is getting to be too hard for you, you can stop now."

"No," she said as she rubbed her tear-filled eyes on his massive shoulder, "I really want you to understand what happened and you can only do that if you know the whole story. Don't worry, I won't break down again."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"They didn't use mind controlling drugs on me, the pain device was enough," she said. "That's why they trusted me to go places to shop or eat. They knew if I got out of line they could shock my ass silly, and they did more than once. They each had a buzzer button to use on me if I got out of line.

"As I found out later I wasn't the first victim of the loft and certainly not the last. There's a steady stream of stupid young men going into that place and highly disciplined she-males who come out. You were right when you said earlier that they couldn't finance their operations by just stealing from their victims. That was merely a bonus for them. The real profit-maker came from selling their products to rich, perverted gentlemen from South America who wanted to have sex with young men but didn't dare to because of their positions and power. So the people who run the loft somehow got in touch with these rich South Americans and started a business selling them young men they had turned into women. As far as the rich men were concerned they had the best of both worlds."

"Wait a minute," Harold said. "You were sold! SOLD? Slavery, in this day and age? In America? Mother Fuck!"

"I know it's hard to believe," she said, "but it's all true. I met their middleman before I was sent away. His name is Justino Brevard and he was a business partner with my owner, Paulo Constanza. I was rapidly becoming a woman, partly because I had the silly idea that if I cooperated I could catch them unaware and escape. I tried a couple of times when they had me out but something always happened and blew my chance. Before they could sell me they had to make sure I could perform for my new 'master'. That's where Jack came in. Oh he'd had his eye on me from the moment I'd arrived and I was afraid of him because he made no secret of what he wanted to do. He tried to stick his finger in my ass back when I was still helpless in my crib. When they decided the time was right they let him have me. It was immediately after a little party they threw for Justino and Paulo and their wives. I was on display and everybody's eyes were on me. I must admit I was nervous at first, then I sort of liked the attention.

"Later that night Jack entered my room while I was asleep. I was locked in at night but Jack or any of them could come in whenever they liked. He said he'd be gentle, that I'd like it if I relaxed, you know, the usual bullshit. Lord knows I tried to fight him but it was no use. He held me down and forced that huge cock up my ass. I'd been conditioned for this and I'd expected it, but I was still horrified. I had to spend the night with him, like I was his willing bitch, his vagabunda.

"I don't remember how many times Jack fucked me in the next few days, it seemed like that's all we did. I felt ill. I could barely eat. Connie, who was supposed to be my friend (and Jack's girlfriend) was nowhere to be found, Auntie Margaret was busy with a new 'girl' and Tina advised me to let John go and live life as Laura. I'm ashamed to admit that I did get some pleasure out of what Jack was doing to me. Please understand, I was not falling for Jack. I hated the bastard and I always will. But, God help me, I was actually having orgasms. And I noticed my penis seemed to be gone and a vagina was in its place. Of course I realize now that it was just more of the doctor's work but I was so freaked out at the time I thought it had happened spontaneously.

"The thing is, up to this point it was all unreal, like a sick game of some sort. So I had to dress up, so my penis was shrinking, so people insisted on treating me like a girl. I knew I wasn't a girl no matter what I looked like and sooner or later I'd get out. But when Jack started fucking me it was no longer a game. It was real and I was the woman. It didn't matter that I tried to fight. I had become a female sex toy, to be used for the pleasure of men and there was nothing I could do about it. My spirit was broken and I went into a depression that lasted for years.

"I figured out later that sex with Jack was all part of their master plan. They were getting me ready in a hurry for export but I didn't have a clue what their real plans were. My last night in this country was spent with Tina and Connie and some girls we knew from a health club at a Chippendales show. I guess they considered that they were giving me a going away party, but I didn't know it. They even invited a guy I'd met when I was on display at the loft; Ed, I believe his name was, to come as a date for me. I was still playing the game so we held hands and danced and even kissed. The best thing about the night was I didn't have to go to bed with Jack. He came into my room and said he was sorry but he had some things to do. The cocksucker actually thought I'd miss him! I'm sure Connie and Tina called him off because they knew what was going to happen to me the next day.

"That morning, out of the blue, Tina told me we were going on a brief trip to visit friends in Brazil. They had already made all the arrangements and the flight left at noon so I had to hurry and pack.

"After we got to the airport and checked our luggage I finally made my bid to escape. I tricked them in the restroom and was heading for the exit when I collapsed in pain. I was so out of it I didn't even realize I'd been buzzed again. Constanza showed up from nowhere and helped me onto the plane. I was sitting next to the window with Paulo and his wife when the doors closed and Tina was not onboard. I still thought she was going with us but Paulo told me there had been a change of plans. It was another betrayal.

"I tried to struggle but Paulo had the pain device now and he used it on me. I think they drugged me also because I soon drifted off to sleep, but not before Paulo told me what was in store for me. I'll never forget his words:

"Make me happy and you'll have a wonderful life. Make me unhappy and it will be a living hell."

"I was about to experience five years in a living hell."

 

Chapter 3 - Five Years In A Living Hell

Harold was having a hard time accepting all he had heard so far. Here was Laura, to his eyes a beautiful and desirable women, and now she's telling him she was actually a guy named John who had been forcibly changed into a woman and sold as a sex slave to some rich South American pervert.

"I don't know, Laura," he said. "It all sounds like some bad story off the internet. You don't look like a man, you don't sound like a man, you don't even move like a man. I mean, how did you get away from Brazil? Seems like it would take a miracle to get out of the fix you were in and I don't believe in that kind of miracle.

"And besides," he added, "isn't Brazil one of the she-male capitals of the world, along with Thailand and West Hollywood? (He remembered some porn tapes he'd seen.) "Why in the world would they want to pay big money to import men from this country who had been forcibly changed into women when there are plenty of beautiful, home grown she-males already there?"

"I wondered about that myself," Laura said as she took a drink of ice water and a bite of a cookie Harold had offered her. "I think the answer is twofold. Brazil is a more racially liberal county than America. Indians, Africans, Asians and Europeans have been mixing it up down there from the get-go and the general population is much darker than here. My owner, Paulo, wasn't a black man but he was much darker than you, Harold. I'm pretty sure they only imported light skinned Americans, for our curiosity value. Also, you have to remember that Brazil is a third-world county and America is both envied and hated in the third world. Paulo was a big man in Brazil, with lots of power and money. He would be a small fish here. So for a man like that to have an American man at his bidding, compelled to do any and every degrading thing he wanted was irresistible."

"So what happened after they got you to Brazil?" Harold asked.

"We landed in Rio de Janeiro and transferred to a smaller plane for the trip to South East Brazil," she said. "Paulo had already used the buzzer on me twice by the time we got there. I think he did it the second time simply because he liked the way I jumped when it jolted me. In any case, I was in no shape to protest when I was put in a large car for the trip to Paulo's plantation. I wasn't sure how he managed it at the time, but I didn't have to go through customs nor was I asked for any kind of ID. I found out later that Paulo was a distant cousin of the president and had considerable political clout. His spread was just outside Araraquara, in the heart of the coffee-growing region.

