"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.

Mr. Pruett arrived in a double-cab, dual-axle, diesel pickup. Miranda thought the huge thing was terribly impractical for city driving. It had to be an affectation, intended to show the IHBA members that Pruett was one of them, not some city-slicker who didn't know their business. She'd never ridden in something that tall before. Just climbing into the cab felt like scaling a ladder. Hoisting her rear onto the seat while holding onto the grab-bar was a different procedure than backing into a car. She had to make some adjustments, but she ended-up with her balls in her lap and her cock draped neatly over one leg with her long skirt covering everything.

"Looks like you've figured out how to wrangle your business." Pruett said, after taking note of how Miranda organized things. "You'll be happy to hear we'll be sitting in First Class. Wider seats and more legroom."

Miranda nodded, but didn't reply. She didn't know First Class from Cargo and didn't appreciate how cramped she would have been in Coach. She was busy taking in the view from the cab of Pruett's truck which made her nervous because it was so high. Things were fine as long as they were on residential streets, but when they drove through city intersections she felt like she should duck as they passed under the traffic lights. When they entered the tunnel leading to the airport she felt like she should crouch on the floor.

On arriving at the airport, Pruett pulled into the short-term parking lot. This was better than waiting for the shuttle-bus to carry them to the terminal from the long-term lot but still left them with a long walk.

Miranda had planned ahead and worn a pair of wedge sandals with cork heels that gave her the height she needed to keep her cock off the ground without killing her feet. This made it possible for her to keep up with Pruett while towing her suitcase along behind her.

"I gotta get me one of those," Pruett remarked, nodding at her wheeled case. His luggage was an old-style garment bag that folded in the middle so it could be carried by a handle, but couldn't be dragged.

In the terminal building, Pruett walked Miranda through the process of getting her ticket from the kiosk, figuring out which gate they would be departing through and then joining the queue for security screening before being allowed into the main concourse.

The line moved, if not quickly. It only stopped when someone with too much metal on them triggered the detector, or when someone was singled-out for special attention according to some criteria that only the security personnel knew. Miranda watched them disassemble an elderly woman's walker before leading her away for a detailed search. A few minutes later, they did the same to a Boy Scout in uniform.

"The pins on his sash probably have sharp points on them," Pruett told her, the sarcasm in his voice clear despite his low tone. "Can't be too careful. He might prick someone to death with those things."

Miranda's amusement at the whispered comment was cut off short when she found herself being politely but firmly being removed from the line and led off by a security agent and an armed airport cop.

"I'll meet you at the gate," Pruett called to her. "Thirty-seven B!"

Miranda nodded over her shoulder rather than risking the sudden fear she felt affecting her voice.

The room she was taken to was tiny. High up in one corner was a camera, it's red light glowing. Three walls were acoustically-padded. The fourth had a large mirror set into it. Miranda had seen enough cop-shows in TV to know that was a two-way mirror. There were no chairs. The only furniture was a folding-table against the wall next to the door. A yellow X had been painted on the floor in the middle of the room.

Miranda tried to be patient. She knew she was no more a threat than the old woman or the scout, but neither of them had returned while she was still waiting in line.

After a few minutes that seemed more like hours to Miranda, a bored-looking woman in a grey uniform and blue came carrying a large, thick paddle-like device.

"Stand on the X," she told Miranda. "Hold your arms out from your sides and don't move."

Miranda did as she was told. The woman passed her paddle over Miranda, front, back and sides, paying particular attention to the bulge in the back of her full-length skirt.

"I need you to disrobe. Hand me each item of clothing as you remove it."

It was a short list. Having been warned by her father to avoid belt-buckles, jewelry, zippers or anything else made of metal, Miranda was only wearing a loose blouse, a bra with no underwire, and a skirt. She took off each item in that order and handed it to the security agent, who checked them before tossing them onto the table.

As Miranda expected, it was what she concealed under her skirt that had caused her to be singled-out for special treatment. And it was when she reached around to her side to undo it that the agent grew visibly tense.

