Chapter 3

You might be asking yourself why. Why did I let the cops arrest them? Why did they live for more than minutes after Ocean's final words? The answer is simple but complicated. Yes, I was opening myself for investigation, and yes, I knew it would be difficult to exact revenge without legal consequence. But, I'm a government spook, or was. If nothing else, I had connections should my talents fail; furthermore, my rage distorted my thoughts. I promised my girls never to let my anger control me again when they learned my plan weeks later, during the investigation. Then again, I also dismantled the entire gang in a fashion that made it appear to be retaliation from a rival since the kidnapping, rape and murder took place in another gang's territory.

Psychology plays a role in all things, and in this case, I wanted them to feel as if they got away with it. I once spent seven hours crouched in a mud pit in a jungle I can't name in a location I can't disclose in order to study the regimented schedule of the man I planned to kill. I spent as many days studying Ocean's murderers. The work of only a few precisely calculated hours ended with eleven gangbangers hogtied in the basement of an abandoned hospital miles from the city limits, secluded enough for my tastes.

"Who's first?" I asked, adjusting leather straps on a table and sorting tools.

"Who the fuck are you, puta?" asked the obvious ringleader.

"You're last. Shut the fuck up," I spat. The others produced no sounds.

"Oh, I remember. You know that sweet cunt the homies brought home. She liked it, ese. She even called me papi when I fucked her fat ass until it bled," he laughed.

His statement didn't bother me the way you might think. Ocean was dead, so whatever bullshit he felt like spouting, so be it. However, small talk serves no purpose at times like these when concentration is imperative lest I fail to achieve my goals. I afforded no distractions in my plan, so I bodily dragged the ringleader across the room, fingers entwined firmly through his hair, until we reached my work table. Again by the hair I lifted him onto the table and proceeded to secure his limbs, neck and head with leather straps. Whatever words he spoke during those minutes I can't be sure because they were hissed in Spanish, but I knew they were about Ocean. I didn't care. Certain that he would not move a millimeter without any adjustments to the harnesses I inserted the tip of a stainless steel speculum in his mouth and began turning the crank screw slowly until I smiled, the sound of his lower mandible snapping free of the joints and his howls of pain thrilling me. I needed more room to work on my first task since this gang captain felt he needed to speak to me before I killed him. I planned on working over the small one against the wall since his cock was the last to disappear that night. He was her last, but he would be my first, or so I planned.

But plans change. Instead I concentrated on the one that spoke to me. First I clamped locking pliers onto his tongue, ignoring his screams, and then I attached a thin Kevlar rope around the screw at the bottom of the larger handle. My next steps were to toss the cord over a pipe above, pull it tight until the muscle stretched taut and tie it off to his testicles. Yes, he was nude. They all were. They deserved no decency of coverings. I can only imagine what that felt like, to have your sack and tongue tugging at each other, both stretched to multiples of their natural length. My first task well under way, it was time to complete it. I retrieved a micro file – the kind you use to shave metal like sandpaper on wood, for detail and precision – from my utensil tray and detached his tongue at the base as slowly as possible. The horror in the eyes of his companions innervated me as did his screams, but I knew he would never speak again, and that's all I cared about.

I offer you the description of the beginning only to teach you the controlled fury I unleashed upon the monsters that destroyed Ocean. The following forty-eight hours of torture are mostly a blur of bloody haze, but I remember some of my methods because I've used them before; I will use them again: a belt sander to remove a knee cap, red-hot sewing needles piercing testicles, ear drums and excavating under toenails, sawing through finger joints with fishing line and sand paper, sulfuric acid in the belly button to digest the stomach from the outside in or maybe a few milliliters scattered across the chest, a handheld butane torch to char digits or cauterize other inflicted wounds. My primary goal, aside from death, was to inflict so much pain that the ferocity of their screams would result in ripped vocal chords. I succeeded with seven of them. Two of them died before I could have my satisfaction, their hearts giving out too soon. Two days later I emerged after fully melting the disfigured corpses in tubs of sulfuric acid, and as my trusted Ford cargo van hauled me away from the scene I clicked the switch on a remote, igniting several incendiary devices throughout the abandoned hospital.

