"How was your trip?" Gerald Peters asked his daughter as he held the door for her while she maneuvered her rolling suitcase over the threshold. Once she was through, he leaned out and waved at the oversized pickup sitting at the curb. He thought there might have been a return wave, but he couldn't be sure through the tinted side window.

"Informative," Miranda answered tersely behind his back.

Miranda's personality could normally be described as bubbly. While not the sharpest knife in the rack, judging by her grades in school, she nevertheless had a normally-unfailing effervescence and enthusiasm that made her likable for other reasons than her intelligence. To hear her describe a trip in monosyllabic terms startled Gerald.

"Oh?" He said, trying to stay calm. It was perfectly possible that her mood had nothing to do with him.

"Ah," he began, reaching for an air of innocence he wasn't really feeling at the moment. "What did you ... learn?" He almost said 'find out', but that would have seemed to admit that there was some guilty secret lurking about, waiting to be discovered.

"That you haven't been completely truthful with me." Miranda parked her rolling case beside the coat-tree in the foyer. She sat her make-up bag beside it and turned to face her father. The movement made her long, loose skirt twirl around her legs, pulled by something long, thick and heavy underneath.

That 'something' was no secret to Gerald. He'd been present when it had manifested and had watched, stunned, while it grew to its current enormity and then demonstrated to everyone present that it was quite real and fully-functional. Despite this, as long as Miranda kept it hidden, he could pretend it wasn't there. A flimsy pretense that was frequently spoiled by his daughter's choice in clothes or a simple motion that called it to his attention.

Manfully, Gerald lifted his gaze and fixed it on his daughter's face. "How is that?" He asked, clinging to the fading hope that this might yet be a trivial matter that Miranda was blowing out of proportion.

"I was kidnapped by the man you used to work for."

"What? No!"

"Yes!"

"Did he hurt you?"

"Not ... really. But he used me pretty good."

Gerald's initial reaction to that news was the same as any father hearing it from his daughter. Except Gerald had to think twice about it, and then realize that he still didn't understand. And then again to get that she was being deliberately obtuse and perhaps even protective in not giving him the details right away.

He kept quiet as Miranda went on to say, "He told me you used to be his bookkeeper, but that you went to the police."

"They came to me, actually. It was an offer I couldn't refuse."

"So he's the Godfather? He didn't sound Sicilian."

"No, he's Bulgarian. I don't know his name. I've never heard him called anything but The Bulgarian. And he didn't make me the offer, the Federal people did. They said I could testify and they'd protect me or they would make it known that I'd been talking to them. Trust is a very fragile thing with people like him. He would have had to assume that I'd become a liability."

"Daddy, tell me this didn't have anything to do with Mom's death."

"No! Honey, that was just a horrible accident. One thing had nothing to do with the other.

"You told me we were hiding from some bad men. You led me to assume that they'd been hired by Gramma Louise. I figured out later that wasn't true."

"Well, it was convenient. I wanted a simple explanation that wouldn't give us away if you let anything slip, so I consolidated things. When Louise found out about what I'd been doing for a living she assumed that your mother's death was somehow connected to it. She wanted someone to blame and I was the obvious choice. With your mother gone, I didn't have the same motivation to stay in that job. A clean break sounded good. Especially if it got us away from Louise as well. The safest thing all around was for us to disappear."

"I knew most of that. But it was a shock to meet The Bulgarian."

"Does he know..."

"Where we live? Yes, he does."

Gerald turned to the door and leaned over to peek out the narrow window beside it.

"Don't worry," Miranda said, "He's not coming for you. This isn't about revenge. He said too much time has passed for that. No, he's using you as leverage on me."

"On you?"

"He wants something I have. He said as long as he gets it, he'll leave you alone."

"What could you have ... oh! Of course. But I thought that was only valuable if you did ... it personally."