Miranda undid the hook and pulled down the zipper. She pushed the skirt down and let it drop around her ankles. As soon as it hit the floor, the agent lost her blasé attitude.

"My word girl! What have you got between your legs?"

"My cock." Miranda said. She stepped out of her skirt. Raising her leg allowed her balls to swing down between her thighs, where the weight of them pushed against her cock, making the end of it swing forward.

The sudden motion caused the agent to jump, which made her seem much more human to Miranda.

"Don't worry," Miranda said, smiling as she handed over the skirt. "It doesn't bite."

The agent shot Miranda a stern look, as if to say, "It better not!"

"I, uh, I need to talk to my supervisor. I'll be right back."

The agent left in such a hurry that Miranda felt a breeze. The agent hadn't said anything about her getting dressed, so she waited, not daring to move from the designated spot.

In less than a minute, Miranda heard muffled voices outside the door. Then she heard a nearby door open and more voices from the other side of the mirror. Seconds later, the agent was back, with a very different attitude.

"Please turn around slowly and face the wall behind you," she asked politely, and Miranda complied, doing a half turn.

"Please bend over."

Miranda hesitated, unsure if she was about to have to endure a cavity search. Then she complied, bending forward far enough to put her hands on her knees. Through a narrow gap between her thigh and her genitals she saw the agent squat down and point a small flashlight up under her butt. She was relieved when the woman came no closer and remained well out of reach.

"OK, you can stand up now. Please turn and face the mirror. Now could you pick up your, uh, thing. I need to be sure you're not concealing anything."

Miranda reached down and hoisted her cock up, pulling it all the way up between her breasts and holding there by crossing her arms around her shaft and hugging it to her. The agent again used her flashlight to examine her groin.

"You can get dressed now. You're free to go. Please leave by the door to your right down the hallway. Your luggage will be returned to you there. Thank you for your cooperation and have a nice flight."

The whole spiel came out in one quick stream of words, after which the agent shut her mouth and pressed her lips firmly together.

"I'm a Stallion Girl," Miranda said, answering the question she knew wasn't being asked. "I'm the mascot for a horse-breeder's magazine."

The agent tried not to, but had to take a last look at Miranda's cock as she stepped back into her skirt.

"It's quite real," Miranda said. "And yes, it all works just fine."

Thirty-seven B was a gate at the very end of one arms of the terminal. It shared a large waiting area with three other gates. Miranda found Pruett easily. He'd taken a seat facing the inflow of travelers.

"Not too bad, I hope?" He said, while she was getting things sorted prior to sitting down in the narrow seat next to him.

"They made me take off my clothes. I thought they were going to peek inside me, but they settled for just getting a good look at the outside."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. One of the perils of air travel today, I'm afraid."

"Have you ever been taken off and searched?"

"No. Never."

"Did they strip-search any of the other Stallion Girls?"

"No, the others weren't as obviously different as you. Their stuff was smaller and they could hide things more easily. You were a giant leap forward for McKay. He started off trying to make them so they could pass for Futa. When he gave that up he said it was much easier to get everything else into the, ah, package. No pun intended."

"Package?" Miranda asked. She knew what it meant. She just felt like needling Pruett.

"It's a guy-term. Means the same as junk or family-jewels."

Miranda looked at him sideways, doing her best to keep a straight face at his obvious embarrassment. She thought it was hilarious that the man largely responsible for having girls transformed into transspecies transsexuals was uncomfortable talking about the things hanging from her groin.

"Oh," she said, "naughty-bits."

"Yes."

"Unmentionables. Private parts. Tackle."

"Those too."

"Beef bayonet and bollockbag."

"I don't believe I've heard of that last one. Are you trying to embarrass me?"

"I think I'm succeeding."

"I think you are, too. Has anyone told you that you sometimes sound like a guy?"

"Yes. My boyfriend, Barry."

"Oh? How did he handle the news that you'd ... changed teams?"

"Better than I expected. We're still together."

"Really? He sounds like a remarkably adaptable young man."

"He surprized me. I thought he'd leave skid-marks going out the door. Daddy is having a harder time getting used to it than Barry."

"Well, fathers and daughters ... you know. Give him time."