"It was hot, really hot," she said. "It was early winter with light snow when I left Peoria but it was early summer in Brazil. The car was air-conditioned, but I almost fainted on the walk to the main house. Paulo pretended to be a gentleman and held me up, which only got me another angry stare from his wife. Can you believe it? The woman thought I wanted that filho da puta, er, that son of a bitch.

"It was a large house with about 10 bedrooms, none of them air- conditioned. I thought I was going to die from the heat, which wasn't so bad because I wanted to die anyhow. My room was on the second floor right down the hall from the master bedroom. It had a queen size bed, a large dresser and a walk-in closet but no bathroom."

"This is your home," Paulo told me as the servants brought my bags. "You will live here from now on. You will never leave. And if you try to leave, you will be sorry."

He used the buzzer on me one last time to prove his point.

"Please don't do that to me any more," I begged with tears in my eyes. "I'll be good, I'll do anything you like."

"Oh yes, little veado, that you will because you belong to me," he said with a glint in his coal black eyes. "You will do anything and everything I want. There is no doubt about that."

He took me in his arms then and kissed me hard. His tongue tasted of stale cigars and tooth decay. For all his money, Paulo wasn't much into dental hygiene. I almost vomited in his face but I dared not.

"They tell me you are new to the ways of love as a woman," he said. "Is that true?"

"Yes," I said. "The only one I've had sex with is Jack. You met him at the party."

He seemed pleased.

"That is good, little one," he said. "I want to be your instructor in the ways of love. Don't worry, I am a very good teacher."

Somehow that wasn't a comforting thought.

"I will let you rest now as I am sure you are tired after your long trip," he said with fake courtliness. "But so you understand, you are my woman and mine alone. If I ever catch you with anyone else you will not live to regret it. You will not leave this house or this plantation without my approval. Your only function in life is to please me. If you do please me the rewards will be great. If not..."

He didn't need to finish that sentence.

"Paulo left me alone that night and I was allowed to eat my dinner in my room. That's when I found out that none of the servants spoke English. They all spoke nothing but Portuguese. The only ones in the house I could talk to were Paulo and his wife and I think he liked it that way.

"The next morning I was allowed to have some coffee and juice in the kitchen. I was still pretty much in a daze and I was happy no one could speak to me because I had nothing to say to anyone. I tried to avoid Mrs. Constanza as much as I could because I knew she hated me. As the master's wife she was second in command of the house, but I was the master's mistress so she had to put up with me. Most of her abuse was verbal; I don't think she called me anything but bitch or whore for years, outside of Paulo's hearing, of course. I found out later that Paulo and Justino and their friends are not typical Brazilian men. That country isn't as backward as I'd been led to believe. Celeste, Mrs. Constanza, had every right to object to her husband keeping a mistress in her house and could have sued for divorce and taken half of everything he had. He must have had some other hold over her, but I never found out what.

"That night my training began.

"Paulo made Celeste spend the night at her mother's house and I spent the night in the master bedroom. It was richly appointed with rugs and native art and expensive furniture, but all I could see was the king size bed.

"Paulo made me strip for him so he could admire his purchase."

"Amazing," he said. "You look just like a girl."

"He took particular interest in my genitalia. As I told you, it had been arranged somehow to look like a real vagina and Paulo had me lie down on the bed for close inspection. He rubbed my fake clitoris fairly gently and was pleased to have me moaning and gasping. I didn't want to but I couldn't help it."

Harold was feeling a bit uncomfortable.

"Ok, you had sex with the lout," he said. "No need to go into detail."

"As you please," she said. "I don't want to offend you. A long time ago I would have been too embarrassed to tell you the details but I've gone way past being embarrassed by what happened to me."

"Suffice it to say that that was the first of the innumerable times I had sex with Paulo," she continued. "We had anal sex and oral sex, hard sex and soft sex, him on top and me on top. Paulo was also into B&D, surprise, surprise. I was usually on the receiving end of the whip, but sometimes I got to whip him. I had to be careful, though, because he'd buzz me if I whipped him too hard or too soft

"I've learned the human mind can adapt to just about anything. I had continuing thoughts of committing suicide after I got there. I felt I had no reason to live. But somehow, some way, some tiny spark of John remained in me. John might have been a coward but he wasn't a quitter. He was aggressive and assertive to make up for his small size and frail body. It might have made him obnoxious but it made me determined to make the best of whatever situation I was in."

Harold noted with interest that Laura talked of John as if he were another person.

"Having sex with Paulo was awful," she continued, "but he was away from home on business a lot, usually for days, sometimes for weeks. Strangely enough the hardest times were when Paulo wasn't home. Aside from serving as his sex slave I had nothing else to do. How many times can you polish your nails, or style your hair or clean your room? All the housework was done by the servants and Celeste wouldn't give me the time of day. Any books or magazines I found were in Portuguese. Needless to say I was denied any access to the Internet. I spent most of the time bored to death. It was almost like I'd returned to the baby room at the loft.

"I spent a lot of time at the swimming pool in my Brazilian-style bikini, which was about like a handkerchief cut in half. I could look at television in the den, I didn't have one in my room, but most of the stations broadcast in Portuguese. When I'd switch to an English language news station, Celeste, or one of her three maids, would quickly enter the room and switch back to some native language soap opera. I became addicted to the damn things!

"It was then I decided to try to take piano lessons. There was a big old Steinway grand in the main dining room that nobody had played for as long as I'd been there, so after about a year I asked Paulo if I could take lessons. I guess he found the image of a pretty girl at the piano fetching because he approved. My teacher was a local woman they called Madam Helena. She was about 70 and very European in appearance. I think her father must have come to Brazil to escape the fall of the Nazis after WW2. She was brusque and demanding and her English was not too good. But she was a good teacher and I was a good student.

"You wouldn't know this, of course, but I studied the piano from the time I was five until well into high school. I was told I had real talent and my parents were very disappointed when I gave it up to chase girls and try to play sports. It was just one of many disappointments they had with me."

Laura looked at Harold and smiled an inscrutable smile.

"That piano saved my life," she said. "Oh how I looked forward to my lessons. I had something to do that I really liked and when the walls started closing in, when Paulo was more demanding than usual, when Celeste said something cruel to me I could just go to the piano and replace that awful world with the world of Mozart and Chopin and Antonio Carlos Jobim.

"Paulo would have me play for his guests when he had company or for his family when he had them over. He had a son and two daughters, all grown. They hated me about as much as Celeste did, but they all enjoyed my playing. Paulo called me his 'protégé' and insisted I call him Uncle Paulo, even when we had sex.

"I also established something of a relationship with Isabelle, the cook. Isabelle was amused because at first she had to make my coffee mostly milk before I could drink it. She was a pleasant woman and the closest thing I had to a friend all the time I was there. We couldn't understand each other, of course, but that was okay. At least she didn't treat me like a freak or a whore.