"I thought so too. For legitimate breeders, it's very important. If I sire any winners, their stud fees could be worth more than the winner's purse of any race. But there is a Black Market for everything, and there the rules are different. In this case, it's people to whom winning is the most important thing. Not being able to register the horse will keep them out of the major races, but there are a lot of unsanctioned races and a lot of private bets on them by people who avoid publicity religiously. I imagine some of them may even be banned from legitimate racing anyway."

"And The Bulgarian is supplying these people with your ... seed?"

"That's right. A DNA test would prove what he has is the real thing. He can even show that he got it from me."

"How would he do that?"

"He has a video of the ... collection process. And before you tell me how shocking that is, remember, the magazine is selling videos of me demonstrating my ... virility. So this isn't even a new thing. Anyway, he shouldn't be coming around for a long time. He's got a gallon of the stuff to sell before he needs more."

"Did you say a 'gallon'?"

"Yes. Impressive, isn't it? I thought it was. And it didn't really take me all that long."

Gerald's stunned look was everything Miranda could have asked for in a reaction.

"OK, that wasn't my doing. He was in a hurry and he wanted to get every drop he could as quickly as he could. Afterward, I felt like I'd been completely drained, that I wouldn't need to cum again ... ever! That lasted about twenty-four hours. Then it was back to wrestling with regular boners and urgent needs. In fact, I better run on upstairs. We had slight turbulence most of the fight and the captain kept everyone in their seats the whole time. I can use a little relief about now."

Gerald dragged his daughter's luggage up the stairs for her. Miranda could manage stairs fairly well, but only if she allowed for the inertia of her ample appendage by counterbalancing its swing with a motion of her hips and the pair of hefty testicles bulging beneath her butt. The result was obscenely hypnotic, even with her genitals hidden under an ankle-length skirt. Anything that interfered with her rhythm risked making her trip, and that could be catastrophic if she landed wrong.

With Miranda up in her room, her huge member wrapped in a thirty-gallon black plastic trash-bag so she could safely unburden herself of yet another load of horsey-spunk, Gerald went back to his study to think about his situation.

"That bastard! How dare he take this out on my little girl!" Gerald muttered as he dropped into his chair, his knuckles turning white as he made his hands into fists.

"But then, she's not little any more. Nor is she technically a girl, something I can't seem to get my head around. I can tell when she needs to go jerk-off because she starts to talk like a man. After, she'll be all feminine and back to being herself again, but when her hormones are up, she sounds like a jock in a locker room. Talking about how much she'd cum! She was practically bragging!

"Where was I? Oh, right. I guess there's no magic about The Bulgarian finding us. He probably hangs out in just the sort of nasty places like that prick Richards has been sending her. It's no stretch of the imagination at all to picture him or an associate of his seeing her there and coming up with a way to exploit the poor girl. It must have been irresistible to him once he found out who she really was. He must think there's no way I can get back at him. Unfortunately, he's right. I can't risk telling the FBI about him because it would only put her ... us ... in more danger. And asking WitSec to move us again would be pointless since Miranda has become a celebrity, even if only in a small and mostly-closed circle. And a celebrity who can't just put on a pair of sunglasses and walk away from it. Damn! What a thing to be famous for! Having a horse's genitals between her legs! It's just so damn surreal! Of course, even I have to admit it's kind of hot too. There's just something primal about something that big and that male between the legs of a beautiful girl. I suppose that explains why some boys who declared themselves psychologically-female balked at going all the way through gender-reassignment. And why so many girls chose to have themselves turned into fake Futas at about the same time that the real ones were starting to come out of the closet. Popularity be damned! It's all unnatural and it's all terribly wrong! And to think I contributed to this. I donated my daughter to the cause!"

Gerald's internal debate continued to bounce around inside his skull, ricocheting from one thing he couldn't do anything about to another he had no control over to a third that had nothing to do with him, driven by the guilt he felt over something he hadn't known – which was what would happen to Miranda once she agreed to go to work for Stallion Magazine. Eventually, the futility of his position would lead him to the bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer of his desk and he would ease his troubled mind by anesthetizing it with just enough alcohol to make it hard to follow the arguments raging inside his head.

