Vampyra, Ch. 2
The New Girl: Poetic Justice

© 1998, Stefi-Lee

Dan Trudeau moved uneasily through the early evening crowds wending his way through Jackson Square, stopping momentarily to gaze at the cathedral. For 28 years, he'd lived near it yet now, for the first time, he stopped to look at it in detail.

It was awe-inspiring how, considering the construction methods available at the time of its building, such a massive and exquisitely detailed project could have been undertaken, not to mention getting it to remain intact, atop the water-sodden muck that is the soil of the river basin, for more than 300 years.

Glancing at the cross atop the high, curved entrance, he found himself strangely anxious. Whatever appreciation he'd felt for the ancient structure only moments before, turned to a curious foreboding. He turned away, moving with some amount of disgust past one of the too-many mimes in the quarter, and turned right on Decatur, heading toward Bourbon Street.

Life in New Orleans was hard for a cop, especially one with a conscience and a moral commitment. Trudeau had joined the force, six years before, a joint degree, in law enforcement and sociology from Tulane, gracing his short resume.

Underpaid and as corrupt as any in the nation, the New Orleans Police Department walked a fine line between permitting the hedonism which fueled the local tourist industry, and keeping it in check so it didn't get out of hand. A little prostitution resulting in a smiling tourist--no problem. A beat-up john who might bad mouth the city when he flew back to Kansas City--very bad. A commodities broker from Chicago wanting to score a little crack for his "party"--so what. A crack head kid trying to stave off the shakes by trying to score on the street, in front of the tourist hordes--lock him up. The "rules" weren't there and the guidelines didn't exist, except at the discretion of the individual cops. So the rulebooks were written with dollar signs.

There wasn't a dealer or hooker on the street who hadn't paid off a cop at one time or another--in one way or another.

But Trudeau had kept himself above that. He was one of the many plainclothes cops who mingled with the French Quarter crowds every evening. In time, he'd come to know every pimp, every hooker, every dealer and every hustler in the quarter. And, they respected him. He dealt with them fairly and evenly. Though small and slightly built, he was hard as a rock.

Once, rounding a corner, he'd encountered two drunken, Yankee college students slapping a prostitute around. Yelling at them to stop, they turned angrily to confront him. Before identifying himself as a cop, he'd grabbed one under the arms, hoisting him up and, slamming him into the brick wall behind him, rendered him momentarily unconscious. As the other rushed him from behind, grabbing him, he brought his heel up behind himself, crushing his assailent's nuts.

As his incapacitated foes regained their composure, Trudeau helped them to there feet. "Boys," he said, as he withdrew his .38 from the holster under his jacket, pointing it straight in the face of the first fallen, "I don't want to see you on the street again...ever. We don't take lightly to people slappin' women around down here."

Eyes as large as saucers as he looked up the bore of the .38, the college kid stuttered out, "Please...w-w-w-we'll leave. I-I-I'm sorry. Things just got out of hand."

Fucking punk, Trudeau thought as his nose was assaulted by the whisky on the breath of the offender. "Just get the fuck out of here...NOW."

Both hurried away, as best they could, into the darkness.

He turned to the hooker, an emaciated, olive-skinned sliver of a girl, with black hair and dark brown eyes, wearing satin hot pants, halter top, and high-heeled knee-length boots. Probably no more than 17, he thought to himself. As their gaze met, he could see the fear welling up in her eyes. She glanced down at the gun. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm a cop."

He slipped the gun back into its concealed holster. "Oh, shit," she said her look of fear now replaced with one of disgust. "You gonna' bust me?"


"No? Does that mean I gotta' blow you? I don't have any money yet."

"No, babe," Trudeau replied. "You just gotta do two things. You be careful to stay outta' trouble cause I'm not always gonna' be around, to protect you, and you damn well better not cause any trouble. You hear?"

She looked shocked. "Yes, sir," she said in a mousey little voice.

Trudeau turned and walked away. Nearly a quarter of a block away, he heard her voice again from far behind. "Mister? Thank you."

He smiled without turning, and continued to walk away.

By the next evening, Trudeau was known to everyone on "the street" as a straight guy and a "good" cop.

