Hobson's Choice

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"You mean we're alone?" she asked as they walked into his sunken living room. The lights of the city went on as far as the eye could see.

"Just you and me, Fawn. What can I get you to drink?"

"Some white wine?" she asked.

"Why not. I have an excellent white Bordeaux that I'd like to share with you. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I take off this monkey suit." Andrea sat primly on the edge of a white suede couch, wondering what to do.

Her mind raced back to her Internet research on him. What was it one of his ex-wives had said about their sex life? When the idea came to her, it was so wicked that she put it out of her mind at first, until she reminded herself what this monster had done to her. She got up and tiptoed back to the hall closet, rummaging through her shoulder bag until she found what she was looking for. It was a small object, which she had purchased at a tack store and carried around with her in the hope that one day she might run into the surgeon who had altered Andrew Hobson. She slipped it into her suit pocket and returned to the living room.

She was back on the couch, her shoes off and her skirt pulled up above her crossed knees, when Ronald Brewster returned, dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, a glass of wine in each hand. He sat down next to her, and they sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes. "You're very pretty, Fawn," he said at length.

"I can't believe I'm all alone with Ronald Brewster. Are you sure there's nobody here?"

"Absolutely."

Andrea put down her wine as she uncrossed her legs provocatively. "Aren't you going to show me your bedroom?"

* * *

Ronald Brewster lay spread-eagled on his four-poster bed, tied at the wrists by $100 neckties to the posts on either side of the headboard. Stripped down to her bra and panties, Andrea was teasing his engorged cock with her long fingernails as he writhed in anticipation. After his Viagra kicked in, she had brought him to the brink of orgasm again and again, observing ruefully that his celebrated manhood was half the size of Andrew's old schlong.

"Now, baby," Brewster moaned. Andrea slipped off the bed and retrieved something from her piled up clothes on the floor. She returned to Brewster's naked body and lowered her head to his ear.

"Ready for something really special?"

"Oh, yes!"

Andrea slipped a ring-like device around his testicles and snapped it into place.

"Aagh!"

"Does it hurt?"

"Shit! What did you do to me?" He tried to look down at himself, beads of sweat running down his face, as his penis collapsed into its nest of gray pubic hair.

"It's not supposed to hurt."

"What?"

"It's a clamping device they use to crush the testicle cords of farm animals, resulting in the bloodless atrophy of the testicles. It's supposed to be painless. Of course, the animals can't talk…."

Brewster let out a blood-curdling scream as he twisted and turned on the bed, desperately trying to free himself. Andrea got up and started to put on her clothes.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" he asked in a strangled voice.

Andrea sat down on the foot of the bed and eased her nylons up her legs. "Let's just say I knew Andrew Hobson very well."

"Oh, my God!" Brewster cried, as he realized what was happening to him. He watched her with terrified eyes as she pulled on her slip and stepped into her skirt. "That was all a mistake!"

She zipped up her skirt and started buttoning up her jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm a working girl, Mr. Brewster. Got to get up early tomorrow."

"Don't leave me like this! I'll give you anything you want!"

"Can you give me Andrew back?"

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened. Tell him I'll make it up to him."

"It's a little late for that," she said as she stepped into her heels. "But I will tell him what I did to you." She turned to leave.

"I'll pay whatever you want. I'm one of the richest men in the world."

"Not for long."

"What do you mean?" he said, his chest heaving.

"In a few hours, your balls will be dead. They'll probably fall off by morning. You've been gelded, Mr. Brewster."

He screamed again and again, pulling vainly against his restraints until he fell back, exhausted, onto the bed.

She paused at the door. "By tomorrow, you'll be the richest eunuch in the world. That ought to sell some newspapers."

His screams were echoing through his eight thousand square foot apartment as she wiped her fingerprints off her wineglass and put on her overcoat. After making sure that the documents were safely tucked away in her shoulder bag, Andrea shut the front door behind her and rode the elevator down to the lobby. She treated herself to a taxi back to her apartment.