Miranda lay sideways on her bed, her firm breasts barely sagging to either side of her chest, her hips at the edge so her testicles could hang over out of the way. Her turgid horsecock arched out from between her legs, the end wrapped by the mouth of a heavy-duty plastic trash-bag and secured with a heavy rubber-band an inch wide. This had proved to be the most secure way to deal with the copious blasts that erupted from her cum-cannon of a cock, to trap it all in a makeshift condom for easy disposal. The trash bags were much cheaper and easier to obtain than the purpose-made collection bags Dr. McKay used.

Still floating in the strong afterglow from her orgasm, Miranda waited patiently for the last dregs of cum to drain down her two and three-quarters-foot-long shaft and into the bag. Experience had taught her that if she didn't wait, she risked making the carpet look like the house was infested with large snails.

"You'd think I'd get jaded, cumming so often," she mused, happily. "Or at least that I'd get used to it. But I haven't. Each time is just as good as the first. Every time it feels fantastic! I love the wonderful tension I feel deep inside me when my prostate gets full and I know it's time to do it again. Then my dick starts to go hard, and that feels good too. I even enjoy the slight ache in my balls that I get right after I cum. This is all so totally different from before. Before, it used to take longer for me to get to where I could climax. My orgasm would last longer too. That was good, but it wasn't nearly as powerful as it is now. Ejaculating is a completely different thing. It takes all the middle-ground out of it. No more small orgasms. They are all big ones now. I guess one measure of how big is how much I cum. It never occurred to me to think about that before that man showed me just how ... productive ... I could be.

"I wonder if it will be different when it's time for me to do it for real. I mean, masturbating is great. It's even necessary. But how will I feel when it's time for me to mount a real mare? I'm pretty sure it won't be a problem. At least that's what I've been telling everyone. Every time I think about it I get wood, but when it's finally time for me to do the job they hired me to do, will I be able to get it up? I can't really be sure. I feel weird about getting a stiffie when I think about the back-end of a horse, and I suppose that's normal – since I'm now part horse. But it still makes me think I'm some awful kind of perv when I get turned-on by the idea of doing it with an animal. I'm sure it can't be bestiality if a horse-cock goes into a horse-pussy and cums horse-jizz to make a baby horse. Can it? Even if the horse-cock is part of me and the balls the jizz comes from are hanging between my legs?

"I guess the bigger question is, why doesn't this bother me more than it does? The other girls they tried this on became unglued several different ways. They had to think they could handle the change of sex or they wouldn't have agreed to it. But maybe not the magnitude of the change - another way of saying they couldn't deal with hauling around a big honking dick and a giant pair of balls between their legs. Not the maintenance involved – jerking-off several times a day. But I think the thing they really had the toughest time with was being more than one species. There can't be anything in anyone's experience to prepare them for that. I'm not surprized that they couldn't get it up when it counted.

"None of which seems to be bothering me, except for wondering about why it doesn't. I know I'm not playing for the other team now. I'm not human-male, I'm horse-male – a stallion. And that makes me feel ... awesome! Powerful! As for the size of my junk ... I'm bigger than any of the others, and I feel like that makes me better. I know that's typical male thinking, but it is how I feel about it. I have a bigger dick than any guy and, I suspect, even most real stallions. The best way to describe how I feel about that is ... proud. If that's my hormones talking, then so be it. Maybe Angus tweaked the hormone thing and finally got it right. I dunno.

"So it all comes down to the same question. Horsey-nookie. What's it going to be like? How should I go about it? Is foreplay involved or do I just jump right in and screw her brains out. Did just think of an animal I'll be servicing as 'her'? Is that wrong? How do real stallions feel about it? Heck, they probably don't care. It's all instinct to them. Stupid oafs. Wham-bam, and back to the barn for a blanket and a bucket of oats. Not even a thank-you-ma'am. I just realized I don't even know if mares cum. If they do, I guess I'll have to do my best to make it good for them. I've had guys leave me hanging before and I'll be damned if I'll do that to one of my ... dates? OK, I'm probably over-thinking this. I'd say this was getting weird, except that this has been way beyond weird, starting from the very first day."