"After about six months I was allowed off the plantation to go to town to help Isabelle shop. I guess Celeste was happy to have me out of her face for a while because she was in charge of things like shopping and had to approve of me going along. So Isabelle and I would go into town with a bodyguard driving the car. The bodyguard never said anything to me, but Isabelle was quite chatty. I could hardly understand a word she was saying but I helped her shop for food and other necessities. We went to the market once a week after that and we gradually came to understand each other. She was an uneducated woman but she wanted more for her children, particularly her oldest son, Manoel. He was the only one in her family who had made it as far as what would be high school here and he had ambitions of going to college. But he needed to learn better English and they didn't have the money for a tutor. Isabelle asked if I could tutor him and I got approval. Manoel was overjoyed he'd be taking lessons from 'a Americana bonita' as he called me. We had our lessons once a week in the kitchen and sometimes at the pool, with Isabelle and at least one other servant always in attendance. That was more for Manoel's safety than mine.

"Naturally, in order for me to teach Manoel English I had to learn Portuguese, so we really taught each other. Paulo never made an attempt to teach me the language, but he didn't seem to mind that I was learning. I learned proper Portuguese from Manoel and all the curse words from Isabelle and the other servants.

"A little after I started taking piano lessons Paulo took me on a trip to Sao Paulo. He told me I must look my best and bought me a new gown for the occasion and some expensive-looking jewelry. We wound up at the most high-tone hotel in the city and I still had no idea what was going on. After we got to our room Paulo made a phone call and I heard him talking to Justino Brevard, so I assumed we were on a business trip. At about 8 PM we went to a ballroom that was cordoned off for a 'private party.' Inside I saw Brevard but he wasn't with his wife, Alexia, which shouldn't have surprised me since Paulo had left Celeste at home. Instead, he was with a tall young woman named Petra. She was quite attractive and quite pleasant and I was surprised to learn that she was American, the first American I had seen in more than a year.

"More couples began to arrive and every one of them consisted of a Brazilian man and a much younger American woman. It didn't take long for me to figure out that this was a convention of loft clients and victims. Unbelievable as it seems they got together once a year to bask in each other's company and show off their 'girls.' There must have been at least a dozen couples in attendance and I learned there were at least that many more who weren't there. Of course, I realized I couldn't have been the only man Tina and her crew had changed but it was still strange to see so many of us in one place.

"We started having these get-togethers about three years ago," said Petra in her flat Midwestern accent. "They are a godsend."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"How long have you been here, honey?" she asked in return.

"About a year I think," I replied.

"And in all that time how many other American's have you seen?" she asked.

"None, not a one," I had to admit.

"And you won't see any, ever, Paulo will make sure of that," she said. "They can't take the chance that another American might help us escape. This is the only way we will ever see someone else from back home."

Some other girls joined the conversation.

"We're all in the same boat, sisters forever," said Jacki, a bubbly blonde with an impressive bust. "This way at least once a year we can gossip, exchange information and commiserate with someone else leading the same sad life."

"Speak for yourself," said Kelly Ann, a stunning brunette who was close to six feet tall in her four-inch heels. "I'm not sad, I'm happy to be here. Raul takes good care of me and I don't have to worry about the nine-to-five anymore. Sure it would have been better if I'd actually decided to come on my own. But now that I'm here, I'm loving it."

"Including the sex?" I asked with a look of disgust on my face.

"Especially the sex," she replied. "I don't know, maybe I'm gay, maybe I just like sex, but when Raul puts that big tamale up my ass and..."

"Harumpt!" Harold exclaimed, clearing his throat. "Those are details I don't need."

"Oh, right, sorry," Laura said. "The point is that some of us liked what had happened, some of us tolerated it and then there were those who never adapted. I found out that a number of the no-shows were because the girls had been sold to others, for prostitution or who knows what else. And there were some who simply disappeared. We didn't even want to speculate what happened to them.

"The night's festivities included dancing to a grupo de samba, a fashion show and a beauty contest, judged by the samba players. They chose Jacki first and me second. Paulo seemed disturbed about that and had a long discussion with Jacki's owner, a man called Jair. The man gave him a business card and they shook hands.

"Two weeks later we were back in Sao Paulo and Paulo took me to a private plastic surgery clinic. I'd had enough plastic surgery and was about to protest when Paulo showed me the buzzer.

"Listen here, my pet," he said with a growl. "Don't forget your place because I let you have a few piano lessons. If I say you are to have surgery, you have surgery. Or you can have pain."

"No, please, Uncle Paulo," I begged. "Don't do that to me. I'll do anything you want."

"It had been a long time since I last felt the pain, but I had no desire to feel it again. It seems Paulo was convinced the reason I lost the beauty contest was because my breasts were too small. I wondered why the contest was so important to him but I found the answer out later. Jair gave him the address of the plastic surgeon who had given Jacki her impressive rack and Paulo had brought me there to get the same. The doctor was Guilherme Solo, a somewhat well-known medical figure in Brazil who specialized in breast implants and SRS."

"SRS?" Harold interrupted.

"Sexual reassignment surgery," she said. "Sex change operations. Anyhow, Paulo had long before gotten himself declared my legal guardian by a local judge who owed him a favor. The only identification I had was a picture ID calling me Laura de Constansa. I was supposed to be an orphan and not real bright. Dr. Solo seemed to be a decent man but he had no reason to suspect Paulo of anything since he was a pillar of the community. He even allowed Paulo to be present for my examination.

"She has been depressed because her breasts are so small and she can't attract the young men," Paulo said in Portuguese. (I'm not sure how much of that he thought I understood.)

"She is a beautiful girl," the doctor said. "I don't see why she'd have any trouble getting a boyfriend."

"Oh this younger generation," Paulo said. "She tells me all the boys her age like the big breasts, such as the famous American movie stars have, so she must have bigger breasts, isn't that right, Laura?" Paulo looked at me menacingly and I nodded in agreement.

"I want big boobs like Pam Anderson," I said with a silly grin in my halting Portuguese. "Can you help me please?"

"I'm not sure how much of this the doctor was buying, but if he had any doubts he kept them to himself. So I went under the knife again. When I woke up I had a sore chest and "C" cups in place of my little "Bs." Paulo wanted me to go straight to "DDs" like Jacki, but the doctor convinced him it was better to increase size gradually to allow the skin to grow naturally. So I visited the doctor two more times over the next year and a half until my boobs were as big as Paulo wanted."

"I thought Brazilian men liked big butts," Harold said.

"That's not so true as it used to be, especially among the younger generation, like the samba musicians," Laura said. "That darn American influence again."

Harold had to ask. "Do they hurt," he said. "Do they strain your back?"

"Actually no," she said. "I had continued my exercise routine from my days in the loft and was in very good shape. I graduated from aerobics and started lifting weights. I had my own little set of plastic covered barbells and I used them every other day. When I learned I was to be 'blessed' with outsized hooters I started doing a lot of lower back exercises so there's no strain at all, see?"