But Dan Trudeau was now uneasy. Married to his high school sweetheart, but without children, his meager police salary was barely enough to cover the necessities. of their life together. Their relationship had degenerated into constant bickering and complaints. Finding no joy in the time they spent together, Trudeau made a logical choice: he worked all the overtime he possibly could, not only to earn more income but to provide an excuse for not having to be home. He suspected she was cheating on him during his extended work hours. He had seen the signs...he was, afterall, trained as a detective.

But loyalty and moral commitment were part of his creed. He had, through it all, preserved his marriage vows to her.

At least, until three weeks ago.

There had been an early evening fight on the sidewalk in front of the Roundup, one day. One of the opponents--the one who got his ass kicked--had threatened to come back with a gun. Probably an alcohol-induced idle threat but Trudeau had to make sure. He'd quelled the fight without using force but, after the threat was made, he'd barred the antagonists from the quarter, telling them that if either of them showed their face on the street for the next thirty days, he'd lock them up.

Just to be sure, he'd taken a position on the sidewalk opposite the bar that following evening. Sylvia, a black transvestite hooker, spoke as she sashayed up the sidewalk past him. "Nice threads, babe. You hit the lotto or something?"

Dan Trudeau smiled in return of her greeting. He rarely bought new clothes but the khakai pants and blue oxford cloth dress shirt did look good on him, he thought, and besides they helped him to melt more easily into the crowds of casually dressed businessmen on the street.

He'd stood there for nearly a half an hour, occasionally exchanging greetings with an occassional street friend, when something--he wasn't sure what--caught his attention and he had turned to see a new face on the street.

He studied her from afar. She was tall, 5'-9" or 5'-10" perhaps, her height compounded the the ultra-high heeled boots she wore. Obviously a new hooker on the street, he thought. Exotically made up, she was the epitomy of sensuality--she would do well. He continued to study her. She was captivatingly beautiful and endowed in a manner few women would ever know. Slender legs rose to full hips, contrasting with a tiny waist and bountiful breasts. The longer he looked, the more compelled he felt to continue his visual feast. She appealed to him in a manner he did not comprehend.

He couln't take his eyes off her. She was dressed in shimmering vinyl. The lights of the traffic and the neon signs reflected off of the tight, shining material, emphasing her every curce, holding his attention, riveting his focus, mesmerizing him, drawing him into the projecting reflections. He stood transfixed as if captivated by the image across the street. Without words, the image beckoned to him and he found himself responding to the call.

"Hey babe, want some sugar?" Sylvias voice, as she moved back down the sidewalk was unacknowledged by Dan as, through no will of his own, he found himself walking across the street to answer the unheard siren call. As he approached her, each of her exquisite, provocative details became clearer and clearer. and his focus upon them engulfed his consciousness. His rarely used penis hardened, thrusting out visibly, clearly outlined against the taught, khaki material. As he neared her, she pirrohueted gracefully and, spike heels clicking on the pavement, entered through the swinging doors of the Roundup, taking a chair at a deserted part of the bar, opposite the entrance.

Dan followed, entranced, without acknowledging the greetings from the persons inside, and stood silently behind the goddess as she sat and ordered a wine spritzer.

"Dan? Honey? You OK? Hey, babe. It's me, Sylvia. You having a seizure? You been doing drugs or something?"

No response from Dan was forthcoming. He merely stood behind the vinyl-clad goddess, head bowed, unmoving, except for his cock which continued to grow.

"Dan," Sylvia shouted, grabbing hin by his shoulders, "it's me! Answer me."

Trudeau stood, unmoving and unresponsive. But the chair in front of him slowly turned as the vixen he had followed turned to face Sylvia.

"You fucking bitch," Sylvia shouted as their eyes met. "What'd you do to Dan?" She glared intently into the new girls eyes.

"That's right, bitch, I'm talking to..."

Sylvia's eyes suddenly widened as her words ended. A strange, detached look came across her face. She took a chair, two stools down the bar from the new girl. To some unknown rythm, she began swaying in the chair, slowly at first, as soft moans came from her throat. Unconciously, her left hand went down to her own ankle and she traced the outlines of her leg's elegant curves with the backs of her long red nails, slowly drawing them up her calves, across her knee, then up the inside of her thigh, under her short mini skirt, inside the elastic lace of her satin panties. Finding her erect male organ, she freed it from its satin imprisonment and began caressing then stroking it, even as her right hand found her left breast and began massaging and tweaking the nipple.