The news that night talked of arson outside of the city. Several weeks later, the police questioned many of us. We were suspects in the disappearance of the same eleven gangbangers that murdered a member of our family, but the sympathetic detectives, the same that asked the typical questions after Ocean's death, informed us that it was coincidental since pretty much their entire gang was dead; they believed a rival gang avenged Ocean for us. Naturally we knew nothing as we were too busy mourning Ocean's loss, most of us not leaving the house except to buy groceries.

"Is it done?" Kirin asked as I entered her room upon returning home from my vengeful hiatus of ten days.

"Yes," I responded, unsure of what to expect.

Typically she avoided me for several days after I committed such a crime which was rare, but she, Jenny and Byte were my oldest girls. They watched me pack my gear more times than any of the others. Her shoulders sagged as she nodded and turned towards the window, staring out into the darkness. Silence filled the room once more, so I left her to mourn, Cadence slinking down the hall in my direction.

"Is she okay, Daddy?" she asked.

"She will be, kitten. Someday," I replied.

"I'm really worried about her. She hasn't left her room since the funeral, she won't eat anything, Daddy, she hasn't even bathed in a week. I had to beg her to soak in the tub with me last time. I had to guilt her into it," Cadence whispered, her green eyes filling with moisture as I pulled her to me, embracing her as she wept.

"She's suffered more loss in her life than most of us can imagine, Cay. It will take her some time to find herself, but I'll try to lift her spirits tomorrow," I sighed into her flowing ginger hair. "Don't let her forget that you lost Ocean, too, sweetheart. You can't be strong forever, okay? You have to mourn."

Cadence whispered her love against my cheek before squaring her shoulders to casually stroll, or attempt to casually stroll, into Kirin's bedroom. I lingered in the dim corridor, instinct rooting my feet, and I understood why I remained as the sounds of Kirin and Cadence sobbing in unison flowed through the door. Cadence explained later that Kirin's guilt fueled her depression, not her grief. Throughout her mourning, she ignored Cadence's loss. The shared sobs of that night strengthened their bond, though I knew Cadence forgave Kirin the transgression before it even occurred. On that night, Cadence grieved in Kirin's arms.

Fury and revenge exhaust the body and mind, so I shuffled through our home towards what I hoped to be the first restful sleep in a month. Upon entering the master bedroom, a hand not my own raised the switch to illuminate my bedroom, revealing to me the worried, tired faces of all my girls, all but Ocean, Kirin, Cadence and Jenny.

I tried to enter the room, but again my feet rooted to the floor. Instead, all I managed was disintegration, mentally and emotionally while physically collapsing. A lap – I don't know who – cradled my head, fingers combed my bristly short hair, hands caressed, whispers loved and cooed. My girls asked without asking, "Daddy, how are you doing?" If you've ever been a caretaker for a dying loved one, you know precisely what that means. If not, you don't ever want to know.

You might be asking yourself now, "Why is this story so sad? I thought a sex-for-a-price company would be nothing but stories of fucking and money?" My answer is the same, always. I'm Daddy first. You must remember, you met me on the eve of Ocean's burial at sea. She's on my mind, on the minds of all of us. I'm not keen on reliving the pain of her loss, but I want you to understand like all my girls that I'm Daddy first.

We're also a business, though. With Ocean, you saw one of the ways I find my girls. Meeting her was unplanned, accidental maybe, but I don't believe in coincidence. Most of my girls, nearly one hundred of them, come from broken homes. Kirin and Byte, my hackers, routinely review reports from police departments and CPS. We watch the girls, we learn about them and their families with the intent to help. A drunken father or a trashy, abusive mother cannot be saved. The girls can. Yes, in a way I am preying on some innocent teen's daddy issues or sexual misguidance, but I hope you see that I'm also setting them free. A broken girl cannot always be repaired or redeemed by a shrink or a dozen; sometimes they remain broken forever, and it's part of my mission to help them live a damaged life in safety.