At that point Laura stood and slowly bent at the waist until her breasts seemed almost ready to touch her feet. Then she did a backbend and touched her hands to the floor.

"No problem," she chirped.

"Oh, my God," Harold thought as his eyes bulged out of his head. "If that's a man I'm Moms Mabely."

"Apparently the boobs did the trick, because I won the next two beauty contests," she continued. "And I finally understood why Paulo wanted me to win. Whoever owned the winner of the contest got his pick of any girl for the night. So that night I stayed on the sofa bed in our hotel room and Paulo was entertained by Brandy. She was taller than the rest of us and darker. In fact she wasn't a product of the loft but a local she-male who had willingly become the sex slave of a man named Marcos who owned a large soybean farm about 500 miles from where I lived. I had tried over the years to make Paulo happy, mainly because I didn't want to be punished and I didn't want to be sold into prostitution. But I don't think he could ever fool himself into believing that I really wanted him. From the sounds I heard coming from the bedroom that night I could tell Paulo and Brandy were seriously getting it on.

"You see, Paulo liked boys, he always had, and boys have something I don't. He knew I'd been castrated before he bought me but he'd apparently been so intrigued by my looks that he took me anyhow. For a while it didn't matter to him, but eventually he started to grow tired of his new toy. He'd play around with what was left of my penis and I could tell he was disappointed that I couldn't get a hard on. Brandy, on the other hand, had eight inches of fully functional meat. Like most Brazilian she-males she wasn't a true transsexual, but a homosexual who took on the look of a woman to avoid the Latin American stigma against gays. She'd starred in several Brazilian porn films and so for her, life as a kept woman was a step up.

"After we got home, Paulo had very little to do with me for a long time. I was happy about that, but I was also fearful that I might wind up in an even worse situation. Then Paulo pulled a surprise. It was back to Dr. Solo, this time for SRS. I'm sure if there were some way Paulo could have paid to have my dick restored he'd have done it. But it's a lot easier to take away than add on in these cases, so he was going to see if he liked me as a more or less real woman."

"And what did you think about that?" Harold asked.

"Just another brick in the wall," she replied. "I didn't see where it made that much difference. Of course, I could have done without more surgery, but as usual I had no say in the matter. I figured, everybody I know here thinks I'm a woman, I've acted as a woman for years, I'm probably never going to get back to the states, so, why not? At least it will get me away from Celeste for a month.

"SRS is still considered 'experimental' surgery in Brazil and it's not easy to get it, but, as always, Paulo had his way. Dr. Solo explained that because I had so little penal tissue left he'd have to make me a neovaginal cannel by using a section of my colon. I know, sounds nasty, but he assured me that both my new pussy and my asshole would perform perfectly if allowed to heal properly. He looked real hard at Paulo when he said that, which made me wonder if he'd known I was really a man when he did the boob job on me before. Regardless, I went under the knife once more.

"I was really sore for a long time and I had to get rid of waste in a colostomy bag. I had to dilate myself with a dildo every day to make sure the vaginal opening didn't close up. If this had happened to me a couple of years earlier I'd have fallen into a complete, utter depression. But I was developing an attitude. 'Bring it on,' I thought to myself, 'I'll take your best shot.'

"It took more than a month for me to recover enough to go back to the plantation and another month for me to reach full strength. I saw very little of Paulo during that time and I sure didn't miss him. I assumed he was with Brandy, or someone like her, a girl with a stiff dick he could suck on or get stuck up his ass. So what? At least he wasn't bothering me.

"Harold, you said it would take a miracle for me to get out of my situation, well it took a couple and the first one happened just before I left the hospital. I was getting dressed to leave. The bodyguard had already taken my bags to the car. Paulo wasn't there much but he made sure one of his servants was always there to keep an eye on me. I cost him more than $100,000 and with 20% unemployment in Sao Paulo there were plenty of men around who were happy to watch me for $10 a day. Anyhow, I opened my purse to get my lipstick out and noticed something wrapped in toilet paper. I unwrapped it to find a small electronic device of some sort. It looked like a tiny transmitter fitted with little prongs and run by a long-life lithium battery. Suddenly, I realized what it was. It was the buzzer, the pain device that had been the bane of my existence for more than four years. The paper had a note written on it in felt tip pen. It said: "THIS WILL HURT YOU NO MORE. GOOD LUCK, GS."

"Doctor Solo must have found the device when he operated on my colon. I don't know how much he knew about my situation or how much he figured out, but I never saw him again. I was taken to a local doctor for my gynecological exams from then on. I asked Paulo why and he only said the local doctor was more convenient. Apparently, Dr. Solo did not tell Paulo that he'd removed the device and I sure wasn't going to tell. About a month later Paulo and I were playing our little B&D game and it was one of those rare occasions when Paulo felt like playing the victim. He was handcuffed to the bed with his back to me wearing only his jock strap. I was done up in full S&M gear: black bustier, spider stockings, leather thong, the works. And a nun's hat. Seems Paulo was into that whole Catholic penance thing. I had a cat-o-nine-tails and he told me to let him have it. So I did. Hard. Harder than I ever had before. Oh, he howled out loud! I let him have another, harder one on the ass. He was fuming and cursing but before he could think to tell me to stop I wound up and hit him the hardest one yet on the back. That one drew blood.

"Stop, you bitch, stop," he screamed. "Let me out of these cuffs!"

"Oh, Uncle Paulo did I hurt you?" I said in my most innocent voice. By then he was fumbling in his pants pocket and I knew what was coming next. He pulled out the control button and pushed it down hard.

"See how you like this, little one," he hissed. "It has been far too long since you last tasted this pain."

"I dropped to the floor and started flopping around like a fish, but making sure to keep an eye open for when he stopped pushing the button. He held his thumb down for at least a minute. If that thing was still in me I'd have been almost crippled. As it was I curled up in a fetal position and sobbed, begging him not to punish me again. He took away my piano lessons for a month, but I didn't care. I had hurt him and he wasn't able to hurt me in return. That felt good.

"The second miracle was Celeste.

"I don't know what it was that changed her attitude but after more than four years she finally seemed to realize that I wanted nothing to do with her husband, that I was a prisoner in her house and that he was just as abusive to me as he was to her. Or maybe she just liked my piano playing. Whatever the reason, she started smiling at me and even exchanged a kind word. She called me Laura instead of bitch or whore and complimented me on my appearance. I'm not saying we became best girlfriends and started hanging out together, but the ice was definitely starting to break.

"Then one day, a little more than two weeks ago, Paulo pulled another of his surprises, the last one, as it turned out. Celeste was once again spending the weekend at her mother's house and Paulo gave all the servants the entire weekend off. He had never done that before in the five years I'd been on the plantation. Then he told me I was going with him on a hunting expedition to the Rio Grande de Sul region of Southern Brazil, some 600 miles away. Paulo was an avid hunter and liked to tell tales of the wild pigs, how fierce they were and how dangerous, how they could kill and strip the flesh away from a man in a matter of minutes so nothing was left. And Paulo wanted me to help him hunt them.