Two male patrons from down the bar, aroused at the spectacle before them, joined Sylvia, one reaching his hands under her arms, cradling and massaging her ripe breasts, the other licking his way up her thighs, wrapping his lips around her pulsating member.

"Take it outside! NOW!" the bartender roared. Sylvia, weak kneed and supported by her two paromours, was assisted out the back door, her hands still groping her breasts and stroking her penis. A group of perhaps five or six followed them out to the back courtyard.

Through it all, Dan Trudeau had stood, unmoving, behind his captor.

*I am hungry*

The unheard words appeared in Dan's mind. Without thought or further consideration, Trudeau moved without question towards the front door, the new girl following him.

*you will hold the door open for me. you will say thank you Mistress Stephanie as I step through. you will follow two steps behind me. it is time to feed.*

Trudeau moved numbly to open the door. "Thank you Mistress Stephanie," he said in a loud, clear montone as she stepped outside.

Eyebrows of the patrons were raised as the couple left, even as Cassandra, attracted by the pungent aroma of semen flowing outside, entered the bar, heading out the back door and into the courtyard.

The day after his encounter with Mistress Stephanie, Dan Trudeau had been unable to sleep soundly, awakening every half hour to see if it was still light outside. He knew he was on to something big. He knew it was taking place at the Roundup. He knew he had to get back there. But he couldn't recall what it was, knowing only that he had to return. He recalled nothing of the details of his previous evening excepting the vision of the new girl.

Each subsequent day following was a repitition of the former. He slept more poorly each day, barely ate, and became increasingly detached from the reality around him. All he knew was he had to return to the Roundup even though he could not recall why.

Three days later, Trudeau was placed on unpaid sick leave. His wife moved in with her boyfriend that very night, leaving Dan alone in their small second floor apartment.

It was nearly 5:00 PM when he awoke from his troubled sleep for the last time, realizing that the early winter sun would yield to darkness shortly.

Stumbling to the wash basin, he surveyed himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep and nourishment, his face covered with ugly stubble. He washed, then shaved, then moved to the dresser only to find his underwear supply depleted. Moving to the opposite side of the bed, he discovered his wifes lingerie, left behind in her haste to leave him. Rationalizing that he needed underwear, he donned a pair of satin, French-cut panties. Without question, he pulled on her cut-off blue jeans, his cheeks hanging out below the non-existant legs. Nearly four days with virtually no solid food had shrunk his waste to the point that they easily buckled. He grabbed the first shirt he could find--a white cotton T with a teal, grey and pink unicorn printed on the front, slid his feet into a pair of straw sandals on the floor and started toward the stairs. He walked down the steps, out to the street.

The crowds, as always, were already there. A large man in a dark blue suit stepped wide around him as Trudeau, emmaciated and tired looking, made his way up the sidewalk. "Look at that one," the man said as he and his companion made their way on up the sidewalk, "Jesus, you don't know what he might be carrying."

Trudeau paid him no heed as he turned the corner toward the Roundup.

"So what do you think happened to him, Captain?"

Captain Lecroix couldn't help but notice the cynical sneer on Officer Hutchin's face as he posed the question. He knew that Hutchin's and Trudeau hated each other's guts. Philosophically, they were polar opposites. While Trudeau was genuinely concerned for everyone and everything on his watch, Hutchin's motivations served one person and one person only--Hutchins. His explanation that a family inheritance put a new Porsche in the $14,000 per year officer's garage, didn't fly with his commanding officer. Only one thing had kept him from summarily firing the arrogant cop: his replacement would likely be every bit as corrupt in time and inexperienced to begin.

He maintained his civility. "I suspect," Lecroix reply cooly, "that it was the death of his friend, Sylvia."

"Shit," Hutchins laughed, "you mean you think he went over the edge over the death of some black, tranny hooker?"

Lecroix glared at his subordinate. "She," he went on, emphatically, "just like you and just like me, was a person, struggling her way through life. And she was murdered. With Trudeau off, I'm giving you the case."

"What'd the M.E. have to say?"

"She drowned," Lecroix replied.

"How the fuck did she drown," Hutchins queiried? "The body was in the courtyard, a mile from the river. You think someone stuck her head in a bucket or something?"