* * *

Fawn Healy did not show up for work at Brewster Enterprises the next morning. Her hair cut short and dyed back to its natural brown, Andrea kept out of sight for a few days. She had covered her tracks well, and she was surprised when there was nothing in the news about Ronald Brewster. Evidently there was such a thing as bad publicity.

Armed with the information Andrea found in Brewster's files, Ellen Marshall had no difficulty convincing the District Attorney to convene a grand jury investigation into the corrupt activities of Judge Oliver Hauk. The investigation was temporarily sidetracked by the news of Ronald Brewster's suicide, but eventually the judge was indicted on multiple counts of extortion. He was sitting in his courtroom, presiding over a murder trial, when the sheriff came to take him away in handcuffs. In short order, he was convicted, defrocked, disbarred, and incarcerated.

The inmates were waiting for him. It is said that the first time the judge was gang-raped in the shower, his squeals could be heard by the boys in solitary.

* * *

After Andrew Hobson's conviction was overturned, The State Racing Commission reinstated his license, in the name of Andrea Hobson. She thought briefly about undergoing reverse SRS, but after the doctors explained to her that she would never regain her ability to function as a man, she decided against it. Instead, she focused all of her time and energy on her riding.

The first time she put on racing silks again, it almost seemed like the whole nightmare had never happened. She started her comeback slowly, riding in claiming races at second-tier tracks until she regained her confidence. If anything, her riding was better than before, and when the other jockeys teased her about fitting better in the saddle, she knew that they accepted her as one of their own.

Seacrest Stables wanted her back on Buckaroo. The horse had become impossible since the Belmont, bedeviling every jockey who tried to rein in his mercurial temperament. Finally, Andrea felt she was ready. The sporting world was electrified when Buckaroo was added as a late entry to the Santa Anita Handicap, the richest horserace in the world, with Andrea Hobson up.

Over seventy thousand spectators jammed the venerable racetrack that Sunday afternoon, swept up in the nationwide fascination with Andrea Hobson. She was the cover girl on four national magazines the week of the race, but her concentration was only on one thing: the big black stallion that had shown such brilliance under Andrew Hobson.

Buckaroo had seemed to recognize Andrea, and he had responded well to her in practice runs, but he was almost uncontrollable as post time approached. He bucked wildly when the stewards attempted to put him into the gate, and Andrea had to hang on for dear life while the other horses were led in.

Finally they were off, and Buckaroo stumbled badly as he started out of the gate. By the time Andrea had him back on stride, they were far behind the leaders, dead last in the crowded field. Andrea let him settle into his rhythm, reveling in the sensation of riding a 1400 pound thoroughbred moving at 40 miles per hour. She waited until they were almost down the backstretch before she tugged on his right rein and steered him towards the outside of the solid pack of horses ahead of them. Then she leaned forward and shouted in Andrew's old voice, "GO, BUCK!"

The great horse responded as if he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. Ears pinned back, nostrils flaring, he lowered his head and surged forward. One by one, they started to pick off the other horses as they rounded the clubhouse turn. Buckaroo was in fifth place and closing fast when they approached the grandstand, and the spectators roared as Andrea whipped Buckaroo's flanks. Fourth place…third place…with only ten yards to go, they pulled head to head with the favorite, and when they crossed over the finish line, it was Buckaroo by a nose.

It was one of the most spectacular finishes in horseracing history. Over the last half mile, Buckaroo had shattered the record for that distance set by Seabiscuit in his valiant attempt to win at Santa Anita in 1938. Buckaroo might have missed out on the Triple Crown, but he was once again the most valuable horse in the country, and his jockey had been elevated into the pantheon of the racing gods.

Seventy thousand voices called out to Andrea as she guided Buckaroo back towards the grandstand. She pressed herself against the pommel as her frisky stallion trotted along the track. By the time she led him into the winner's circle, Andrea was basking in the afterglow of her first female orgasm. It was a celebration to be repeated again and again, at race tracks across the country, as Andrea Hobson relinquished her grief for Andrew, and reclaimed his stolen destiny.

By the author of The Jessica Project

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