I will not adopt a girl before she is mentally, emotionally and physically mature enough to ask for help, nor will I touch a girl that is not a legal adult. These boundaries I will not cross. Kirin begged for help at the tender age of fourteen from a hospital bed while her own wounds healed from that terrible night. Aspen asked me for help when I found her on the street, living in a box under a tarp, more holes than vinyl, for a ceiling, a runaway of only sixteen.

Kylie is an interesting story, a prostitute at the age of thirteen, offering oral services to a doctor that would prescribe her medications. Before you make any assumptions, let me finish. Her parents despised her since early childhood and disowned her completely, shipped off to another state to live with estranged relatives, after a pre-teen love affair with another boy. Kylie is genetically male, indubitably female in every way but that singular, pesky chromosome.

The state healthcare provided to her upon arrival in California would not cover any treatment with regards to gender reassignment from herbal supplements to hormone therapy medications to the actual surgery, the latter having no appeal to a girl in love with her cocklet as she calls it, occasionally her cocky or spitting clitty. Her first foray into achieving a goal via sexual favor can be described as nothing but happenstance though the reality of it amounts to blackmail. A young male doctor, confused about his own sexuality, found her enticing when performing a physical examination. A medically ordinary grasp of her genitalia evolved into fascinated fondling as she responded physically, hardening to her full four inches from two flaccid in his hand.

The young doctor absentmindedly engulfed her delicate cocklet and tiny, hairless balls in his mouth, delighting in the forbidden pleasure of tasting a teen's treasure. She couldn't withstand the pleasure for long, this being her first orgasm not given from her hand, and her tiny scrotum contracted to feed the nursing man an inordinate quantity of ejaculate given the size of her testes.

The rest, as they say, is history. The doctor readily prescribed hormone therapy drugs to Kylie, named Sam then, out of fear of legal action. She reluctantly blackmailed the physician in order to obtain her dream, her reality, of being female. Some little boys grow up to be pretty young ladies, and Kylie was beautiful when she didn't hide her femininity to avoid the inevitable familial conflict. That day came on Sam's sixteenth birthday when the young doctor insisted on seeing Kylie, arguing with the aunt turned foster mother at the front door of a shabby house. Her secret was out. From that point on, she couldn't hide anywhere. Students from school, judgmental teachers and sheep-like onlookers harassed her, some not even knowing why they were verbally assaulting a pretty tomboy.

I met Sam at a mall, coming to her aid during an incident that nearly turned violent. Several handsome, muscular young men were spewing the usual insults: fag, homo, cocksucker, among other things. One of them even dry humped the ass of his friend, yelling, "Oh yeah, Sam! You like a big cock in your fag ass, don't you?" I witnessed the abusive interaction from the opposite end of the food court but ended it from the immediate vicinity of moronic teenagers being, well, moronic teenagers. Of course at that moment I didn't know if I was protecting a recently de-closeted homosexual boy or a tomboy with a typical teenage secret like getting caught with the campus nerd feeling her up at the movie theater. One of the jackasses grabbed Sam's arm, to which she fought back by attempting to slap him, and his hand rose. He screeched when I clamped his wrist in my larger, much stronger hand.

"I don't recommend hitting anyone today," I growled. The boy scurried away with his entourage.

"Thanks, mister," she said, avoiding my eyes.

"You're welcome, son," I responded, seeming to take the high road by assuming a timid gay boy in a ball cap and gender neutral clothing shuffled nervously beside me.

"I ... um ... I'm not ... nevermind. Thanks again, mister," she rambled and tried to scurry away.

"Wait, wait. You're not what?" I asked, gently gripping an elbow to prevent flight. "Come on, let's get you a snack and you can tell me what that was about. I might be able to help."