Miranda reached down between her legs to lift her cock up so the cum could drip off the end before she removed the bag. Instead of a nearly-limp length of meat, she found a rapidly-rising erection and a fresh need to cum starting to grow inside her.

"This soon? Damn, I just came! Just! Oh well. Don't look a gift horsecock-boner in the mouth. Tee-hee!"

Taking a firm grip on the base of her cock. She pulled her knees up so she could put her bare feet on either side of her shaft. Using both hands and feet, she started stroking as much of her prodigious member as she could manage. The results were swift. In only a minute she had a raging erection. Five minutes of dedicated stroking later, her cock blew a fresh load of thick jizz into the black bag.

"Damn, that feels good! I want to do this all day! Hell, I probably can do this all day. What the heck, McKay said I couldn't overdo it, that I'd just run out of steam. I know if I try to push it, it will hurt, but if I take it slow, I should be able to jerk-off endlessly."

Hunger and thirst eventually put a stop to Miranda's experiment with perpetual self-stimulation. She let her cock drain one last time and then rolled the heavy rubber-band off the mouth of the bag and up her shaft, pulling it as high up as she could so it rode snugly on the base of her cock. This helped shut off any further leakage and kept her shaft slightly erect, which made it easier to manage and reduced the chance that she would trip on it. After that, she carefully tied the bag shut so it could be safely carried outside and placed gently into the trash bin. She used to empty the bags down the toilet, but after a close-call with an overflow, she changed to letting the trash-collectors risk the mess.

Without bothering with a bra, Miranda pulled on a top thin enough so her still-sensitive nipples wouldn't rub. Then she tied one of her long wrap-skirts around her hips. The length of the skirts she had been able to find on the rack didn't cover everything if she tied them around her waist, so she pulled them down low so that the top rode just below the base of her cock and was held out away from her body by its bulge. Her reasoning was that it was better to let the top of her dick be seen than to advertise its full size. It also left the rubber band visible, to keep her from forgetting it, lest it turn 'slightly erect' into 'fully erect' and force her to take matters in-hand before that became really necessary.

The skirt was only for her father's benefit anyway. A few weeks hadn't been long enough for him to become accustomed to seeing her with her appendage swinging free and unencumbered. So she tried to make it easier for him by not waving her organ under his nose.

When she got downstairs, she stuck her head in her father's study to ask if he'd thought about supper. When she saw he had nodded-off and was snoring, she backed-out and slid the door shut.

"I should probably have taken a nap too," she thought. "Instead of having a masturbation marathon all afternoon. I'll go see if there's anything I can fix for supper. I'll let Daddy sleep until it's ready."

Miranda's cooking skills were minimal. That was just one of a long list of domestic activities she had avoided in the pursuit of her modeling career. In the absence of leftovers to reheat, the best she could do was canned soup and cold-cut sandwiches. Her father was still asleep when she took a tray in to him, so she left it on his desk with a kitchen towel draped over it and went back to the kitchen to eat hers.

She was just finishing the last of her portion of the chicken-noodle soup when the phone rang. Miranda dropped her spoon and ran to answer it before it woke her father, but the closest extension was in the family room and the ringing stopped before she could get to it. By the time she got the phone to her ear, the caller was already saying, " ... to speak with Miranda, if she's there."

"It's OK Daddy," she said to her father, "I've got it."

"Hrmm," her father mumbled sleepily and hung up.

"Hi, Mr. Richards," Miranda said to the caller, whose always-smarmy voice she'd recognized.

"It's 'Larry', please. Look honey, I'm sorry to be calling so late. I know you just got back from Sarasota, so I wanted to be sure you hadn't forgot about the booking tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? No, I hadn't forgotten." Miranda wracked her memory. The last couple of days had been so eventful and intense that they had pushed everything else out of her mind.

"The Forge ... in Leadville. Right?" She hoped her tone didn't betray how relieved she felt at recalling that information.

"First show at eight. Try to be there by seven."

