The Journal of Dr. Foxy Trinity

A Summer Interlude

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 23:05:51 GMT

It’s sweltering once again.

From the UK islands and my time on the north eastern seaboard, I grew so familiar to long bleak winters. Grey skies which never seemed to end and a fickle turbulent wind which necessitated a coat on most days. Summers were so short back then; mere peeks at the sun between fast moving clouds and a blue sky hiding like a shy child behind its mother’s back.

I had surely gotten all too used to the idea and had counted on more of it here where the mountains meet the sea, and indeed the climate is predictable here with the welcoming grey and the wind on my shoulders like a familiar pair of hands. But I find as the climate changes for natural global cycles and other less natural reasons, the familiar seasons of the north have begun to slip away.

The month had begun a torrid week of showers, cold and heavy like the winter months; the imports all flustered about the lack of summer in June, and I biting my tongue about the way weather is supposed to be in this region. Imports should know better, not even tourists visit the north coast for its weather; and these jackasses have decided to live here without understanding.

And yet, it seems they’ve gotten their way. Jumping from pleasant fifties and sixties, it has now reached a disgusting low ninety. Though I had taken to being braless in a sweater and wrapped in the comfort of a long skirt, I find the stickiness of under-tit sweat to discourage the freedom of m’ bits swaying freely under far too much wool. Filtering through my closet, it seems high time to design another outfit as my figure often requires such custom tailoring; perhaps a bikini of sorts beneath a loose top and a sarong for effect. I’m sure my mild public following might appreciate the sight of me overflowing a few choice swimsuit ties, but I have grown rather tired of trying to appease a dwindling audience.

The truth is, I have become something of a bitter taste in my own mouth. My futile struggle to earn attention through outfits and mannerisms seems doomed to failure; the crowds have become familiar with the nightly acts and have no room for the fleeting guest stars. Whether sipping wine or serving drinks, quiet with a book or singing at the top of my lungs; the looks are plentiful and compliments occasional, but nearly every night ends the same with my hands exploring myself and the bed practically empty. I’ve taken to thoughts of remodeling my home as it’s just too big anymore, there’s no company to fill it with me.

It has also crossed my mind to change my figure or personality in a more permanent manner, but my intellect seems to leap in front of that train every time it rolls by. I know better, ultimately. The pursuit of popularity and a little bit of intimacy shouldn’t be at the cost of who I truly am, even if that true self is floundering on the desperate side of lonesome.
I know the handful of those who appreciate me for the vixen I am, rather than the one I dress up as, will pay me some attention eventually. I just need to be patient… and change into something a bit cooler.

Beginnings, Part 5

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 10:47:25 GMT

My life in dire need of rearranging, my desire to find a new home made me think of the ones I had left behind and subsequently my mother. Now creeping into my twenties, it had been over ten years since I had run away from home; and I truly hadn’t ran that far. The other side of town was hardly an hour’s drive, and I convinced myself to see if she still lived in that crappy loft above the diner. Perhaps I could slip her some money on the way out of town and ease the bit of guilt that lingered in my conscious for running away; whether or not she hated me.

I arrived there in the evening, having changed shape well enough as to not readily be recognized from how I thought I usually looked. Black hair, thin lips, green eyes, a modest chest and incredibly plain clothes; I looked like I was a secretary, and I figured I would pretend to be from some office looking for Camille if I needed a back story in a pinch.

I had a thick wad of bills, perhaps a thousand or so; stuffed in my pocket to deliver under my mother’s door after I discerned whether or not she actually still lived there. My heart hadn’t raced so fast since the time I’d slipped and killed the monster who’d slain Anna all those years ago; but I bit the bullet and knocked at the door, the same hollow scrap of wood with peeling paint that I used to pass through every afternoon having come home from school. Footsteps came to answer my tapping and damn if I didn’t begin to choke, growing panicky and beginning to fret for a way out of the situation I suddenly felt unprepared for.

Though old enough to be my mother, the grey faced wolf woman that opened the door was not the ghost I’d been searching for. Almost fat chested with a boxy figure, I recognized no relation and sighed relief even as my heart sank a little.

“Yes?” the woman asked, adjusting her glasses and looking me over.

“Oh, I.. erh..” I verbally stumbled, falling onto my back story for support “Hi!” I squeaked, shrill and coming off the nervous flutter in my stomach “I’m.. Lisa. I was just stopping by to see if Camille still lived here, but I suppose not..”

“Oh no, dear. She hasn’t lived here for years now.” The older lady paused, tilting her head “Were you related?”

Though I looked nothing like her in this body, I still felt found out. I bit my lip, telling my anxiety easily; something I’d not done since I was first an escort girl. “Uh.. Well..” I had lied so many times in my line of work, but somehow I couldn’t find the right words to outright deny my relation.

“Well, I see you’re a fox and whatnot, and I know Camille had a daughter… though I don’t suppose you look much like her.” The older woman crossed her arms over her belly; the tilt of her half smile said that she probably knew, but I didn’t at the time.

“Did you know her, personally?” I asked, diverting the topic.

“Oh yes, she used to work with me at the restaurant downstairs. That is to say I did know her. I’m afraid she died a few years ago, dear.” I also hadn’t been called dear since my escort days, the calm sincerity of the older woman dampening the blow as my subconscious was verified. She’d been dead to me for years, but in fact she was dead to everyone.

“Oh” was the sum of my response, sinking in that my little quest to ease my old pains was over just as quickly as it started. No forwarding addresses to chase, no familiar faces to confront; no chance for another shouting match and no chance for redemption. I was so sad and so happy they canceled each other out.