"Ugh, not the shemale again. Sam, what do you want? A hot dog?" a snotty, pimple-faced cashier spat.

"Kid, shut up, get us two number 1s and your manager. Now," I barked. I sensed countless pairs of eyes drilling into me from the food court, but the cashier rushed off, a twitching ball of embarrassed nerves name Sam cowering beside me, not away from me. "And I know what you little fucks do to food when you don't like someone. Pull that shit, and we'll have problems."

The cashier offered every effort to make visible any contact with our food to prove that he used no condiments such as spit or dirty plates while the manager, a pretty young woman no older than twenty, sashayed towards the counter.

"Hi, I'm Ashley. Can I help you, sir?" she asked politely, smiling brightly at both me and then at Sam, either having no knowledge of the teen beside me or holding no obvious disdain. I softened visibly with no reason to dislike her.

"Hi, Ashley. My name is George, this is Sam. I wanted to let you know that my companion here is going through a transition of sexual identity and that your cashier, the acne-ridden one, just called my friend a shemale and offered her a hot dog, if you catch the meaning," I stated politely.

"Oh, no. I'm so sorry! Sam, I'm so sorry! Here, this is on me," a flustered young lady blurted while handing over two trays of corndogs, fries and sodas. "It won't happen again, I promise. We've already had several complaints about the nearly unemployed young man in question. He's only here because his father owns half the mall, but my district manager already has the paperwork ready to go – just waiting for my call in about two minutes."

"I'm sorry to see someone get fired over juvenile prejudice, but I appreciate your candor, Ashley," I responded while handing over a non-descript business card with only a phone number printed. "Please know that my complaint is against only that young idiot, not you or your restaurant. If you get into any trouble with the powers that be over this, feel free to call."

I should point out that my intention here was not to recruit a twenty year old college student. I'm in the business of helping people, Daddy first. Ashley simply didn't need to lose her job because of a rich, arrogant son of a bitch's kid getting fired, and I have an excellent lawyer.

"Thank you, sir. Again, I'm really sorry, Sam," she apologized again.

"It's okay. Thanks. Um ... see ya," Sam mumbled. I carried the trays to a table to witness a hungry teenager devour all of her own food and half of mine. I wasn't terribly hungry, anyway, but I know eating alone is uncomfortable.

"So, Sam, you're transgendered?" I asked once the majority of two full meals rumbled in her tummy.

"Um ... yeah ... I guess," she blushed.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I know a few young ladies like you," I said.

"You do? Do they get picked on like me?" she asked, her brown eyes sparkling at even the idea of someone like her in the world.

"They did at one time or another just like you," I responded. I had no intention of steering the conversation.

"It's really hard ... um ... sir. I mean, I can't help that I'm a girl inside, can I?" she asked in a search for validation.

"Call me George, Sam. And no, you can't. We don't get to decide who we are, and in your case, what parts we have, but what we do with our lives with what we're given at the start, that's what makes us special. Do you parents know?" I said, offering the girl a smile.

"I don't know. I live with my aunt and uncle. Mom and dad shipped me out here when they caught me kissing a boy a few years ago. That was before I figured out that I'm a girl. They called me a sodomite," she stated with a frown.

"I see. And your aunt and uncle know, then? It doesn't seem like much of a secret from what I can tell," I asked.

"Yeah, they know. My doctor blew it when he showed up to my birthday party a few months ago. They hated me anyway, but now it's really hard. He really likes me, though," she said. "He's the one that gives me the hormones."

"Why did he show up to your birthday party?" I asked, a house call seeming a bit odd between a physician and a transgendered teen.

"He ... um ... he just did," she sputtered.

"Come on, Sam, you can tell me," I coaxed, my goal only to learn, to know if Sam needed help.

"He uh ... well ... he missed me. You know?" she blushed.

"Are you saying that you're lovers, Sam?" I asked. She nodded.

"Are you aware that it's illegal for an adult to have sexual contact with you?" I prodded.