"Something was very wrong with this picture. Paulo had NEVER invited me to go hunting with him before. Never even suggested it. And we were to go alone, just the two of us. I had no reason to trust Paulo; he'd always lied to me before. What was he up to? Was he going to take me to the middle of nowhere and dump me? Was he going to sell me to someone else or as a prostitute? I didn't want to find out but I couldn't think of a way out of the trip. He had me pack a bag and told me to bring enough clothes for three days. He took our bags to the Range Rover while I said I had to use the WC. I'd noticed he'd left his rifles leaning against the gun cabinet in the den. The gun cabinet was always locked and Paulo had the only key, but in his haste to get going he had left the guns for his second trip to the car. Perhaps he was to the point of thinking of me as a real woman and none of the women he knew were familiar with guns. Well, this gal was from Texas, where EVERYBODY knows about guns.

"I grabbed a pretty Ruger bolt action rifle, clicked off the safety, checked to make sure a round was in the chamber and walked back into the dinning room. Just then Paulo came in from the car.

"Oh ho, little one," he said. "And what are you going to do with that?"

"Kill you if you take another step toward me," I told him, and I meant it. "It's time to stop lying, Paulo. You don't have any intention of taking me hunting; you've never done it before. And why have you sent everyone away for the weekend, so there won't be any witnesses to whatever you have planed for me?

"For the first time that I'd known him, Paulo looked nervous. He fingered his vest pocket, trying to play off the fact that he was beginning to sweat.

"Look Laura," he said. "I don't have to tell you that things have cooled down quite a bit between you and me lately. I thought the plastic surgery would liven things up, but, regrettably, it hasn't helped. Truth is, you are too perfect, too much like a real woman. I thought I could relate to you as a real woman but, hell, I'm already married to one of those, so what do I need another for? No, my dear, the time has come for us to part company. I had planed to sell you to Jorge Bacara. You know him, you've met him at our yearly get-togethers. I'm not sure what he does for a living but he was willing to give me $75,000 for you so it will not be a complete loss."

"Yes, I remembered the man he was talking about. He was fat and short and bald. Rumor among the girls was he was a bicheiro, a leader of jogo do bicho, the illegal lottery, who lived in the South. His girl, Nancy, was a pitiful creature. She always looked haggard and drawn and would never say a word about him. So Paulo thought he could send me to that monster, eh?

"No sale, Paulo," I said. "I'd rather die than go to that man."

"Just then Paulo whipped the control button out of his vest pocket.

"No, you won't go to him, puta," he said with an evil grin on his face. "You will go to the wild pigs so they can feast on your soft Americana flesh."

He pressed the button—and nothing happened He pressed again and again, cursing up a storm in Portuguese. I laughed out loud and threw the pain device at him.

"From my asshole to you, babaca," I said. "Doctor Solo removed this little beauty from my colon when he made the pussy you requested."

"The next few seconds happened in slow motion, I swear, just like in the movies. Paulo bellowed one last curse and reached for his handgun, which he always carried with him when he went hunting in case of snakes. I shouldered the Ruger and took aim. He had the pistol halfway out of its holster when I pulled the trigger. The recoil was more than I'd ever felt before and almost knocked me over but the bullet was true and hit Paulo in the center of his chest. Paulo was a big man but that shell was meant to take out a wild boar and it blew him off his feet and over the sofa. He was dead before he hit the floor.

"I stood there for a while with the rifle still at the ready. I had been disappointed too many times before. I crept up to Paulo's body and poked him with the gun. He didn't move or make a sound. I felt lightheaded. I think I would have fainted dead away from the excitement but I had too much to do. I threw the rifle on the sofa and ran upstairs to my room. I got another bag and loaded it with all my jewelry, what few personal things I had and as many clothes as it would hold. I ran back down the stairs and dashed to the kitchen. I loaded a plastic bag with bread and cheese and jerky and fruit and filled a thermos with coffee. I gathered everything up and headed for the door, where I saw Celeste waiting for me.

"I was so startled I dropped everything. At that moment I wished I'd held on to the Ruger instead of leaving it on the sofa, because she was a lot closer to it than I was. Then she looked me in the eye and spoke.

"Something told me to come back today," she said evenly, moving her glance between me and Paulo's body. "Something about this weekend didn't seem right. What happened, Laura?"

"He was going to sell me to a bicheiro, a horrible man," I said. "When I objected he threatened to kill me. So I killed him first."

"Celeste looked at me as if for the first time and nodded. "He was a cruel man, an evil man," she said. "I know you didn't want to be here, child. I know the hateful things he's done to you. I resented you when you first came here but over the years I've come to pity you and I am so sorry I treated you so unkindly for so long."

"I walked up to Celeste and embraced her. At last I think we finally understood each other.

"Where will you go?" she asked, "For you surely cannot stay here."

"I'm not sure," I said honestly. "This happened on the spur of the moment."

"Well, you certainly cannot fly out of the county," she said. "The authorities would have no trouble finding you at any airport."

"Then I will have to drive," I said.

"Verdade," she said. "I will help you." She went upstairs as I gathered the stuff I'd dropped when I saw her.

"She soon returned with a map and about $1,000 in American money which would be much more useful to me than Brazilian reals. I hadn't even thought to get money and, of course, I had none of my own.

"The best way to go is west to Paraguay or Argentina and then north through Chile on the Pacific Highway. That goes all the way through South and Central America to Mexico. You will have to cross several borders, but most of them, at least the ones in South America, are very poorly guarded. Travel only during the day. Find someplace safe to spend the nights. Don't take the Range Rover. It is too easy to identify and too tempting a target for bandits. Here are the keys to my Fiat, it will blend in better."

"I took the keys and transferred all my things from the Range Rover to the old Fiat. I put the food in the front seat and turned to tell Celeste goodbye. She placed a 6.35 mm Taurus automatic in my hand.

"Take this," she said, "you may need it and it will be a lot easier to handle than a rifle. Please understand. I am not noble. When the servants come back on Monday they will find Paulo's body and call the police. The police will ask me who I think killed him and I will say the Americana. I will tell them you stole my car and my gun and my money and that I think you will try to get out of the country. So if I were you I'd put as much distance between you and this place as you can before Monday."

"I understand," I said and I couldn't honestly have expected anything more from her, but she did offer one last word of advice.

"Sell the car as soon as you cross the border for whatever you can get," she said. "Then get another with that country's license. Do that as many times as you can. Good-bye, Laura."

"Good-bye, Celeste," I said.

"And with that I was gone."

 

Chapter 4 - Back In The USA

"Whew, that was quite a story," said Harold, not sure how much of it he believed.

"Wait, I still haven't told you how I got back to Peoria," Laura protested. "That covers 13 countries and two weeks."

"Look, kid, it's getting late," he said, looking at the clock. "Can we have the Reader's Digest version?"