“Drank herself to death not long after her daughter ran away.” Her words, not mine. It stung a little, the implication, and the way the older woman spoke so casually about death. She shuffled off to the book shelf briefly, letting me soak in my contemplation at the door; only to bring back a familiar old book which finally tugged the tears up to blur my vision just a bit.

“We all knew she had problems, but not that bad. It was a shame to see her go. Weren’t much in her old place when she passed on, but they did find this.” She presented the book to me with both hands, staring me down with a brutal sincerity which forced the first tear down my cheek. “It seems to be the family album. I imagine, anyone who wanted to know about Camille would like to have it.” She presented the book further, and I felt helpless but to take it. How could I refuse?

“…Yes ma’am.” I muttered, attempting not to lose it in front of the total stranger living in my old house. “Thank you.”

“That’s about all I can do for you, dear. Take care of yourself, mnh? I’ve got to go back to making dinner.” She smiled and waved politely, I nodded numbly and stood there until the door had well closed; leaving me alone in the hallway with the book in my hands.

How many times had I seen mother crying over this book and these pictures? She’d been drowning herself in liquor and sorrow for years as I’d grown up, and finally succeeded. The fact that I hadn’t stopped her, and maybe I could have… I sobbed as I left the tacky diner apartments that day; wallowing deep in the disturbing idea that I had failed my parents as much as they had failed me.

Getting into the car, I braved the family album for the first time; simply looking at the pictures of my Mother when she was happy and the father I had barely known. When I reached the final page, I was ruined. There had been no pictures of mother or me since we came to America, no proud or smiling portraits, no cheerful holiday scenes. But somewhere in my room she had found the last class picture I took before running away. I only recognized myself from that old school uniform; a portion of the school name placard obstructing my knees. She’d cut out every one else in the picture and kept only the little silhouette of me, which was captioned beneath in a beautiful cursive scrawl much cleaner than the tear stained mess on the back of Roy’s picture. It read, almost proudly, “My Little Girl”.

Beginnings, Part 4

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 08:24:28 GMT

There were no “made” women, that I knew of or that anyone else had heard of either. I was instead, a so called independent woman. It meant relatively the same thing except neutered me from being directly tied to any of the crime bosses. Mutterings of the truth behind my gender typically made it around to the guys in charge while the lackeys kept staring appreciatively at my tits, as long as neither got in the way while I was on a job; no one raised a fuss.

Francis was one of the only guys I ever got along with and it was because he did good work. He ran a watch repair shop up front and handled fake IDs in back, always wearing a pair of odd glasses with magnifying lenses hanging delicately on swinging arms that he could flip forward at any time in order to do his work. He made several IDs for me; Lisa Belle which was my first alias and a host of others to match my more authentic wigs and contact lens pairings. As one time tricks wore thin and people got more leery of what was deemed “the vixen prostitute bandit”, I eased into petty burglary and odd robbery jobs.

Most organized crime I’ve encountered works in family circles, groups may work with each other but individuals are always somebody’s brother, sister, uncle, cousin and so on. No one felt particularly inclined to adopt me, and I can guess well enough why. This put me in a very unique position of not having to share my returns with “the family”. Indeed, it seemed I was privileged to family information for a fee, resources for a bargain and offered jobs for a cut of the stake; but anything I did outside of the crime syndicate’s influence was entirely my profit to take home. I was, as Lenny put it, an associate.

Francis was a valuable resource, and through him I met a speech coach who further enhanced my ability of deception. The jersey twang and slight Irish lick I’d retained from childhood soon melted into a proper English tint on command. I learned the southern drawl, the lakes pitch, the New England gnarl; forcing my throat into a gruff bark often hurt but I could fake a forty year old chain smoker if necessary. The lies and the names, the voices and the outfits, they went a very long way into getting me access to complimentary meals, private information and easily seduced suckers that helped to line my growing bank account.

But I felt unfulfilled. Coming up on my 18^th birthday, something I had kept track of but never celebrated, I had access to cheap cars and real estate, I could almost afford to buy a front and run a comfortable business out of one little spot instead of playing dress up every night. But dress up made me feel pretty to a certain extent, accepted by my would-be peers; even if I was lying desperately to almost every one of them. It had been easy to ignore with the costumes and the body shaping braces that my hormones hadn’t stopped when I had been a full time fuck puppet. My womanly curves were now ample, plump orbs grown into fatter teardrops filling out a full-fledged F cup. I’d become a porn star below the belt, balls the sized of ripened kumquats and just enough length to beat out a ruler when teased enough. It was getting difficult to hide who all I really was. I was beginning to consider investing my winnings and settling down by necessity.

Francis was somewhat aware of my plight. I no longer resembled the strapped down co-ed that I had posed for on Lisa Belle’s aging picture. While vixens with D cups were a dime a dozen and easy to lose in a crowd, a six foot fox with a sizable set of jugs like mine was considerably easier to pick out. By his recommendation I met an older thief who, like me, was an associate of the local crime lords rather than belonging to any family. Unlike me, he was retired; but still had a few tricks to be learned from.

The old coot was charming if only by how wide his eyes got when he stared at my chest too long, and I felt too sorry for his old hormones to reveal the fact of my lower bits. Wrinkled codger that he was, he rambled on at length about how to hide being a woman or being a man; having had to play both roles himself at some point or another. He said he’d got out of the business because of advancing technology, and it surely made sense. Finger print scanners and motion detectors, not even ninjas could get past some of the things people in the labs were cooking up to safe guard the truly valuable loot.