"I am. I will. It's just that he's still trying to treat me like a little girl. Even before this, he was having a hard time thinking of me as a grown-up. Now, he has a lot more to deal with and he keeps trying to say and do and feel things that don't go with who and what I am now. He can't get past the horse thing at all. I thought he was getting better about me performing in those clubs. He came inside the last one, but he didn't like the place at all. He absolutely refuses to watch my act."

"Can't say as I blame him there."

"I'm surprized to hear you say that. Considering."

"Oh, that doesn't have anything to do with your new 'tackle'. I like that one, by the way. I think the members will too, if you remember to use it in front of them. It sounds ... outdoorsy. No, your dad would react the same if you weren't a Stallion Girl. No father wants his daughter strutting her stuff on stage in front of a bunch of strange men. It usually means he's messed-up somewhere along the line. I wasn't keen on the idea of letting our girls work the clubs in the off-season."

"Yes, I knew that."

"But Larry kept telling me that they needed to keep busy so they wouldn't have time to dwell on the changes."

"He told me it was about the money."

"Of course he did. He's in Marketing. Finding things to promote and ways to do it is his job. He's so good at it he comes across as sleazy sometimes. Don't let him fool you. He was worried about you. Did you know he went to your first night at the Club 711?"

"No! Really?"

"Had himself a little celebration when he saw how well you took to it. He came in the next morning with a hangover the size of Texas."

Miranda thought that sounded like Pruett was trying to polish Larry's image a bit. He was right about Richards having a sleazy air abut him. It was clear that Pruett himself was making an effort to be nice to her. Maybe it was all just an attempt to keep her happy. From what she'd been told by others, her predecessors had been genuinely unhappy about their decision to take the job.

"No pressure there!" She thought. "I'll do my best. But not for Pruett and Richards. I'll do it for me. If I'm truly unique, then it's all my responsibility to make the best of the situation. This is really more than I expected or wanted out of what I thought was a simple modeling job. It would be really selfish to be unhappy about it, even if there have been some adjustments I've had to make."

When boarding was announced for their flight, an impatient crowd formed in front of the gate. Miranda and Pruett had to work their way through it to present themselves when the First Class and People Needing Assistance call was made.

When Miranda came through the last of them and shuffled forward to present her pass, she was surprized to find that her odd gait and wobbling rear bulge made the attendants assume that she fell into the latter category. She politely declined the offer of a wheelchair ride down the ramp, choosing instead to continue down on foot and at her best speed. One dictated by her need to keep her knees together so her balls wouldn't swing between her legs and get squished. She'd forgot herself a few times and the consequences had been very painful.

"We're in 3A and 3B," Pruett said, taking her suitcase and stowing it in the overhead bin. "I think you should take the window seat. Less chance of anything hanging out in the aisle and getting stepped-on by accident."

Miranda nodded and sidled in. Getting her butt down, her balls up, and her cock correctly draped required something of an effort due to the cramped space. It might have been easier to manage if she'd had the extra space of the aisle to work in, but that would have meant making more of a spectacle of herself than either she or Pruett wanted. This wasn't one of the bars she'd worked, where swinging her dick around brought applause. This was traveling on business, and modesty and decorum were the order of the day.

"Everything all right?" Pruett asked, once she had got settled.

"This is more comfortable than those hard benches in the terminal. But not by that much. I thought you said we'd have leg-room?"

"We do. Back there in Coach they're sitting six across and if the passenger in front of you reclines their seat, they're practically in your lap."

"Oh. Will I get to travel First Class on every trip?"

"Yes. I tried to save a few bucks once. I had the middle seat on a plane filled with people going to an Overeaters Anonymous convention. During the first leg of the flight, I wasn't sure if I would die from suffocation or being crushed. On the second leg, I was sure I would be gassed to death. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Certainly not someone as valuable as you."

Miranda took that as a compliment – until it occurred to her that she really had no idea what Stallion Magazine had paid Angus McKay to head their project, or how much money he'd spent in the course of it, or how much they had paid in legal fees to defend themselves from lawsuits brought by disgruntled former Stallion Girls. If you added it all up, she probably represented a quite substantial monetary investment.