"Sure Mr. Lee, the full length version would probably take another hour anyway. I left Brazil that same day at Iguacu Falls, the famous triple frontier where Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina come together. I just showed the border guards my Brazilian ID and breezed right through. I changed cars in Ciudad de leste in Paraguay, a place well known for lax supervision of such things. I went through Argentina and Chile in my second car, an old Volkswagen. Then there was Peru and Ecuador. Oh, I wish I'd had a camera; the scenery was beautiful. Colombia made me nervous with the drug cartels and leftist guerillas but I somehow made it through unnoticed. I was driving a Chevy van by this time. Then Panama, I had a little trouble there and had to use most of my American money to bribe my way past the Canal guards. Next was Costa Rica, then Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala. I'd left the Pacific Highway by this time and entered Mexico on the Gulf of Mexico side. One last car change put me in an old beat-up Oldsmobile, but it ran well. I made it all the way to Matamoros and ran into my first real trouble at a border crossing.

"I knew the U.S. border would be tough because of 9/11. I wasn't about to try to bribe an American border agent, but I knew my Brazilian ID would do me no good. I thought about hiring one of those 'mules' to get me across the border illegally but by this time my jewelry was all gone and I only had a few hundred in cash left. Then I thought of something my buddies and I used to do in college. I went into town and found a bunch of partying college students. I gave them some bullshit story about losing my bus ticket and my papers and would they please give me a lift?"

"Boy, you were taking a chance," said Harold.

"Not really," she said. "These were pretty wholesome-looking kids and they were just out for a good time. Besides, if any of them got too frisky I still had Celeste's pistol. So we all piled into their van and headed for Brownsville. I went to the back and stayed out of sight. There was a huge line of traffic and when we finally got to the border the guards just checked a few of the boys' IDs and let us pass. I offered the guys money for their help but they refused so I kissed all of them good-bye and caught a bus for Houston."

"Yes, I wondered what had happened there," he said.

"Not much, I'm afraid," she said with a sigh. "The first place I went was to my old apartment. I don't know what I expected to find but it had been rented to someone else years earlier. When I asked the landlord what had happened to John Warren he said he didn't know. He did remember there was a big yard sale more than five years ago and all of John's belongings were gone. Next I tried my bank. I still remembered John Warren's account number but that had been closed long ago. In desperation I went to my parents' house. Despite what I looked like I'd have to convince them somehow I was their son and get them to help me. But I found that they had moved without leaving a forwarding address. I was stumped. I had no other family in Houston and my friends wouldn't know me from Adam, or Eve as the case may be. It wouldn't do any good to go back to Wells Products, who would believe me there?"

"So you went to the only other place where you still had a connection," Harold said.

"Exactly," she said. "I used just about the last of my money and took the Greyhound to Peoria. I didn't have a plan. I didn't know what I'd do when I got here. This was the place where it all began and something told me it would end here as well. I left my remaining possessions in a locker at the bus terminal and had a cab take me to where I remembered the loft was located. But, once again, I was too late. I found the loft building occupied by a legitimate business and no one there had heard of Tina Foshe or any of the others. I could feel the old depression slowly coming back so I took a cab to the mall where you saw me yesterday. I'd planed to get a cup of coffee and try to pull myself together when I ran into Jack. He told me he'd been on the lookout for me and had followed me from the old loft building. And that's where you entered the picture."

Harold waited a few moments, as if digesting the flood of information he'd just been given. He wondered how much of this fantastic story was true. He wanted to believe the girl and felt compelled to help her, but not if she was lying to him. He'd had enough of lying women to last a lifetime. Finally he spoke.

"Yeah, that's quite a story, Laura or John as the case may be," he said, rising from the sofa. "Do you mind going somewhere with me? Don't worry, it's not to the police."

"Well, sure," she said. "Just let me change and we can be on our way."

"Keen."

Twenty minutes later they were back in Harold's truck. As the day was warm Laura decided to wear some stretch shorts she found in her bedroom and an large T-shirt Harold donated with a "Big Johnson" cartoon on it. She decided to ignore the irony.

 

The first place they stopped was Riverside Recycling, as Harold wanted to get rid of the cardboard he'd collected the day before. Laura had never seen a place like this, even when she was John. After getting it weighed, Harold backed his truck up to a conveyor belt and started unloading the bails of compressed cardboard. Laura was impressed with the ease with which he wrangled each heavy bail off the truck and onto the conveyor while the workers at the site were impressed with her.

"Woowee, Harold," said one, a rather dirty fellow with less than a full set of teeth. "Who's that, a friend of Vickie's? She's sure too young to have anything to do with a has-been like you."

"She's just a friend, Cap," Harold said. "And stop slobbering, you're getting the cardboard wet."

The other workers howled and slapped their knees.

The ton of cardboard netted Harold exactly $30.00.

"Not much," said Laura.

"More than you got," he answered. "And enough for lunch."

"Point taken," she replied. "I'll bet you still have the first dollar you ever made."

"Yep, got it framed on the wall in my bedroom," he replied with a smile.

Next they went to the Greyhound station to retrieve her bag. She checked the contents when they got back in the truck. Some prescriptions for hormones, some cosmetics, a set of earrings, a toothbrush, an exercise tape, some foreign currency, a couple of photographs, a dildo and a small automatic pistol. Harold suggested that she keep the gun under the seat since she didn't have a license. One of the photos was of a middle-aged woman with distinct Indian features and the other was of a dark, good-looking youth.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"This is Isabelle and her son, Manoel," she said, a slight tear coming to her eye. "They're the only people from the last five years I will miss."

Harold picked up the dildo with his thumb and forefinger.

"Are you still using this?" he asked.

"Only when I'm horny," she said with a straight face. "Actually, I haven't used it for more than two weeks. But I don't think I'm closing up 'down there' because I had no problem using one of your daughter's disposable douches last night."

Harold suggested they eat lunch because they would have to wait until after 4:00 PM for their next stop. So they went to White Castle for some sliders and Harold made a phone call.

"All set," he said as he went back to finish his cheese fries.

The 4:00 appointment was in a nice part of town with fairly new big houses. They stopped at a two-story colonial and Harold escorted Laura inside.

"Laura, meet Dr. Zingman," Harold said. "Herbert, here's the young lady I told you about."

"How do you do, Dr. Zingman," Laura said as they shook hands. She wondered when Harold was going to tell her what was up.

"Herbert runs a clinic in one of the more economically challenged areas of town, but when I first met him he was an ob/gyn," Harold said. "Would still be one except the cost of liability insurance ran him out of his practice."

"A damn shame," Dr. Zingman spoke for the first time. He was in his early sixties, about 5'8" and a bit paunchy. He had bushy salt and pepper eyebrows and a kind face. "Still got all the equipment in the back room here."

With that he led the way to a room that was fully equipped for a medical office.

"Laura, I hope you don't mind but I want the doctor to verify some of the things you told me," Harold said. "I'd understand if you object but I'd feel a lot better if you get Herbert's okay."

Laura thought for a minute, then said, "It's okay. I don't want you to have any doubts about me, Harold."