And then he let slip about the secret to his success, something he called prisimtine. Back in world war two, the American spies had been trying to infiltrate the Nazi and Japanese military with mole agents. The problem they faced more than uniforms or language was surgically rebuilding the facial and body features of their Germanic and Asian counterparts. Prisimtine was the military R&D solution to this; a dangerous but effective chemical that allowed a person, through intense concentration on a present person or a photograph, to assume another person’s physical characteristics. Blood tests were still telling and it didn’t alter one’s vocal chords, but with a shot of this stuff you could look like anyone you wanted and impersonate them almost flawlessly.

With pestering, pleading and a grope to please an old man past his prime; he agreed to part with one vial of the stuff. God bless the old bastard, the label on the fragile tube read “Prisimtine: LOT 53 Delta Lab, 07/1963” on a browning scrap of adhesive paper that was beginning to flake off. Original score, it looked like; perhaps a second helping from the cookie jar. Either way, he certainly didn’t have a lot of it or any means to make more. I chose to sample half of my one dose with help from one of the dealers associated with Lenny’s family. The results were spectacular.

The pusher who provided me the needle and syringe stood by just in case I dropped dead from the old uncertain juice, and she got quite a show. I didn’t have any photographs to try things out, but the vanity mirror in my room worked well enough. Focusing on the wigs nearby that I’d used in a half dozen jobs, I managed to change my hair color at will. It was a curious tingling sort of sensation, and a slight pressure almost as if my hair was actually growing out; but it seemed to remain the same length, just altering in pigment. Red, brown, blonde, black, and even purple by looking at one of my lipstick cases. The fact that it actually worked filled me with renewed desire to go out and work the town, robbing the ordinary folk blind. I worked my eye color, my lips; the fullness of my cheeks and slenderness of my neck, it was like putty sculpted with thought. Unfortunately, my high wore off quickly when I realized I couldn’t reduce the size of my bust or adapt to look like my chaperone bystander. The half dose wasn’t enough, and as I loaded up the needle to finish the job I realized my foolishly purple hair was beginning to return to my natural color. It was temporary! My heart broke, the tease of my thieving carrer renewed was hardly twenty minutes long.

I didn’t leave the apartment for the next two days. Thinking as much as I was sulking; the wigs I once admired no longer seemed good enough, the contacts I endured felt itchy just at the thought of them. I needed to get more of that Prisimtine stuff, but I wasn’t about to screw that old ghost to get a handful more of vials that wore off so soon. I needed more, to make more, to have my own supply ready at my whim. This was the taunting pearl in the oyster I just couldn’t reach, and it would be my initiation into chemistry.

It was a very simple arrangement with Lovette. She would let me learn how to use the home distillery and lab equipment she possessed if, and only if, I used my new found knowledge to help her make drugs. I had avoided the drug ties of Lenny’s family up until now, having seen how many of Morgan’s girls were junkies and putting out sex only to afford their fix. It was a miserable existence I never wanted to submit to, but now I had. Prisimtine is what I had get my hands on, and I was going to jump through the pusher’s hoops to get it.

The easy stuff was crack and heroin, primarily just the heating of necessary ingredients and a little mixing. Meth and Ecstasy were suitably more complex with multiple ingredients having to be broken down and fundamental chemical structures changed. My moral compass had been broken since childhood, and I took comfort in the notion that I was not directly killing anyone; it was those who couldn’t control themselves and the dosage who died tragic deaths.

Eventually I left the tutelage of Lovette’s best drug chemists and was allowed to make product on my own. I had no desire to improve the effect or addictiveness of the drugs like Lovette may have wanted. Between batches of heroin, I worked with eye droppers full of Prisimtine; slowly chipping away at the only supply I had left in order to deconstruct what it was made out of and make more.

Weeks passed by before I got anywhere close to what I was looking for in a Prisimtine clone. Knock offs at best that allowed me to once again change my hair color and a longer period of time, but it refused to work on my eyes or lips like the real deal. I found out with further trial and error that I was missing a chemical agent; a few really, things that simply weren’t necessary in a drug lab and therefore weren’t at hand in my little project area. With Francis’ help and a healthy chunk of change I got an ID for the regional hospital, snuck in at night with a handy nurse’s outfit and rolled out the loading dock with almost twenty gallons of various chemical agents; enough to fill the impounded van I had “borrowed” for the arrangement.

After almost a year of tinkering and tampering with formulas similar to Prisimtine’s makeup, I finally got the process down; a way to mass produce the crap with the right components and a drug lab that could fit on my kitchen table. I was quite happy to be out of Lovette’s debt, walking away with a notebook full of my research throughout the project and a milk jug full of the sacred elixir I’d spent so long recreating. With ten cubic centimeters per dose, per hour for effective full body transformation; I would be set for weeks before needing to make more. And my new talent would make it easier than ever to get all the supplies I needed to do so.

I began doing jobs that people couldn’t even have imagined possible, not without extensive training and surgery. Taking up photography and spending hours in front of the mirror, I imitated lawyers and bankers, security staffers and janitors. People spoke to me like I was someone else as I lied directly to their face, handed keys and important documents just by asking for them. Francis made a small fortune working for me that year as I embezzled under other people’s names, stole real estate right out from under the unsuspecting and drove cars off the lot as if I were the dealer. So many replica ID cards, so many uniforms and name tags; half of my earnings went to paying off my support team of counter fitters and costumers. I hardly noticed that I had practically become addicted on Prisimtine; truly, addicted to being people other than myself. Every hour I shot up, and every waking moment of the day I pretended to be somebody else. I never had to face my heavy chest and unsightly member ever again.