"I think I can get used to being pampered," she thought. "I'll certainly try!"

The flight was smooth, the attendants attentive, and the plane landed a few minutes ahead of schedule. If Miranda had any reason to be disappointed, it was only that the reality of air travel quite effectively ruined the glamor of the experience for her. By the time they reached the shuttle that would take them to the car-rental agency, Miranda was ready to leave the whole noisy, smelly, crowded mess behind her.

"The show opens at noon," Pruett told her while they waited for the bus to fill. "We've got just enough time to get to the hotel, check-in, unpack, and get down to the convention floor to make sure the booth has been set-up correctly."

Miranda had been thinking about taking a nice hot shower and having a leisurely lunch in a quaint local cafe. Apparently the pampering she'd been picturing had practical limits attached.

Pruett saw her look of disappointment. "Trade shows are mostly work. If we're lucky, the crowd will be thin and we'll be able to take turns getting lunch at the snack bar. Then it will be hours of standing and talking. If you still feel like it tonight, I'll take you someplace nice for dinner."

"I'll look forward to it."

"Did you memorize all that material I sent you?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I've been practicing. I know my lines. If someone asks something I don't know, I'll bring them to you."

"Good girl! But if you do nothing all weekend but stand and look pretty, I'll still be happy."

"I did the 'stand and look pretty' thing for the photo shoot. We're here to promote the magazine and market my services.

"I saw those pictures. That's something else Larry was right about. I've decided to run a full-page photo of you in every issue."

"Like a centerfold?"

"Only no staple in your navel. I'll put you opposite the cartoon we usually run. Contrast the fantasy and the reality."

"Wow!"

"Did you really tell Larry you'd let us brand you?"

"Yes, I did. I don't know what got into me. Oh, I'll still do it, but we've having a hard time agreeing on the design. Everything he's shown me so far has been way too big or too busy. He must think my butt is the size of a billboard."

"Take your time. That's something we can only do once. And you'll be wearing it for a long time."

"Too true. Don't worry. I won't let him rush me into it."

The lobby of the hotel was a mob-scene. The line at the front desk was long and it took longer than Pruett expected to get checked in. Once they got to their rooms, Miranda found that hers was two doors down and across the hall from Pruett's.

"Daddy will be glad to hear that not only are we not sharing a room, we're not even in adjoining rooms," Miranda thought. "I'll have to give him a call later and let him know I got here OK."

After unpacking quickly, she changed into one of the dresses she'd brought. It was a simple cotton print dress that could have passed for Civil War vintage, except for the scoop-neck that showed a generous amount of cleavage. Miranda thought it made her look 'country' and she hoped that people who owned ranches and bred horses would like it. It wasn't as loose as the skirt she'd worn on the plane, but she wouldn't be trying to hide what she was here.

The neckline made it necessary for her to change to a strapless bra. "And I can wear the dress off my shoulders if I need to show some more skin," she thought. "We'll see how it goes."

She'd just run a comb through her hair when Pruett knocked on the door. She took a last look in the mirror before following him. They went down to the convention office, where they signed in and picked up their green exhibitor badges. Then it was out onto the convention floor.

It looked to Miranda like total chaos. The hall was a huge cavern-like place with a ceiling high enough for a circus to pitch a big-top tent in it. There were rows of cloth-walled display booths running off in both directions and a small city of stand-alone exhibit booths past that. In the distance, Miranda could see displays of large farm equipment and someone had even erected a small barn.

There were people everywhere, going in all directions. Some were running, carrying placards and plants and boxes of flyers to exhibit booths. Some were strolling – early visitors or exhibitors who had finished setting up their booths and were off to check out the competition. Most were just milling about or standing and trying to talk over the noise. Miranda noticed a few show-models, identifiable by their clothing and their high-heels.

Pruett led the way to the Stallion Magazine booth. Roughly in the middle of one long aisle of booths, it was conveniently located adjacent to the IHBA booth, which effectively doubled their space since IHBA was technically the magazine's parent.