"There were no bruises. No force apparently was used. The officers who investigated said that there was no source of water at the scene except for the sinks and toilets in the bar. And no one saw her come back in once she'd stepped out back. But," he paused, preparing for the anger he knew would be elicited by Hutchins likely repsonse to what he was going to say next, "she didn't drown with water?"

"What, then," Hutchins asked?

Hutchins gathered his breath. "According to the M.E., her mouth, throat, trachea and even part of her lungs were filled with..." He stopped to gather his breath again. "She drowned in semen, nearly a gallon of it."

Hutchins howled with laughter, bending over into a belly laugh. "Shit," he said, finally able to regain his composure, "where I come from, we'd of lynched the faggot nigger anyhow."

Lecroix caught his temper in check before succombing to the desire to punch Hutchins in his round, red face. "Listen, you fucking red neck bastard. If I ever hear you say anything like that again, I'll have your badge so fast your head--what little head you've got--will spin. The last thing we need is even a hint of racism, let alone some redneck bully pissing off everyone he's supposed to be protecting. And let me tell you something: the only thing standing between you walking around the streets and laying in a ditch is that badge. If you weren't a cop, there's a hundred people within two blocks of here who'd like nothing more than to beat you to death. Get outta' here."

Hutchins smirked as he turned to leave.

"And shut the goddam door!"

Hutchins closed it behind him.

"You look like shit, man. You OK?" Clevis Sizemore, the bartender at the Roundup, was genuinely concerned for the cop who had become his friend. The crowd was light at this early evening period. He raised the trap door entrance to the bar, and took a seat next to Trudeau. "What's wrong, Dan," he asked?

"Cleve, I don't know what's wrong with me. My's not working. I remember coming here each night and then, all I've got is a blank. They won't let me work anymore, my wife took off with some son of a bitch, I don't even know where she's at. You gotta' help me."

Sizemore leaned over the bar and removed a Bud from the cooler. "Here, it's on me."

Trudeau, sipped the beer slowly.

"You don't remember anything," the bartender asked?


"OK, let me fill you in. The last three nights I've been on duty, there's been a cunt here waiting for you. Hottest looking bitch I've ever seen. Always sits right about where were at now. She's a pro. Does at least a dozen guys a night. Must specialize in oral 'cause she don't got enough time to go somewhere, get her clothes off and get back. Last few nights, when you come in, you say hi to everyone, then you see her. As soon as you do, it's like you're off to Mars. You don't speak, you don't move, you just stand behind her stool. She leaves you standing there while she goes out and does her thing. Then after about five or six more guys, the two of you leave together. You do the same thing every night. She gets up, you follow her to the door like a puppydog, then hold the door open for her and you leave together. Oh, yeah: one other thing--you always say "thank you, Mistress," as you leave so everyone can hear. Then the next night, you do the same thing again. Only problem is, the next night you always look a little worse than the night before. Do you remember any of this?"

"What's happening to me?"

"You talking to the wrong guy," Cleve replied. "You need more help than I can give you. Maybe you oughta' talk to Tina LaRue when she comes in."

"The...the lady with the voodoo shop?"

"You betcha', Dan. I think you be possessed."

Trudeau dwelled for a moment on his friend's suggestion. "You may be right. It's starting to come back to me now. The things I've been doing...the feelings I've been having. Cleve, please, come to the restroom with me."

Cleve looked at Trudeau in shock. His friend the cop had never shown any indication of being gay. Dan read the expression on his face. "No, no...not that," he intoned. "I want to show you something."

Cleve shrugged. Even though he didn't think Dan was gay, he certainly was, and he found the smaller man most attractive. "Sure," he said. "Won't hurt nothing to look."

He followed Dan to the back of the bar, to the men's room, followed him inside and bolted the door shut. As he turned toward his friend, he saw his back as Trudeau was removing his shirt. "Cleve," Dan asked as, shirt open, he slowly turned to face his friend, the gay bartender, "what is happending?"

Cleve recoiled, repulsed by what Dan turned to show him. Even as the cop had lost weight, he had grown two, very obvious, very pointed, small breasts. "My god," he exclaimed. "You've been on hormones?"

"No," Dan protested, "I haven't. This started at about the same time as my blackouts. Every day they get a little bigger and they're sore as hell. It stings when my shirt rubs against them."

