"Daddy! Daddy!" Miranda excitedly ran into her father's study, clutching a sheet of paper in her hand. With her nearly three-foot-long horsecock bouncing and bobbing between her ankles, she avoided kicking it only by way of nimble footwork.
"What is it, honey? Don't tell me they're sending you to another of those dives?"
Even after three weeks time, Gerald Peters was still adjusting to having a daughter whose genetic make-up had been re-enginnered, making her part horse – a rather important, and at the moment, very visible part.
As long as she wore one of her Mother Hubbard dresses that covered everything from her neck to her toes, Gerald could still cling to the illusion that nothing had changed. The problem was that in the house she felt more comfortable in, and therefore persisted in wearing, clothes that exposed and even accented the parts that he found unsettling.
Today she was wearing a white cotton peasant blouse that showed a less-than-modest amount of her considerable bust. He could tolerate that. But she also had on a pair of yellow capri pants whose crotch was open from the waist in front to halfway down the crack of her butt in back. Through this gap hung her unarguably-monumental cock and her equally-impressive scrotum with its pair of testicles roughly the shape of ostrich eggs – only bigger.
She'd covered her cock by slipping a white leg-warmer over it, leaving only the flared tip bare. To Gerald, this only served to attract attention to the thing he tried his best to ignore.
"No, Daddy. Mr. Pruett is taking me to a show!"
"A horse show? At least that's better than sending you to another of those dives."
"That's a different kind of show. This is a trade show. Not much different from any other trade show, I guess. They'll have lots of horse-related stuff. According to their web site, they will have exhibits of everything from saddles, bridles, grooming tools, companies who build barns, stables, and trailers, to veterinary supplies and breeding equipment."
"And I suppose like other trade shows, they'll have pretty girls standing around to attract attention to the exhibits? Which means you'll be doing two jobs."
"That's right. I'll be both a model and an exhibit. Mr. Pruett sent me a pile of information I'll need to learn by this weekend. We're flying to Saratoga Friday morning and we'll be back Sunday night."
Gerald opened his mouth to express some fatherly concern over his child going away for the weekend with a man twice her age. Then he remembered that none of the usual paternal warnings were applicable to a daughter whose sexual organs were not only male, they were equine.
"Will you need me to drive you to the airport?" He asked, instead.
"Thanks, but when he found out I'd never flown before, Mr. Pruett said he'd pick me up and bring me back."
"That's very considerate of him."
"Yes, he has been going out of his way to be nice ever since Mr. Richards told him about my club performances. I don't think he believed that part would work out as well as it has. I've already got bookings all the way up to the start of breeding season. And please don't call them dives, Daddy. They're clubs. They just cater to an audience who like their entertainment edgier than the usual bars or nightclubs."
Gerald had only been inside one of the places he'd taken his daughter. It certainly looked like a dive to him, but perhaps that was simply the ambiance the proprietor was trying to achieve. Just another edgy element for an edgy crowd. He'd made sure to be long gone before Miranda took the stage. He'd been there for her transformation and the messy aftermath, and that had been all the performance he cared to see.
"Good word, 'edgy'," Gerald thought. He considered that much better than 'perverted' or 'twisted' or any other words that used to describe outrageous things that formerly existed in dark places on the margins of civilization. Now, of course, many of those things were front and center of the mainstream. Pornstars were famous, not infamous. Their careers and marriages and divorces were documented just as meticulously by the entertainment media as those of regular movie stars. In fact, considering the sexual content of most films, the difference between mainstream and porn was only a matter of camera angles.
Formerly persecuted and suppressed groups like those included under the LGBTF banner were a potent political force, largely because the news media, hungry for any colorful or salacious content, provided so much free coverage that they hardly needed to pay for their own propaganda. Other groups, whose members advocated more extreme and still-illegal activities, were trying to ride into the light of acceptability on the coattails of the LGBTF's successes.
"Where did it start?" He wondered. "And where is it going?" The common element among all the acronymic groups was that they declared themselves in favor of freedom of choice. Choice to do what they wanted. Choice to be who they wanted. Choice to look like they wanted. Regardless of what other people might think about their choices.
People had exercising their choice of appearance for centuries. They used cosmetics, tattoos, branding, piercings and other, more extreme forms of body-modification. Then came plastic surgery, and gender reassignment, which allowed people even greater latitude to reshape themselves and to correct nature's 'mistakes'. Finally, there was genetic engineering, hopefully the last word on the subject since it gave people like Angus McKay the ability to rebuild someone's genetic structure on the spot, including splicing in heavily-edited DNA from another species. That was something that Gerald Peters would have thought impossible, had he not witnessed it himself.
"Witchcraft to the ignorant, ... Simple science to the learned." - a quote he recalled from an old story by Leigh Brackett, and one that predated Clarke's Third Law by over three decades. Gerald sighed, "It still seems like magic to me."
"Sorry, honey," He told Miranda after getting his mind back on track. "I guess I'm just behind the curve when it comes to today's entertainment. Dives certainly couldn't afford to pay you what you've earned in the last few weeks. The tip money alone is more than you made for that lingerie job. And the fees for your future, ah, equine insemination service? Well..."
Gerald had researched stud-fees. The figures were readily available on the Internet. Some of them topped six figures. Miranda's share of just one would be more than he'd earned from the sales of any of his books. Her dick wasn't the only thing of hers that was worthy of envy. Her balls were quite literally worth more than their weight in gold. He found what she was being asked to do for the money to be offensive, to say the least, but it was clear that in a few short weeks his daughter would earn enough to be financially independent.
"She certainly won't need me to support her," he thought. "Rather the other way around. I might go back to accounting. It's not as much fun as writing historical romances about the Borgias, but my income would be more predictable. Then again, maybe not. My witness protection handler would have a fit if I did that. Carstairs is already unhappy with me for the attention Miranda is getting. He wouldn't tell me how he found out about her. For all I know, he saw her perform at one of those clubs and recognized her. What does it say about a man who watches a girl with a thirty-three-inch horsecock perform and looks at her face?
"I don't know why he's mad at me about this. It's not like I knew what was going to happen when I took her to the interview with that magazine. I mean, what kind of father wants that for his daughter? Surely Carstairs can't think I did it for the money? That's disgusting. But no more disgusting than what she's going to have to do to earn it. It's almost as bad as what my former employers did to earn their damn money. Drugs and whores. Which is worse, making a girl have sex with strangers for money or making her have sex with horses? It doesn't matter if one pays a hundred dollars and the other pays a hundred thousand – does it?"
Miranda was sympathetic to her father's problems because they shared more than most fathers and daughters. She'd only been thirteen when they had moved to a new city and acquired a new last name. At the time, she'd only been told it was so some bad men wouldn't find them. Like any other curious teen, she then spent a lot of time spying and eavesdropping until she found out the real reason – that her father had been the bookkeeper for a criminal organization that suspected him – correctly – of having shared the details of their business with the authorities. While the trials that resulted were long over, the defendants mostly captured, convicted, sentenced and the organization much reduced in power and scope, she knew enough to understand that their past was something that would have to remain secret - period.
Their new reality was that Gerald Peters had retired early and was now doing something he enjoyed. Something that let him stay home all day with her. And now she was the one who would be going out to work and leaving him home alone where he would be comfortably out of sight. She thought it was only fair that she should go off to work now. Especially since it was work she was now ideally equipped to do, thanks to Angus McKay.
.... There is more of this story ...