"Don't worry. I'll be there. I won't be late."

"Good! OK, have a good night now. Bye."

After hanging up the phone, she looked in on her father, who was just dipping a spoon into the bowl of soup she'd left for him.

"I can heat that up, if you like," Miranda offered.

"It's fine. What did he want?"

"He called to remind me that I'm booked for a performance tomorrow."

"Oh? Where?"

"Leadville."

"I didn't think there was anything there anymore. Not since the mine closed."

"It's a place called The Forge. And that's all I know."

"Good name. Using the town's mining history to attract tourists."

Even as he said it, Gerald doubted that Larry Richards would be sending Miranda to a place that catered to tourists.

"I haven't had the courage to watch it, but I'm sure what she does on stage isn't a family-friendly act," he thought, starting to take a bite of the sandwich to keep his mouth occupied so he wouldn't have to talk. "Even in the sleazier places, she's going to attract a strange crowd."

"Would you like me to drive you over?" He asked, the sandwich almost between his lips.

"It's an hour, both ways. I won't get back until sometime until midnight. Thanks, but I can drive myself."

Rather than respond to that, Gerald chewed. Miranda's driving terrified him, even before her change. She'd always been easily distracted and didn't pay close-enough attention to the road. Now, she had to sit in such an odd position behind the wheel that he felt she was even less in control of the car. But he knew that if he said anything, she wouldn't take it well.

"Promise me you'll be careful?"

"I promise."

"Thanks for bringing me supper. I, uh ... fell asleep."

"I should have had a nap too. Instead of spending ... well, at least I get to sleep late tomorrow. I'll go clean up the kitchen, then I've got to do my exercises. I'm behind on those."

"Don't worry about the kitchen. I'll take care of that. I need some exercise too, before I get stuck in this chair."

Miranda went back to her room and unset her alarm-clock so it wouldn't wake her in the morning. Then she put on one of her many workout videos and got undressed while the introduction played. She followed-along with the instructor as closely as she could, only occasionally changing things that were now anatomically-challenging for her, when they weren't outright impossible.

"I wonder if they make videos like these for Futas," she wondered, as she reached down to drag her bulging scrotum through her groin so she could lie back on the mat as the instructor directed.

"That might be more my speed. A lot of girls got into that whole 'chicks with dicks' craze a few years ago. Some just had their clits enlarged because plastic surgery was cheaper than gene-therapy, but I know there were a good number who went all the way and had themselves turned into the real thing - hermaphrodites. I remember the Feminists went ballistic over that. For some of them, it was like the girls who did it were betraying their sex by defecting to the enemy. For others, it was the ultimate in independence from men. Why would a woman need a man when she could be both? I think they're still trying to figure out if a real Futa having her own baby is cloning or incest. I haven't heard of anyone being arrested for either, yet. They're probably just hoping the fad will blow over before anyone tries to make an issue out of it.

"Even Daddy wasn't sure I hadn't become a Futa at first. But while I've got a guy's junk now, it's neither fake nor real in the way that either kind of Futa is. I'm trans-species, as well as being trans-gendered. That makes me a horse of a different color. Ha! I'll have to remember that one."

Since jogging was out of the question for her now, Miranda went through two exercise videos and one on yoga as a cool-down. In the middle of the third one, her dick began to stiffen, so she reached underneath it and hooked her thumb into the rubber-band, pulling it down and letting it snap back. The sharp pain made her suck in air through her teeth, but it also very effectively killed her incipient erection. That trick was only good for brief reprieves. She knew that, once awakened, the beast between her legs would not be denied for long.

After a tug-off and a shower, Miranda put on her slippers and flannel robe and went downstairs to watch TV. As she passed her father's bedroom, she saw that his door was closed and the light was off.

"Well, he's getting older," she rationalized, not understanding that her father wasn't really old enough to need to be in bed before 9:00pm.

Since she would be up late doing a performance, Miranda stayed up watching TV after the news programs had gone off. When she caught herself nodding off around 1:00, she decided that was late enough and went to bed.