Cleve pondered the possible explanations of what was happening, as he appraised the changes in his friend. Actually, he thought to himself, Dan looked so helpless standing there with his shirt off and his little girl tits showing. He stepped closer to him, put his arms around him, and pulled his head into his chest. Dan began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably into the comforting embrace of his friends burly chest. "There, there, hon," Cleve said, trying to comfort the mysteriously-feminizing cop. "Don't cry, baby...ol' Cleve will take care of you."

As they stood, embracing in the restroom, Clever could feel the prominent buds of his friends nipples, erect and pushing against his own stomach.

Pulling Dan closer yet, with his burly left arm, his right hand worked its way underneath the cops loose belt line. Finding Dan's suprisingly plump right buttocks, he gently kneaded it with his fingertips. Both men began to moan softly as they embraced more and more tightly, undulating their hips, pressing them together.

*come to*

At the instant the voice occurred in Dan's mind, he pushed his friend away, leaving him frustrated and panting in the men's room.

Zombie-like, an emotionless expresssion upon his face, Dan parted the crowd now forming around the pool table, and assummed his position behind Mistress Stephanie at the bar. She was shockingly enticing. A black vinyl mini-skirt, an open waisted, matching bustiere, and--tonight--incredibly lush, long pink hair.

*are you ready to cross?*

*yes, mistress. why am i only able to think and remember when i am with you?*

*it is our order. no one, no mortal on the outside may know of us. if they do, we must take them. that is why Cassandra had to take your friend Sylvia. she knew. she recognized.*

*yes, mistress. but...but...*

*yes, my pet, you may be as candid as you wish*

*mistress...i don't know yet if i am has all happened so fast...i don't know if i want to do this to people...i don't know if i can.*

Thousands of year's of vampyric evolution coursed through Stephanie's brain. Instinctively, she responded in voice, even as she released Trudeau's mind, to allow him to do likewise: "Do you desire me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do you find me captivatingly, irresistably alluring?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do you desire, more than anything else to spend all time with me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"To do that, you must be one such as I. Do you want to be just like me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Then tell me just that."

"I want to be just like you."


"I want to be just like you."


"I want to be just like you."

"That is all that is required."

*follow me to the courtyard*

Hutchins followed the hooker as she turned the corner off Bourbon. Never, in all of his days shaking down whores and hustlers, had he ever seen anything to compare with her.

Skin-tight purple satin hot-pants seemed to have been painted upon her plush derierre. The scoop-cut halter top, held her full breasts together, revealing cleavage deep enough to bury your head in. Erect, cone-shaped nipples were clearly visible behind the taut fabric. Oh, he'd get what he wanted from this one--but it wouldn't be money.

Cassandra, her back to him, was well aware of what he wanted and fully aware of his every thought, and the mean spirit lurking them.

Turning slightly to the left, so the silohuette of her naturally cantilivered breast would be clearly outlined for Hutchins, against the whitewashed wall of the old house next to her, she looked up the street at a pot-bellied middle aged man, in a plaid sport coat, who had been staring at her.

*come to me*

Enraptured, the tourist came towards her, moving diagonally up the street, oblivious to the taxi which swerved to miss him.

Hutchins smiled to himself as he watched the scene unfold. This was going to be too easy and he hadn't got his rocks off since last Friday when the bitch he took the money from had tried to negotiate a blow-job bargain-plea.

Sure enough, the john approached the hooker and the two of them disappeared into the dark area between the two houses, taking a position at the back. This is too easy, he thought to himself as he moved up the sidewalk for a better vantage. The security light at the rear illuminated their whole scene as if they were stage lights. The john was shaking so much, he could barely remove his wallet from his hip pocket.

Hutchins ran across the street and peaked from around the corner of the white house. This must be the dumbest bitch in the world, he thought, to do this in such a visible spot.

Shaking still, the tourist removed a bill which the bitch held up to the light, to check for authenticity. Maybe she wasn't so dumb afterall. From his vantage point, he could see it was a 100. Placing the bill in the large, black patent bag slung over her shoulder, without further ado, she dropped to her knees in front of the tourist and sensuously, slowly, lowered his zipper, never once breaking eye contact with her client who seemed unable to look away. With her dagger-length, blood red nails, she freed his hard-on, if one could call it that.