The lifestyle and the drug began to affect my brain. When I woke up after a good sleep, I hated the sight of myself in the mirror; the true me which wasn’t loved or accepted by anyone; or so I had told myself. I shot up like it was coffee, my morning wake up routine. Wish away that unsightly penis, make that chest more modest; a new day and a new hair color, maybe different eyes. That was better, now I could go about my business. It wasn’t long before my new found sense of glamour lead to hanging around new people in social clubs; forgetting my true self even more and enjoying the comfort of being accepted in the group. I didn’t ever drink alone, but I was easily coerced into drinking heavily in good company.

The longer this drew out, the more I resented having to shoot up every hour. Tugged away from my friends and my drinks, I hated myself more with every outing and began to conspire against my real body. The solution I desired was a permanent alteration. Surgery would have been the practical method, I could surely afford it; but the alcohol and Prisimtine had made me suitable irrational. Like any fool imagines when making a large batch of cookies or drinking the pain away, more is better. And so I planned, setting the weekend aside when I would deliberately overdose on my cosmetic drug of choice; a Prisimtine cocktail to end all cocktails.

Alcohol made me stupid like it had made my mother stupid. I should have learned, but instead I had repressed my former life away. Drunken idiocy was the only way to describe what I had done. Fifteen needles making a rivet trail down my forearm, the pleasant tingle warped into a pained burning and before long I blacked out. I awoke the next day, thirty hours later; confused and hurting. A small puddle of vomit already dried to the floor from where I’d fallen, lost consciousness and clearly contorted about in my dreamless sleep.

When I stumbled to the bathroom, I found myself decidedly different in the mirror. My hair was now a peculiar teal, an off shade of aquamarine; while my eyes were a dark sort of violet half resembling amethyst gemstones and my lips a funny sort of indigo. It all sort matched, but it was so outside the norm people would surely notice them to be costume effects; except that they weren’t. It took me a good few minutes to clear my head and focus, willing my hair color back to red; but I found when I relaxed and lost the illusion I slipped back to my new unique brand of aquamarine. I had fundamentally altered my body, my intentions having worked but clearly not quite as I had intended.

I suffered through my mistake, and worried; my lack of better judgment catching up to me as I wondered what the hell I had been thinking in dumping that much chemical into my body. Surely the spies of the war days had died taking less than that in one sitting. And though I would revert to my now blue haired self whenever I became too relaxed, it seemed I no longer needed the hourly dose of deception. With enough concentration, at any time, I could alter my figure to suit my needs; within reason. A shape shifter with limitations, you might say.

I was still bound to seeing and concentrating to manifest the changes, I couldn’t be a four armed man without seeing one and I never did for that matter. I tried to imagine myself with wings or a second tail, but they would be limply attached at best; my body didn’t know how to compensate and control fantastical additions to my average self. Though I had learned how to change species, I never was able to control any species specific features that I didn’t have as a vixen. I suspect the only reason I could utilize either male or female gender is because I’d been born with and grown used to both.

Despite getting what I wanted, for the most part, I was changed from the event. My self-loathing had taken a toll on my body and could have damn well killed me. I dismantled and sold off the no longer necessary equipment responsible for synthesizing my personal supply of Prisimtine, and began to wonder if it was time to move on from the city I’d called home for half of my life. I’d earned a new identity, perhaps it was now time for new scenery.

Beginnings, Part 3

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 08:23:25 GMT

I dropped the gun, astonished at myself; not grasping immediately that he was dead, or at very least denying it strongly. My next instinct was to grab the girl and tug her to her feet. The pistol was tiny, but the gunshot was still a sharp ring of attention getting noise that would have people calling the cops at any minute. Together, we ran; down the stairs, out the back way. I would have been caught eventually if not for the evening gloves of a whore’s uptown outfit, masking my prints on both weapons. The girl dropped out of the business abruptly, went back home to her reportedly abusive father; she reasoned “At least he doesn’t try to kill me.” Following her departure and the flash in the papers about “possible serial rapist snuffed in hotel”, Morgan came calling.

He was a greasy asshole, but not nearly as dumb as we may have thought. Between the bunny’s last gig in the east side hotel and where the body was found, he knew the two were related. And since Morgan had personally approved of each weapon the girls carried for defense, he knew my piece when he saw the murder weapon in the paper. I got a modest thank you for saving the girls, and a strong talk about the consequences of what I’d done. And then, a job offer.

The reason Morgan was such a greasy douche bag was because he was in the local mafia. The whore house he ran, the strip club on 6^th, the escort service; all the profits of these sex fueled industries didn’t line his pockets directly, it funded the local organized crime bunch. This came out in the modest proposal of a job for someone who was quick on their feet, and smart. Morgan knew I wasn’t a genius, and he had almost definitely been shorting me on my cut of my earnings; but I was distrustful enough to lock my room better than any of the other girls. I was fast enough to take down Charles, and not get caught in my escape or follow up crime scene. So I was tasked with a rather unusual client.