"Yeah, George. I know. That's why he gives me ... oh, shit," she said, fidgeting nervously as she revealed her secret blackmail.

"Well, then, I suppose there's nothing wrong with that," I said, tipping her ball cap off her head, her long brown tresses hanging free and tangled, cap landing in her lap. "You look much better that way."

"You think so?" she asked, quickly combing her chestnut locks with her fingers and tucking some of it behind her ears.

"I do, dear. You shouldn't have to hide who you are because people don't understand you," I replied. "Do you have anywhere to be? I think it would do you some good to spend a little time with a couple girls I know."

"No, just some homework, but that's way too easy. It's not like I need all night for it," she replied, shaking her head.

"Hi, sweetheart. Feel like going to a movie with a new friend?" I asked Aspen after dialing her cell.

"Hi, Daddy! Sure, what movie? Who's the friend? A new customer?" she asked giddily, peppering me with questions per usual. It's a game for her to pester me like that since she's generally a quiet girl.

"No, nothing like that, just a young lady I think you should meet. Bring Jerrica and Byte if they're not busy," I said.

"Okay, Daddy. See you in a bit!" she squeaked after I shared the location of the theater housed on the western wing of the mall.

"Byte? That's a name?" Sam asked.

"Heh, yes, that's her name, with a 'Y'. You'll understand when you see her," I answered. Sam and I chatted for another fifteen minutes about school, mostly, before strolling in the direction of the theater.

"You're right. I get it," Sam whispered to me as the girls approached.

Byte is four feet, eleven inches tall and weighs eighty-three pounds. Buying clothes for her resembles trying to make a toddler look sexy. At the time, she was twenty years old and wearing white shorts probably made for a six year old which gave her beautiful legs the appearance of length and hugged her tiny, firm ass. She also wore a hoodie bearing the Denver Broncos logo, size extra-small for a child. She looked adorable and sexy at the same time, just Byte-sized, with pink plastic flip-flops accentuating her child-like stature.

Byte prefers shorter, spiky hair styles to keep her black hair decorative. Her sky-blue eyes and fashionable eyeglasses only add to her beauty, and her size and almost non-existent breasts are a major selling point for her customers. She specializes in Daddy-daughter brand fantasies, playing the role of a young girl, a seduction tale. She refuses – and I uphold her wishes with customers as I do with all my girls – to dress like a child, but her size is enough to satisfy the desired illusion's needs. She, like Jerrica, is genetically female, Jerrica being a brown-and-blue girl next door type of beauty with B cups, gently flared hips and a pert little butt on a five-seven frame. Her attitude is hilarious – Southern Belle bitchiness perfected.

Aspen, however, is stunning, and don't take that to mean any of my girls aren't beautiful. They are, but we sell sex so even I have to concede on some level that some girls are more attractive than others. As a business man, yes, they need to be attractive; as Daddy, they're all sexy enough to eat, but I and my customers get the joy of their personalities even if they're 'average' physically which is a powerful tool when you're selling real-to-life interactions. You don't buy an actress; you buy your girlfriend for a night, which is precisely why Daddy's Girls are in demand – quality of service.

At five feet five inches tall and tipping the scales at one hundred twenty pounds, Aspen is pure woman with long, blonde hair, dreamily green eyes, the face of a model and natural breasts mirroring Jerrica's in size and shape. Add to that picture a bubble butt that makes your mouth water and you'd never know she tucks a healthy six, thick inches of 'cocky' and wrinkled, heavy testicles between her legs. Clothed she's every man's wet dream, and undressed, every closet homosexual's. Aspen wore dark jeans so tight they resembled paint, a fluffy yellow sweater with a green plaid scarf and a black knit cap with three-inch heeled boots adoring her feet. Jerrica wore loose jeans, a t-shirt and canvas shoes, whatever they're called, filling her weekly quota for skater shabby-chic look. Or lazy grunge girl. I'm not sure what she was going for with that type of outfit, but she still managed to look sexy.