Hutchins laughed to himself. The pathetic thing, fully erect, could be no more than four inches long and about the girth of a thumb. But, as he continued to watch, the seductive creature focussed her attention on the work at hand, stroking the backs of her nails up and down its length, then tongue bathing it as she pulled it closer and closer to her full, ripe lips.

Hutchins watched it awe. Though fully erect already, the tourist's rod began to grow. Five inches, six, must have grown to ten inches, as thick as a wrist. The hooker took it into her mouth and began moving her head back and forth, leaving clearly visible trails of bright red lipstick up and down the length of the still-growing shaft.

Hutchins, himself, was beginning to lose control, kneading his own erect member through his jeans.

Suddenly, a piercing cry, overwhelming the cacophony of Bourbon Street a block away, split the night. The tourist screamed--an other-worldly scream, growing in pitch and amplitude until it became the cry of some unknown, evil predator, merging with a like sounding cry from another animal. Hutchins rubbed himself harder and faster. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The john and the hooker were still fastened together, her lips wrapped around his now-enormous member, both howling like wolves in heat, even as semen poured from the corners of her lips.

The tourist's eyes rolled back in his head as he fainted dead away, toppling backwards. The hooker, still on her knees, leaned only slightly forward, catching the john's entire weight in her hand, lowering him gently to a seated position on the ground, as if he weighed no more than a doll.

Jesus, Hutchins thought to himself, she's gotta' be strong. Must be a body builder. Probably works out every day.

"I don't have to," the intoxicatingly mellow, low female voice said. Hutchins looked around him...there was no one remotely close. He looked back up between the two houses. The hooker stood, looking directly at him as if she'd known he was there all along. She smiled, a calm, cool, sensuous smile as she inserted her hand between her cleavage, lifting her left bosom from its satin confines for Hutchins' appreciatiation. She allowed it to drop, exposed for Hutchins pleasure, points of pleasure protruding from the circumference of her lid-sized ariole, her erect nipple thrusting out at least an inch.

Hutchins was going to have her but first he was going to have some fun. With his badge folder open in his left hand and his personal 9mm Smith & Wesson in his right, he approached her. "Police," he yelled, "stop right there!"

One cool dude, Hutchins thought as he drew closer. The vision continued to look at him, smiling cooly as he approached, showing no signs of concern over her possible arrest. "Want some baby," she purred, pulling her other bosom free and letting it drop out and over the halter.

Hutchins was confused as he stared, first at her immense breasts, then into her deep, green eyes...very deep...very green...very, very

*follow me*

Trudeau lay, unmoving, on the ground in the courtyard, adjacent to the yellow, plastic "crime scene" tape.

Stephanie stood above him, pulling her skirt, hiked up to her waste, back down. She would give him time, perhaps an hour, to recover his strength. Then she would give him the final taste which would give him immortality and a new gender.

This was what she wanted. Of all the people there at the Roundup the first time Trudeau had walked in, it was his psyche which had overwhelmed all the others--his strength of character, his karma, his pureness. She had read his mind and known it fully, completely in an instant, including the misery of his daily life. Now, she would help him to the immortality and physical presence she had achieved. They would spend eternity together.

Cassandra, in Stephanie's mind, was evil. She hadn't altered Stephanie out of concern or love. She had done so--as far as Stephanie knew--for the mere amusement it had provided her.

She would leave Cassandra tomorrow night, taking Dan Trudeau--soon to be Danielle--with her forever.

*you are a stupid, ignorant, precoscious, arrogant child*

Stephanie spun. There, in the shadow, stood Cassandra, a new captive, unknown to Stephanie stood behind.

Cassandra glanced at Trudeau, laying on the ground, his chest barely moving.

"You are quite the ungrateful little bitch aren't you. You meant to abandon me. For him," she said, pointing at Trudeau? Cassandra laughed, out loud, a cruel, mean laugh.

"Soon to be HER," Stephanie corrected.

"Soon to be DEAD," Cassandra retorted emphatically.

Something in Cassandras voice told Stephanie that she was not kidding.

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps, my child, seed of my seed," Cassandra continued cooly, "I overstated my description of you. Disregard the stupid, ignorant, precoscious, arrogant child description. Let's just stick with ignorant."

Stephanie started, in a threatening manner, to start towards Cassandra, her vestigual male instancts flaring. Suddenly, every single muscle in her body cramped, immobilizing her in place like a statue.