With that Dr. Zingman shooed Harold out of the room and asked Laura to remove her shirt and shorts. He dispensed with the clinical robe but had turned up the thermostat so she was quite comfortable. He first examined her breasts, lifting and gently moving them around. He didn't ask her to remove her bra.

"You have had breast enhancement by two different doctors, yes?" he asked.

"Well, sure, Harold told you that didn't he," she replied.

"Actually no, all Harold told me was a friend of his needed a gynecological exam and it couldn't go through the regular channels," he said. "The first operation was with incisions under the arms. The incisions are almost imperceptible. Good work. The second was a series of operations from under the breast. Also good work. They gave you a couple of whoppers with no stretch marks."

Laura almost chuckled in spite of herself.

"Now, my dear, it's off with the panties and into the stirrups," he said as he pulled on some rubber gloves and lubricated them.

This was the part Laura dreaded. She knew it was coming but she still had enough of John in her to resent the need.

Dr. Zingman put an operating light on his head and first studied the outside of her pubic area. He then gently manipulated the lips and vulva and ever so slightly touched the clitoris, sending a shiver through Laura's body.

"Hmmm," he grunted in approval.

He then inserted his middle finger in her vagina and rotated it slowly. He worked his way in as deeply as he could and seemed satisfied. He disposed of the gloves, put on another pair, lubricated them and went on to examine Laura's anus. After a few minutes he wiped the area off and told Laura she could get up and put her clothes back on. When she was dressed he called Harold back into the room.

"Remarkable," he said. "That is some of the best sexual reassignment surgery I have ever seen. Where did you have it done, my dear?"

"It was done by Dr. Guilherme Solo," she said.

"From Brazil?" he asked.

"Yes, that's the one," she said.

Harold was impressed.

"Harold, my boy, why didn't you tell me your lovely friend was transgender," Dr. Zingman asked. "You didn't believe it?"

"Actually, I'm not transgender," Laura spoke up. "This was done to me against my will. I was a heterosexual man named John before this was forced on me. I had no desire to be a woman."

"You had your sex changed against your will?" Zingman gasped. "How did they do it?"

"Kidnapping, drugs, isolation, brainwashing, physical and psychological threats," Laura said. "I wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me."

"I see," Zingman said. "How long ago did this happen?"

"It started more than five years ago," she said. "But I didn't have SRS until less than a year ago."

"So, what kind of preparation did you have for your sex change?" he asked.

"Preparation? None, really," she said. "One day I was a man and a month later I was a woman for all intents and purposes."

"And you have no depression, no thoughts of suicide?" he asked.

"I was in a black depression for years," she said with a shiver. "And I thought of suicide all the time. Then survival itself became the only way I could fight back against the ones who did this to me. As long as I lived they hadn't won. So I lived."

"Astounding, remarkable," Zingman said and looked at Harold. "Even someone willing to have a sex change must go through years of preparation, of psychological profiles, gradual hormone treatments, living as the proposed gender, before any surgery is done. The reason being the good possibility of emotional or psychological damage resulting from hastily undergoing changes that cannot be reversed. It is amazing that Laura can function at all given what has been done to her."

"So you're buying her story?" Harold asked.

"My friend, why in the world would someone make up such a story?" Zingman asked. "I can't give her a lie detector test but from what I've seen, I'd be inclined to believe her."

"Glad to have your stamp of approval, Doc," Laura said.

"You're welcome," he replied. "By the way, should I refer to you as Laura or John?"

The question caught both Laura and Harold by surprise.

"John is my name, the name I was born with," Laura said. "But John doesn't really fit what you see in front of you does it? Those bastards who did this to me gave me the name Laura and eventually I'll have to replace it with a name of my own selection. But for now, Laura will do."

"I see," Zingman said. "So I take it you and the good Mr. Lee are on the trail of those who did this to you?"

"You got it, Herbert," Harold said. "But they were real cagey, didn't use full names around her. She doesn't even have a first name for the doctor who worked on her."

"Oh I know who that was," Zingman said matter-of-factly.

"What!" Harold and Laura said in unison.

Zingman approached Laura and looked closely at her face.

"If I'm not mistaken, this was the work of Ben Rompat, an old associate of mine, who was rather too fond of the bottle," he said as he held her face in his hand. "A surgeon's style is almost as individual as his handwriting. The underarm incisions were the clue."

"Rompat, yeah, that figures," said Harold with a snap of his fingers. "'Bout 12 years ago, this Rompat got into some big trouble for operating while under the influence. Mutilated a couple of his patients. Got barred from practice and had a shitload of lawsuits to pay. He was lucky he didn't wind up in jail."

"So you think this Rompat was so strapped for money he'd get involved with Tina and her crew," Laura said.

"Sure, why not?" Harold said. "Whoever worked on you was good, very good. A legit plastic surgeon wouldn't have touched you with a ten-foot scalpel, but I guess Rompat felt he had nothing to lose. Hey, Doc, do you know where this dirtbag lives?"

"I have his address as of six months ago," Zingman said. "I think he's still in the phone book."

"Great, let's give the good doctor a little visit."

***

Justino Brevard was not happy.

"Estamos fudidos!" he shouted over the phone in Tina's ear. "Merda! Vagabunda! Vaca!"

"English, Justino, English," she said to try and calm him down. "I can't understand a thing you're saying."

"That bitch, that bitch, she killed poor, dear Paulo and now you tell me she's back in the states?" he shouted. "How could this happen?"

"Look Justino, we're just as surprised and upset as you are, nothing like this has ever happened before," she said.

"I wonder if I should continue doing business with you people," he said. "After I make this latest pickup I'm looking into a concern I heard about in New York City, called The Syndicate. They're a big-time outfit, not a collection of como uma bestas from the sticks."

"There's no need to be insulting and no need to be in a hurry to look elsewhere," Tina said. "Our latest export is the prettiest one yet." And then she tried to change the subject. "How is Paulo's wife doing, what was her name, Celeste?"

"Oh Celeste is doing very well," Brevard said. "A week in mourning and she was ready to take over his business. Told her son he was too young for the responsibility. Now I hear she is joining a women's rights group! Oh if only Paulo were here to put her in her place again."

"Don't worry, Justino," Tina said. "If Laura shows up snooping around, Jack has a plan for her."

"You listen to me," he said, his voice like rusty razor blades. "Kill that bitch, that puta murderer. Kill her for me and I will give you $50,000."

"Hey, we aren't hired assassins," she protested. "They don't allow death squads in America."

"Kill her, or I will do it myself," he said and ended the conversation by slamming his phone on its cradle.

Tina didn't like the way that conversation had gone. She was a kidnapper and identity thief but she was no murderer. She justified what she did by telling herself the men were merely being taught a lesson and only got what they deserved. Whatever happened to them after they were sold was out of her hands. She looked at Jack, who was lounging on a sofa waiting for her to finish with the phone.

"Justino is really upset," she said. "He wants to pay us $50,000 to kill Laura."

"Yeah?" he said taking a sip of his iced tea. "Cool."