"Are you sure you don't need me to drive you?" Gerald asked her as she was putting her suitcase into the car. "It's no trouble, really."

"Thanks, but I should do this myself. I need to get used to traveling alone. I'll be on the road a lot once the second part of my job starts. I don't want to be a burden and make Mr. Pruett take me everywhere. I need to show I can get around on my own."

The truth was that she fully-expected to be picked-up in transit to have more of her stallion essence harvested by The Bulgarian and she thought it would be safer for Pruett if he wasn't there when it happened. It would also allow her to make up whatever story she liked to cover her absence.

Rather than decide what she would wear for her performance at The Forge, Miranda had packed everything that she thought might be useful. Her western outfit had been fine for some of the places she'd been, but she'd learned that not all audiences were the same and she needed to be flexible about how she presented herself.

She still wore her father's old trenchcoat while traveling to a performance. She considered it lucky, since she'd worn it to her first show and that turned out so well. But mainly she wore it because, while she more than filled the top and had to leave the uppermost buttons undone, the rest was roomy enough for her to arrange her junk comfortably and keep it covered so she wouldn't startle the truck-drivers who might look down into her window and get an unexpected eyeful. Wearing nothing but the coat meant arriving with no marks on her skin from elastic waistbands or bra-straps. Those showed too clearly under bright stage-lights.

The drive to Leadville was easy, even though it meant going down some unfamiliar roads through a rural part of the state. Miranda had no trouble finding the town. But locating the place where she was supposed to perform proved to be more difficult. She drove all the way through the small town without seeing any sign of, or to, The Forge. It didn't help that all of the businesses on the main road were closed, either for the evening or permanently.

She pulled off the road in front of a building that had formerly been a convenience store, intending to turn around for another pass through town, when she realized that Nature was calling.

"I don't believe I've got to pee. Again! I stopped just a half-hour ago. And I haven't seen anyplace I could go since then."

Miranda looked around. The building was boarded-up and the gas-pumps had been removed. Stark graffiti covered the front with undecipherable messages covered by Nazi symbols. It was obvious that no one would be around to care if she sneaked a pee in the shadow of the building. The sun had already dipped behind a hill and it was starting to get dark, so the chance of someone seeing her was slight.

"Hey, guys do it all the time. Or, I think they do. What the heck."

She got out of the car and headed for the darkest corner of the building. Since she was wearing flats to drive, she had to carry her cock to keep it off the ground. When she got to the shady spot she'd picked, she found it was blocked by a tangle of rusty wire-fence. It looked like someone had tried to pull it down to get to the side of the building – possibly with the idea of breaking-in without being seen from the road. The rest of the parking area was bordered by the kind of low, metal guard-rail you see beside highways, complete with dents and scrapes from decades of careless drivers in a hurry to get their cigs and beer.

With her need becoming more urgent by the second, Miranda went along the rail until she found a spot between the posts where she could stand. She unbuttoned her coat and pulled it wide, letting her breasts hold it open while she hoisted her cock over the rail. As an afterthought, she shifted her stance and allowed her balls to swing through to hang in front of her thighs, then lifted them over as well so she could lean her legs against the rail. That way, she didn't have to keep her knees together – something that resulted in an awkward and unsteady stance.

"Aaaaahhhh!" She said, as her stream poured down into the shallow ditch on the far side of the rail for a few seconds and then stopped. "I would have thought I could pee more, given the size of my dick. That wasn't much more than I did before. I guess my prostate is just so darn big there isn't room for my bladder to get too full. It still feels really good to let go like that. Much better than when I had girl-parts. Oooo! That cool metal feels good on my balls too."

At just that moment, she heard the sound of a car pulling in behind her. It startled her for a moment, but when she turned her head, she saw that it was a marked Sheriff's Deputy car.

"Better than a couple of gomers in a pickup, looking to drag me into the bushes, I guess. Oh, darn! Am I about to get arrested for public urination? Not again. The last time was in New Orleans and I was really drunk and decided to squat between a couple of parked cars. I didn't even look to see that one was the Police."