The city treasurer was a flaming homosexual, if only behind closed bars; a transvestite to top things off. Morgan was going to pay me to sleep with him, rather than the client paying me directly. Why? The notion was for me to dress up as a transvestite myself, chat him up at the local gay bar, butt fuck him stupid and then steal anything and everything related to his job and the city budget while he was unconscious. I’ll say now that I’d never given a male gay sex before, and I really have never liked anal; but on a man it’s just peculiar and pretty much your only option. There’s no velvet pocket waiting for you when their colon gets too full of spunk, and never mind the potential enema effects of a few pints of semen shoved up your ass. The treasurer thankfully did not have that problem, but he wasn’t at all attractive. After two rounds he slumped forward with a puddle of white seeping from between his cheeks, never having gotten a glimpse at just how real my breasts “seemed” to be or my femme sex hiding behind my sac.

The stupid queer had taken most of his work home with him, as well as me. I made off with a duffle bag full of documents, some to be used for embezzlement and others to be used for black mail. Morgan was overjoyed, not just at my success but how well the ploy had worked. The now facing termination treasurer was desperately hunting for a male vulpine impersonating a woman, not a woman with a dick. A two thousand dollar night of tricks was trumped by a several hundred thousand dollar job. My cut was a mere twenty thousand, and the promise of more work.

Within a week, I had done several more lower key jobs; mostly scamming one Tom or another with the prospect of sexual favors and then robbing them blind while they slept. For the occasion I invested and borrowed a few new outfits; tried new ways of making my breasts seem bigger or smaller for a limited period of time, and depending on the Tom, emphasizing or hiding away my prick. Things were much easier with a bit of chloroform in a vaporizer bottle; I just got them off once and knocked them out. In the morning, they had lost whatever precious bauble or wad of cash I’d been sent for and all they would recall is cumming so hard they passed out. The vixen of many shapes, sizes and hair colors had long since flown the coop.

This all attracted the attention of one of Morgan’s pals named Lenny. With proof that the treasurer job wasn’t just a fluke and that I was actually fairly good at being a thief, he took me out of the escort business and moved me to a little place in the Italian district. A heck of a sweet sixteen, but they didn’t need to know that.

I told Francis I was twenty years old and born in October. A day later, that’s exactly what my state ID card said with my grinning face on it. As far as the government was concerned, I was now Lisa Belle; a red haired, blue eyed girl from Kansas whose parents were Norma Belle and Dan Belle. I don’t know if those two people ever existed, but it said I was their daughter according to the birth certificate that had also been tidily forged. Inside the crime circles I was now working, people knew me simply as Foxy.

I was alright with that.

Beginnings, Part 2

Tue, 02 Oct 2007 00:50:56 GMT

I certainly didn’t look ten. A spry five foot five, D cups unrestrained by a lack of fitting bra; my baby fat having strained and straightened out with my height into dull but increasing curves. I tried to take the only job I knew existed, waitressing at a little hell hole on the east side of the city; but there problems with that. A girl hardly through basic math couldn’t be trusted with tips and a register, my interviewer suggested another line of work better suited for the poorly educated.

I was still very shy at the notion of sex. Though my real age never bubbled to the surface, the other girls could see strait away that I was too young; a virgin, unprepared for the demands of being a call girl. But I could still certainly be an escort. More or less owned by a greasy bastard named Morgan, I was shoved off to the arms of equally sleazy business men. They didn’t care how old I was, just that I fit nicely into a dress and made polite conversation when I accompanied them to dinner, dancing, or the theater.

For the most part, puberty seemed to have hit a pause. Things were as big as they ever were, my male bits now treated like a stranger and a traitor; suffocated with rubber bands and buried deep between my thighs so I could wear the pretty things that Morgan said were necessary for the job. As the years passed, my hips settled out and my face ripened into more of a charming teenager than a china doll Lolita. The men I escorted got more fresh, groping and kissing without permission; and the girls I shared residence with at the rotted out hotel where Morgan ran his operation became more like family.

I was soon fourteen. I’d largely forgotten about my mother, my father or my condition. My job came first, and I had earned enough to buy clothes I enjoyed as well as a few decorations for my room; but I still lacked vision and understanding of the world ahead of me, how long I’d live and what to do with my life. Continuing school never crossed my mind, buying a house or a car seemed like a pipe dream. I had little idea of how much anything cost, and so I sat on my money; literally, storing it under my mattress like any country girl was taught was safe.

The status quo would soon grind to a halt, as my life would once again be shaken up by my cock. One of the girls who had presumed too much comfort with our friendship helped herself into my room while I was changing, sneaking in harmlessly enough even though I’d said I was busy dressing. It was rather inevitable I suppose, but I would have liked to have been asked to see it rather than being exposed on accident. There was a gasp, surprise... and much to my confusion, wonderful from my would-be escort sister. Anna, a young blonde mink, thought it was one of the most curious things she’d ever seen. A woman with a cock? What a practical combination, she thought. She quizzed me about it, many questions of which I had no answer for at the time. How big was it? How sensitive? Had I ever had sex before? Things I’d never thought of before. The very idea that my personal abomination could been desired to pleasurable was absolutely alien to me.

Anna took my virginity with her mouth. She adored the novelty of tits and a dick in one handy location for the groping. And though I got my first blowjob while half dressed in a bra and hooker boots; subsequent suckings would be more undressed, her body pressed to mine and bare breasts sliding through each others fingers. We didn’t have a relationship, really. No flowers, no candy, no kisses on the lips that didn’t beg for my tongue; just lust and a nigh insatiable taste for my prick. It wasn’t long before I stopped wearing the rubber bands and stifling straps when around the hotel… I swung loose and ready for Anna’s hot lips to polish my joy stick for a high score or two. I eventually expected it. At the end of a long day of work and tolerating the “toms” as they were called, Anna would make me feel better with a healthy drink of fresh Foxy milkshake. In fact, it was Anna who named me. Like all the other girls, I changed names from client to client; we knew each other only by nick names. I’d been Foxy ever since entering Morgan’s little troupe, but Anna decided to call me Trinity because I had three fun spots beneath my equator.