***  

The trip to Dr. Rompat's house was a long one as he still lived downtown. Harold reached in the F-150's glove compartment and pulled out a cigar, a CAO Criollo.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked as he rolled down his window.

"Not at all, help yourself," Laura said cheerfully. She was in a good mood because it seemed like they were making progress. She was so glad she'd run into Harold yesterday.

"Mmmm," she said. "That cigar smells good."

"Really? Most women hate it when I smoke," he said. "Even the women who smoke cigarettes themselves complain. But I guess you aren't like most women."

"Oh John wasn't a smoker," she said. "I was always told 'smoking will stunt your growth' and I was such a pip-squeak to begin with I didn't want smoking to hold me back even more. I learned to like cigars in Brazil. Isabelle smoked them and taught me to as well. Of course, I couldn't smoke around Paulo, too unladylike. Mind if I have one?"

"Help yourself," Harold said. "You know where they are."

He was amused to see delicate little Laura expertly clip off the tip of the cigar and wet it down in her mouth. She used the dashboard lighter to fire it up and was soon puffing rings.

"Ola'," she said. "That's a good smoke."

Before long they were in front of Rompat's non-nondescript apartment building. It was gray and depressing in a gray and depressing neighborhood.

Rompart lived on the second floor.

"Remember, let me do the talking," Harold said as they walked up the stairs. "I've got a little more experience than you do questioning perps."

He knocked on the door a few times, heard a 'just a minute' and the door was opened. Standing there was a rather grizzled fellow in a dirty bathrobe. He had a slight stoop to his posture and wore thick glasses that made him look older than his 65 years.

"You Ben Rompat?" Harold asked.

"Who wants to know?" Rompat answered. Harold could see he had an empty glass in his hand and a half empty bottle of Heaven Hill on his living room table.

"Me and this young lady want to know," Harold said, as he stood aside so Rompat could see Laura for the first time. Rompat's face was in an alcoholic haze, but Harold could see his eyes grow wide with recognition. "She's an old patient of yours, Doc, name's Laura, but when you first met her she was still John Warren."

Rompat sobered up in an instant.

"Never laid eyes on her before," he said. "Why'd you come here?"

"Cut the bullshit, Rompat," Harold said, his voice growing harsh. "We know who you are and we know what you did to John. What we want to know is where to find your cronies. Where'd you move the loft? Where's Tina, Connie and Jack?"

"You're crazy," Rompat said as he wiped his upper lip with a dirty sleeve. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Make it easy on yourself, Rompat," Harold continued. "Let us have the others and I'll see if I can get a plea bargain for you. You'll die in jail otherwise."

"Like you were still a policeman," Rompat spat back. "Oh I know who you are, Mr. Harold Lee, and I know you have no right to come busting in here like you were the law. Get out!"

Harold smiled and turned to leave.

"You're right, I'm not on the force anymore," he said. "But I've still got plenty of friends who are and they'll be keeping an eye on you so don't try to skip town. I also know a few people who work for the IRS who might like to know where you got the money to pay off all those lawsuits."

"I sold my house," Rompat shouted. "I do consulting work. I have to live in this shithole because I can't afford anyplace else."

With that, Harold smiled again, pivoted and headed down the stairs. Laura waited and gave Rompat a look of pure hatred.

"Remember what happened to Constanza," she said with an evil grin. Then she skipped down the stairs humming a bossa nova tune.

Harold and Laura spent the next several hours watching Rompat's apartment building hoping he'd panic and lead them to the others, but he stayed home all that night.

"That was pretty clever, what you said to him," Harold told her as they waited. "I'll bet the old rummy pissed his pants."

"You were pretty clever, yourself," Laura said.

"Well, seeing as how we don't have enough evidence to nail the fucker, I wasn't nearly clever enough," he said. "We'll have to hope the old boy slips up while we work on some other leads."

A few minutes passed in silence, then:

"Hey, Harold, how come a desirable guy like you isn't married?" Laura couldn't believe she'd said that. She was just trying to make conversation, but that was such a... female thing to say.

"Been married, twice," Harold said, looking straight ahead. "Married and divorced. Was married for a total of five years, five years in a living hell."

"Well, that's no good," Laura said. "What went wrong?"

"I got married for the wrong reasons, kid," he said as he lit another cigar. "My mother used to tell me you should only get married because that's the only thing you want to do, meaning the person you marry has to be the most important thing in your life. I married for lust, not love. I saw a babe with big tits and desire overcame good sense twice. I have rotten relations with women, all the women I'm attracted to turn out to be dingbats and gold-diggers. That makes me pretty shallow, doesn't it?"

"Nobody's perfect," Laura said.

"Look, Laura, I don't want you to make the mistake of thinking I'm some kind of exemplary person because I'm helping you," Harold said. "I'm not that way at all. To be honest, at first I was interested in helping you because you had a killer rack. I wasn't going to try taking advantage of you or anything but I was attracted to you. I mean, if you were as flat as Calista Flockhart I probably would have just dumped you at the Greyhound station and forgotten about you. I was more interested in your tits than your problem."

Laura touched Harold's arm and made him face her. He looked like he was about to cry.

"I don't believe that," she said. "You are a good person, Harold, a caring person and I think you'll always do the right thing. Maybe your wives were just as much at fault as you were. Maybe they were perfectly happy to use their bodies to get you and then did nothing to keep you. Every story has two sides."

Harold blew his nose and smiled.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to blabber out like that. Usually I'm the black Alfred E. Newman, 'what me worry?'"

"It's not good to keep your problems all bottled up inside you, I should know," she said. "Besides, you don't have to worry about being attracted to me. I'm a man and you aren't attracted to men, right?"

"That's what I keep repeating to myself," he said. "Like a variation on Jack Lemon's chant from "Some Like It Hot,' SHE'S A MAN, SHE'S A MAN, SHE'S A MAN.'"

"You know I've never seen that movie," she said. "Heard about it but never saw it."

"Well, hell, I've got it on tape," he said. "Want to knock off for the night and go take a look?"

"I'd love to, Harold, lead the way."

So they left their post and headed home. Once there Harold pulled out the tape and went to the kitchen to microwave some popcorn. There was a message on his answering machine:

Harold, Herbert here.

Listen, I told Daisy about your friend and she wants to meet her. In fact, she wants you to bring her over in the morning. I told her what Laura was wearing and you know how Daisy is. Wants to take her to Dillard's for some new clothes. I'm afraid she thinks Laura is potential girlfriend material for you. Oy vey!

"Whose voice was that I heard from the kitchen?" Laura asked as Harold entered the living room with a big bowl of popcorn.

"That was Herbert," he said. "His wife wants to take you shopping for clothes tomorrow."

"Clothes?" she exclaimed. "But I don't have any money and I sure can't let you pay."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Number one, Daisy manages the entire women's department at Dillard's, so I suspect she can get everything wholesale. Number two, she thinks you're my girlfriend so she won't let you pay for anything. That's just the way she is."

"Well, it looks like tomorrow is going to be quite a day," she said, then she settled back to enjoy the movie.

 

  

  

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