Right here and right now, my job was to titillate the crowd; I couldn’t let myself get lost in images of what Master would do to my willing, pliable...body after.The skirt, unsurprisingly, tore away. I’d seen hundreds of girls onstage do what I was doing, but until now I’d never truly understood it. The rush of excitement, the thrill of exhibitionism. The knowledge that every man in the room was erect, and every woman was wet, and it was all because of me.I was a sexual goddess. No, better - I. So I figured it out. The stupid doctor saw"replacement hormones" and didn't even bother to look at me or, if he did,he must have thought I was a girl. What to do now?You know how athletes hate to mess up a winning streak? They'll wear thesame socks for a month or eat the same foods before every game, as long asthey keep winning. Hell, I'd once seen Tom pull on a shirt so stiff withold sweat it could stand up on its own, because of a winning streak.That's what went though my head. I felt like I. More

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