The affair between Anna and I didn’t remain secret terribly long. Shortly after Anna took to riding my dick like a pogo stick, giving me the first taste of missionary position and a dozen other pages of the Sutra, the other girls became aware of our peculiar arrangement. Anna’s vocalizations were undoubtedly a large contributing factor to this, but I had also grown someone complacent, even comfortable, with my once forbidden bit; I’m sure I let my skirt bulge in a decidedly unladylike manner in mixed company.

And the reactions were quite mixed. Some of the girls shared Anna’s sentiment and viewed me as a treat, an exotic delicacy they had to try at least once. Others gave me pity and comfort in what they knew normal sorts viewed as a defect, I found a few third nipples and a pair of web toes in our little family as a result as they confided in me. But the bit which made my role as an escort change was the resentful and disgusted old birds who promptly informed Morgan I was soiled goods.

Morgan’s reaction was bordering disgust, but he was a business man to the end. He ensured I had access to condoms so I didn’t knock up any of the girls, and subsequently elevated my escort privledges. In exchange for the girls enjoying me, so would the Toms. I was soon earning more money at the price of my dignity, sucking the cocks of strangers and giving hand jobs to the pathetic. My general sentiment towards the male gender continued to plummet.

The highs were marked by the occasional desperate housewife who wanted a strap on and got quite a bit more. They were fun. Desperate for a lesbian experience and a cock, I gave them both and made a killing with a handful of regular customers. The lows were the Toms who didn’t take to my warnings, saw more meat between my legs than their own and treated me like the filthiest shit alive for the rest of their time; if they didn’t outright dismiss me or violently react. Fifteen at the time, all I could do was obey the customer and flee when things got bad.

That changed the day Anna died. All the girls were heart broken or rattled up from the sudden shocking loss of Anna; I was shocked by the newly realized hazard of my job, and the loss of my favorite cocksucker. The cops determined she was killed by a client who’d gotten too aggressive and strangled her before finishing off his fun. She was naked, his smut still on her thighs; signs of a struggle included the phone off the hook and a fragment of a necklace or a ring in the form of a gold plated “C” stuck in one of her clinched fingers. The client, anonymous of course, got away with it. The police wrapped up the case as aggravated sexual assault, potentially linked to a serial rapist who had been unnamed and at large for the better part of a decade. As much as I disliked men, I now hated them; as well as the police.

Morgan insisted all the girls begin to carry protection as a result of this incident. Most of the girls got knives that could be hidden in their boots or between their tits; but one of the older girls who tolerated me made clear that my special status would infuriate the wrong man before too long. She recommended a pistol, and I didn’t mind blowing some of my mattress savings in something that made me feel more secure than a mere blade. A precious little cap gun that could fit just as easily in a girl’s purse as it could shallowly inside her, it had a one shot stopping capacity which the clerk assured me would be enough. And it was.

The next big change in my life was after a mildly unpleasant day; a new Tom, and a familiar desperate housewife, the former of which did not take kindly to my endowment. Dismissed without my fee, I was irritable but not unsympathetic to one of the newer girls who was uneasy about meeting her client at a hotel on the east side rather than the typical red light territory. I went with her, on the promise of a small cut of her profit and a hand job; the nights without Anna had gotten surprisingly lonely.

Waiting outside the hotel room door, I heard an alarming scream from within; not nearly pleasure or the acceptable amount of pain, but a shriek of mortal danger. I called her name and got no answer, finding the door locked of course when I went to barge my way in. My anxiety welled up and fight or flight surprisingly moved in the confrontational direction; inspired, I fetched the fire extinguisher hanging in the hall and deftly broke the lock with one solid smack with the bulky red canister. The sound of my entrance gave the Tom a start, but not enough to retreat; the damn fool still had his hands around the poor girl’s neck. Fueled from the door ram, I charged over with the extinguisher in hand; catching only the surprised look on his face before I clocked the oaf upside the head.

He tumbled like a ton of bricks. The girl lay gasping for air on the bed, but recovering and most importantly, alive. I followed the slimy bastard over to the other side of the bed where he’d fallen, sizing up my victim of extinguisher-cide. He was alive, if a bit bloody; a solid concussion perhaps, a missing tooth and a broken nose I would have guessed if I knew anything about biology at the time. The middle aged tabby cat man was somewhat overweight, the remains of a business shirt and bikini briefs covering him like a poor drunken reject fallen out of a house party. But it was the glint of gypsy style gold chain around his neck that caught my eye, in particular the name on his little charm. “harles”. No capital, and clearly no common name. Had more time gone by, I might have forgotten. But I saw the room Anna was found in, I saw the odd little golden C half buried in her palm. When the realization hit me, my blood boiled over.

I never had nice things as a kid; a father who didn’t love me, a mother who just wanted me to be a girl and nothing more. Dirt poor, I didn’t have toys or dolls or television to keep me company, my adolescence was spent just as often rotting as I was growing into this mixed gender mess of an inner-city prostitute. Anna was my nice thing, my first real nice thing I’d ever had. When everyone else couldn’t love me for some reason or another, Anna at very least loved me for my cock. And I had just found the bastard that had taken her away from me. This did not sit well with my fragile little mind.