"Never, never, never do anything that stupid again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress Cassandra," Stephanie replied, wondering even as she did, why she had referred to her mentor that way, a manner she had not used since her transition.

"Did you believe you could know everything about our kind, our traditions, our abilities, our thousands of years of accumulated wisdom in just a few brief days?"

"But," Stephanie stuttered, "you told me I am just like you...with the same abilities...the same powers..."

"True, my little slut," Cassandra replied, "but, like most things in life--or death if you will--it is all a matter of degree. Does a five year old have the same limbs, the same organs, the same intelligence potential in some cases, as a brain surgeon?"

"Of course," Stephanie replied. "What's your point," she flared, immediately feeling a cramping in her muscles, then forcing herself to calm down again.

"Therefore, you would permit the five year old to perform upon you, a delicate surgery, perhaps the removal of a tumor?"

"Of course not."

"Therein, my pet, lies the rub...experience. Despite having all the tools, a five year old, lacking the experience, the training and the practice would, inevitably, kill the patient, just as you are about to do your friend here."

Stephanie began to cry, small trails of semen running from what had formerly been her tear ducts. She turned to look at the all-too mortal. The last feeding she had forced upon him had spawned the changes she had anticipated. Trudeau's breasts had grown enormously even as his breathing had shallowed. Stephanie stood, speechless, aghast at what she had done.

"Just like the medications prescribed by a physician, sequence, frequency, and the amount of our "injections" are basic to the process. The wrong dosage, the wrong sequence, the wrong frequency and you can obtain entirely different results from those desired. This, you ignorant cunt, is knowledge I've gleened over centuries of trial and error, knowledge which, had you been more loyal, I might have chosen to share with you."

"Please," Stephanie pleaded, watching as the life drained further from her lover-to-be, "tell there anything I can do?"

"Doubtful," Cassandra replied, a cruel sneer crossing her lips, "he--well, she now--has gone too far." In her mind, Cassandra set the stage for the cruel tableaux she knew was about to unfold. "But there might be a way."

"This much I will tell you: the sequence. As I told you previously, each time we dine on a male, we take not only a bit of his nourishment but a bit of his male essence with it. If we feed enough times upon a given male, we gradually remove all of its maleness."

"To transition one of them, we must remove in this manner, virtually all of their maleness before replacing it with our own essence. If the sequence is incorrect, if for instance, our essence and its need for nourishment were implanted into a male before his male essence was removed, you would create a male being with none of our powers, but would never-the-less share our insatiable appetite for male jism; in effect, a fairy cock-sucker who lived for nothing else. The little sweetheart would be, by the way, quite mortal."

"Immortality has to immediately precede final transition, and can only occur with the intake of our immortal jism, which must be absorbed over time into the bloodstream. If you attempt to introduce this component before the male factors have been adequately eliminated, and immortality has been obtained, the transition, in and of itself, takes so much of the transitioner's strength that they die."

Stephanie turned, staring blankly at what was now Danielle, as she took what appeared to be "her" final dieing breaths. Sobbing, she turned to Cassandra. "Please, Mistress," she pleaded, "do you, in you wisdom know of any way I might save her?"

"Hmmmm," Casandra said, feigning deep thought, "I do recall, a couple of hundred years ago in Persia, hearing a story about a similar situation in which our one of our types introducing jism directly to the bloodstream rather than through the alimentary canal. It's rather un-tidy though as it requires the tearing of certain "delicate tissues" in order to permit our essence to enter."

Almost instantaneously, Stefanie was over Danielle, rolling the comatose form onto her stomach, pulling Danielle's shorts down as she lifted her own skirt up. She ripped off her panties and immediately her tiny penis grew to horse-like proportions. Without hesitation, she thrust it forward, impaling the sphincter of the one she sought to save.

*your will is now you own* Cassandra stepped back into the shadows permitting Hutchins an unobstructed view of the scene in front of him. He blinked momentarily as consciousness and reality merged into one, to see a pink-haired slut in a vinyl outfit ass-fucking what appeared to be..."Trudeau!" he yelled.

Tudeau's eyes opened as (s)he heard the name called.

"Oh, baby," Stephanie pleaded, seeing signs of life and realizing her last second effort might be working. "Now, NOW!"