“CHARLES?!” I snapped in an accusing yelp, suddenly having named my personal demon; found out the twisted bastard who had insisted on making my life a never ending living hell. He made no coherent reply, clearly dazed and wheezing for breath having been slapped in the face with a nearly thirty pound cylinder of metal. And that lack of response was no good, it was insulting; it did not stay my hand so much as it taunted me and said I deserved no answer; I got no explanation from the puppet master as to why the strings had been pulled to taunt me. I dropped the extinguisher just shy of his legs, and reached between my tits.

Oh that little pistol had been waiting, it was warm. Snug in momma’s nest. I had never dreamed of harming anyone before, never knew the sting of vengeance, never knew the thirst of inflicting pain on another living thing. My life up to that point had been a whipping girl, timid and expecting of rejection and hurt from others; it had been my burden to accept that. But no longer. Aim, release the safety, and pull the trigger. It was just as easy as the old broad had said. Faster than that fucking pervert could plead for mercy, a pea sized ovoid of lead ran from ear to neck; ripping apart every piece of skin, bone and brain it could find in its way. Falling to the ground for a second time, bleeding much more heavily than the first; he was dead.

Beginnings, Part 1

Mon, 01 Oct 2007 00:51:28 GMT

I remember very little from the old country. Sussex, I think it was.

My family was bitterly poor. My father a simple farmer, a mixed breed equine straddled somewhere between Clydesdale and a undisclosed father. He was estranged from his known family because of the mixed heritage. My mother, on the other hand, was full blooded fox. A scarlet rose from the emerald isles, red hair and big tits. The latter half got her in a little too much fun for her own good. I understand that her sisters and father strongly disagreed with the fact she was a ale tapper, or bar wench really, rather than carrying on the more noble profession of steam workers and machinists that had been around for several generations.

I assume that my mother and father met in one of the establishments my mom was working at, at the time. A little too much drink, a little too much shimmy in her blouse… Father didn’t have to worry about family reactions from having a mixed breed youth with some bar wench; but my mother was simply disowned the moment she was pregnant with a horse’s child. I don’t think she cared, given she continued to bar tend well up to late stages of pregnancy by the photos I’ve seen. A grungy picture book is about the only link I have to the family that left me behind, surely the thing which drove my mother mad.

There were a few letters tucked in the pages. They reflect in some passages a personal diary of my mother, first overjoyed with being pregnant and then more reluctant when her family cut her loose.; testaments to love and the virile bed manner of my father all leading up to the birth and ending abruptly after. There’s a few month gap between what she describes as ‘due any day now’ and the next letter, a copy of the letter she wrote to her sister and the reply. A yarn of disgrace, worry and a ‘defect’. Woe, the misaligned gender of her new child, the aunt I never knew said plainly that this was penance for mating with someone outside the vulpine bloodlines.

I was born a hermaphrodite, marked with a ‘mixed’ designation on my original birth certificate. Rare at the time, the procedure of doctors from that time and place was to let the child grow a few years and then determine which gender they were most likened to; corrective surgery to take place around puberty. While I’m sure both my parents smiled and nodded as best they could to this explanation, there was a conflict of interest at home. From what I remember around the age of four or so, father preferred to dress me in boys clothes and keep my hair tied back in a plain pony tail which was common for both young boys and girls in the country side. Mother, however, preferred to put me in dresses and let my hair long. I remember the shouting of their voices more than any calm or kind words.

The dresses won out, if only by driving my father off. A notation on the back of the photograph with my father begrudgingly standing beside me in a little pleated dress, there’s a frustrated scribble from in my mother’s handwriting. It reads as such…

“Roy’s always had reservations about what we did that hot July evening, not so much the act as the result. He never knew his folks, and sure enough my lil’ one will never know mine. The only blessing was that our babe came out fully vulpine rather than some off color hybrid. But with its mixed gender… There’s nothing but strife between us. Every daddy wants a little boy, every momma wants a little girl. We just don’t know what to do with both. Roy left for tilling supplies yesterday, but I found some of his personal effects gone as well. All I can do is cry now. I know he ain’t comin’ back.”

Signed, Camille. A foreshadowing of things to come. Four years old and my mother still referred to me as it when it came to writing things down, she knew the dress didn’t make things any different.

Shortly after, we sold off what little we could and took a leaky boat to the Americas. I don’t have any happy story book memories of the statue of liberty, just the soot stained port we rolled into; shoveled off onto the pave like luggage. We found safety in a cramped apartment above the diner which my mother had found work. I was ‘the child’. I was stashed away in that hell hole with stained wall paper and the persistent smell of burnt bacon sliding up from the diner below, seven days a week with a hand full of library books my mother brought to me. Essentially caged and not referred to by name until I was deemed old enough to go to school, a more suitable day care than the empty apartment.

Just about as soon as I was toddling off to the inner city grade school, mother began to drink rather heavily. The fact I was out of the house for a few hours a day meant she had time alone to sneak drinks on her breaks. Sneaking drinks gradually became the partaking of cheap wine with dinner, and snowballed into bottles of whiskey uncapped in her lap while unconscious on the couch. It’s troubling to imagine I used to think her pretty like this. She’d put on a little bit of weight, her breasts gotten bigger; her cleavage hanging out her waitress outfit, all the better for her job and the tips. I looked up to her as the woman I was to become; shapely and strong, utterly unaware that she was drowning herself in alcohol.