She exploded into Danielle, her essence beginning to migrate through the mutilated tissues. Danielle's eyes opened wider. "What, what..." she stuttered.

"Please, Danielle, please stay with me. Now, now you've got to feed on me now before it's too late."

Stephanie helped Danielle into a seated position and thrust her now-mammoth organ through Danielle's parted lips as she began to feed ravenously.

Cassandra smiled cruelly from the shadows as she watched Hutchins, revolted by what he saw, do exactly what she expected of him. As Stephanie pumped her hips, losing control, the first shot from Hutchin's 9mm slammed into her left temple, leaving a small entry wound, but blowing a fourth of the right side of her head away. The impact knocked her five feet aside.

Danielle, uncomprehending of what was going on, turned to look in Hutchins direction. The first bullet caught her in the forehead, directly between the eyes, knocking her back onto the ground. Hutchins stood over the prone body. "You fucking faggot, I knew there was something about you I couldn't stand," he said, as Trudeaus corpse regained its original male form. He emptied the 9mm's clip into Trudeau's lifeless chest.

Hearing movement behind him, he turned. A crowd from the bar had rushed out to see what was the matter. "Get the fuck back, you faggots," he commanded. "I'm a cop," he yelled brandishing his badge and his gun. "You, in the pink shirt," he screamed at a slightly built guy, "call the police now. Those two attacked me," he continued gesturing at the two bodies he thought were behind him.

The doorway cleared as Hutchins turned to compliment himself on his marksmanchip. Cassandra smiled, unseen in the shadows as Stephanie, shaking her hair back into position, approached the lone officer, from behind. "What the..." Hutchins was shocked to see the body of the pink-haired whore gone from where he thought it had dropped. The impact must have knocked her behind the planter he thought.

He bent over the body of his fallen fellow officer, and turned the corpse's head sideways to inspect the damage he'd inflicted. Bone fragments were stuck throughout Trudeau's hair. Yet, there was no blood, just thick, white goo in the hair and on the lawn beneath the body, entrapping the bone fragments in its mass.

"What the fuck..." he said aloud as, without warning, a hand with superhuman strength, twisted his head around as the largest dick he could ever imagine was forced down his throat.

"Has anyone fucking seen Hutchins?"

Captain Lecroix was furious. Two murders in one week, one of them his own man. Now Hutchins, the officer at the scene of the second murder, was missing.

From down the hallway, a voice called back. "We got him in custody, Captain."

"You fucking what? Get your ass up here."

Patrolmen Goldsmitt's feet could be heard doing double-time up the marble floored hallway, towards the Captain's office.

"Yes, sir," he panted, out of breath.

"What the fuck you mean you got him. Damn it I want him at work, not arrested."

"It wasn't us, sir. It was vice. They got him about 4:00 AM down by the riverwalk."

"Oh, shit," Lecroix moaned. "Don't tell me vice got him for shaking down another whore."

"Uh, no sir, nothing like that."

"Well, what then," Lecroix roared.


"Out with it, goddam it. What"

"Uh...blow jobs, Captain."

"He fucking what? What do you mean? He was paying for blow jobs? I can't believe it. He get all he wants for free from those poor whores on the street."

"Uh, no sir, Captain. That's why he hasn't been charged yet. Legal's still looking into it. He wasn't paying to get them, he was paying to give them. He annoyed some tourists down on the riverwalk."

"Get his ass in here..." Lecroix barked, "NOW!"

Five minutes later, Goldsmitt lead the manacled Hutchins into Lecroix's office. "Get outta' here," he directed Goldsmitt, "I want to talk to him alone."

The door closed and Lecroix stood, facing Hutchins. For half a minute, they stood, neither speaking, looking at one another's face. Finally, Lecroix broke the silence. Turning back towards his desk for effect, he spun around, facing Hutchins again. "Well," he demanded, "you want to tell me what the fuck happened?"

But instead of replying, Hutchins dropped his gaze to the Captain's groin. Thrusting his hip to the left, he stood, his elbows out, both hands resting on his hips.

"Ooooooo, Captain," he said, his eyes still fixed in place on his superior officer's crotch, "I bet you have just the biggest, sweetest tastiest cock in the wholoe world. Can I suck it for you and make you feel good," he purred.

"Goldsmitt," Lecroix screamed, "get his ass out of here! NOW!"