Mixed gender, bastard child of a horse and a vixen; puberty hit like a cannon blast. Mother didn’t notice I needed a training bra until I was nearly a B cup, and once she did notice it became a flaming resentment. I was getting to shapely for my baby doll dresses, and quite unfortunately, my male endowment was getting too pronounced to tuck away in traditional panties anymore. By the time I was nine years old, I was a C cup bordering on a D; every pretty thing I’d worn in my early years had been replaced by masculine blouses and restraining halters to confine my budding chest as much as possible while it was paramount I wear long pleated skirts with strap down briefs to minimize and obscure what had become a unladylike bulge.

Mother never married again. She never even dated, from my knowledge. Occasionally I’d see the picture book open beside her on the sofa when she was comfortably unconscious on the couch; I knew she longed for my father, and I knew I was what had driven him off.

I did my best to be a good little ‘girl’, and I did my best to study. Good grades did very little to inspire pride from my mother, often too intoxicated to welcome me home from school. I wasn’t actually sure if she worked at the diner anymore, she seemed forever drunk… missing in the morning and usually in a picked slouch when I arrived home in the afternoon. The breaking point occurred one innocent afternoon; I’d walked home from school like usual and she was once again passed out on the couch. The usual half bottle drained in her lap was this time an empty container on the table beside her; the picture book absorbing a ring stain beneath it, left open to a page showcasing my mother and father together.

Much to my bewilderment, the occasional showcase of cleavage from my mother’s ill fitting outfit was this time exposure. Laid out upon the couch, her blouse had come open well enough for one bare breast to lay exposed on the cushion; facing an unprepared young girl coming home from school. My tenth birthday was only a few weeks away; I’d never so much as seen a porno-rag let alone any adult in the nude. The sight was perplexing and amazing; I remember clutching my tightly strapped down bosom and wondering if mine were going to grow that big. Unfortunately, the same male hormones which had caused my panties to bulge was now a buzz at the sight of a body other than my own. Before I know it, the knot pushing everything down slipped and I’d pitched my first tent in my school skirt. Not having had so much as a wet dream yet, I was ashamed by the unexplained surge of sensation and size my arousal had made quite noticeable against my skirt. I may have gotten away with it, confused and embarrassed about having sexual thoughts about my mother once I discovered more about sexuality; but my world came crashing down the moment I stumbled, trying to cover my virgin rise and kicking the edge of the coffee table with a clatter.

Mother woke with a start, not that I had been that loud but the hangover intensified everything; including her rage. Sitting up, her left tit was still hanging loose. She shoved it back into place before she seemed to notice I was there, and my poor helpless prick. I’d seen the bitter scowl of alcohol passing her lips before, but this was a far more bitter pill than that. The allegations soar, the insults, the blame. What a freak she’d had, not sure what I was, brassieres and jock straps; how dare I ogle my mother. Shouting and tears, from both sides, I eventually retreated to my room in a fluster… hating myself, hating the thing which made me less of a woman. I brandished the school scissors from my book bag and tried to cut it off, yelping in pain and frustration as the safety shears only cut paper. I drew a bit of blood, but primarily defeat. I knew then I could never be my mother’s little girl.

I shoved my school books away and packed only what would fit in my backpack, two outfits and a small handful of one dollar bills I had been given as ‘presents’ from my mother across the various holidays. Out the fire escape I climbed, not daring to pass back through the den of the lion in the main room. My life on the streets began then.

(OOC) Rotation, alignment and changing the fluids (OOC)

Mon, 01 Oct 2007 00:48:25 GMT

Some of you may have noticed that all the previous entries on this journal have vanished, and for a few weeks the placeholder in this journal was a single enigmatic post having to do with pressing a button. What was that button? A reset button! As you can see, all journal entries were wiped. But that's not all.

If you visit Foxy on Expandoria or Tapestries mucks, you'll find every room of her house has been altered if not entirely changed. Additionally, many of her morphs have been scrapped outright and her default form changed about. What does all this mean?

A few weeks ago there was a drama snafu. Certain persons became quite irritated at me for voicing my distaste with other people's public displays. Rather than address me directly and resolve the conflict, things escalated the way internet arguments to and pretty much all parties involved (myself included) childishly hit the ignore button while making smoke signals to people with power. The end result of this drama bomb was the distinct impression that I had fewer allies and friends than I thought I had; and that Doctor Foxy was no longer as fun to play as she once was. Briefly, I considered scrapping the character entirely and resigning my furry participation to admiring the contributions on FA and DA.

There we things about furry involvement which took away from the fun of roleplay, and as role play is -supposed- to be a game (and games are supposed to be fun), I felt like walking away from what was no longer fun. Lots of things contribute to this. Mostly emotional nonsense. Jealousy, envy, greed and the more hollow side of lust.

A few weeks off helped. More so, the people who actually made effort to stay in touch was a nice reminder that I did have -some- friends; even if it didn't total out to the number in my watchfor lists. I had time to redesign foxy, her house and flesh out her backstory without completely destroying the character. What this means is a few important things.

* First, I'm back. Still contending with college hours, but I will now appear on the watchfor list instead of being hidden.

* Second, the labcoat has been hung up. As it was pointed out to me by friends during the hiatus, there's not much fun in loitering about waiting for new patients. Foxy has relatively few friends because she's professional before personal. So from now on, 'Doctor' Foxy Trinity will not be wearing the title on her sleeve; nor will she be wearing a lab coat much. The lab will stick around and I'll still be doing medical/modification scenes, but not to the exclusivity I used to.

*Third, the division of journals. LiveJournal from this point on will be reserved for IC posting and backstory. FA will be where I post OOC notes. Just so everyone is clear, it's DrFoxyTrinity on LJ, and FoxyTrinity on furaffinity.

And that's really all there is to say about that. See you around the mucks.