Vice Reversal

By Lilith

Part One: A Chance Encounter

The tall, slender black woman on the corner watched as the Lexus stopped for a red light a block away. Before the light, the car had been moving slowly up Leavenworth Street as the driver examined all the other women "turned out" in the upper Tenderloin, San Francisco's biggest center of street prostitution. In the light cast by the street lamp, she could see the expensive four-door's personalized license plate: "BG SPNDR."

She filled in the missing letters mentally -- "Big Spender" -- and smiled. Maybe she would be able to make some money tonight after all.

She dropped her cigarette into the gutter and quickly checked her face in her compact's mirror. From her African-American mother she had inherited full lips, a wide nose and clear skin the color of hot cocoa; her Japanese father had handed on his high Asian cheekbones and a pronounced epicanthic fold that gave her an exotic Afro-Asian appearance. her features were framed by a straight shoulder-length platinum page boy wig. Her lips were painted a light shade of pink, and to point up the slightly bluish tint of her hairpiece as well as accentuate her exotic features and dark skin, her eyes were heavily lined with mascara and her heavy eyelids coated with contrasting layers of light powder blue and white shadow. She grinned at her reflection, dropped her compact back into her shoulder bag and struck a provocative pose. She had been on the street for an hour, now. It was about time she turned up a customer.

The Lexus began to slow down about forty feet away , and the vehicle veered toward the curb where she was standing. The power window on the passenger side rolled down smoothly with a slight hum and the driver of the car, a trim white man in sunglasses and a well-cut dark Brioni suit, leaned toward her and said "Hi!" She bent over to the window, resting her forearms on the car door so that her ample cleavage was well exposed to the driver. "Hello, yourself," she said with an inviting smile. "I'm Cassandra. You looking for some company, sugar?"

He slid his sunglasses down on his nose, revealing steel blue eyes. "Hi, Cassandra," he said. "My name's Jack. I sure am. How about you?"

Cassandra nodded once. "You bet," she said. "You have a place where we can go?"

Jack used a switch on his door panel to unlock the passenger side door.

"Sure -- I think I know a place. You're new around here, aren't you? I've never seen you in the Tenderloin before."

"That's right, honey," she said as she settled into the spotless sedan and fastened her seat belt. "I just got into town from L. A. this week, and I'm thinking about setting up shop in the 'Loin from now on."

Jack pulled away from the curb and headed up Leavenworth toward the top of Nob Hill. "Well, welcome to the 'Cool Gray City of Love,' babe," he said. "I spend a lot of evenings down here, so I will probably see you again. Incidentally, what's this going to cost me?"

"Why -- are you a cop or something?" Cassandra frowned, her professional paranoia engaged by his open request for a price. The first thing an undercover cop posing as a John tried to do was to get a girl to admit she wanted money for sex. If he was secretly recording his conversation with her, all he had to do was play the tape in court to get a slam dunk conviction for 647 PC -- the law governing prostitution.

Jack smiled, his eyes dancing with humor, and gestured toward his luxury sedan. "Sweetheart, does this look like a car a cop would drive?" he said sarcastically. "Do these look like the clothes a cop would wear? Honestly now, have you ever met a cop who wasn't a hapless slob?"

Cassandra relaxed visibly and closed the door. "Yeah, you're right," she said with a sigh as he pulled away from the curb and began driving toward the top of Nob Hill. "A girl can't be too careful, you know. There are lots of cops out on the streets, and some of them are pretty clever at getting a girl in trouble. My fee depends on what you want me to do, sweetie. A blow job is $50 bucks. If you want to go someplace to fuck, I charge $100 an hour for as many hours as you want. You pay for any room, but I know some places that are real cheap -- only $25 a night."

Jack glanced at her over the tops of his glasses. "Only $50 to suck me off, huh?" he said in a surprised tone of voice. "What a bargain! You're so good looking, I'd think you would be charging a lot more than that."

Cassandra smiled. "Thanks sugar," she said. "You can give me a big tip if you like what I do for you."

Glancing out the window, she spotted an upcoming alley and gestured toward it. "Here's a good spot, Jack, if you just want me to suck you off," she said. "Turn in here and park. I can do it right here in the car."

Jack pulled into the alley, and cut the lights and engine. "Go ahead and do me, baby," he said huskily, pulling down his zipper.

Cassandra pulled out his rock hard penis without hesitation, slipping a condom over its head and pushing the rubber the rest of the way onto his shaft with her lips as he grunted with pleasure. Her head moved back and forth over his groin rhythmically as she gently fondled his testicles and sucked and teased his penis with her mouth. In almost no time he came, gasping, as his load pumped the tip of the condom full. She continued to suck enthusiastically until his penis, spent, began to go flaccid.

"Oh, honey," he said, breathing heavily. "That was soooo fine! You have one beautiful mouth." He used a tissue to remove the rubber and tossed it out the window as he tucked his member back into his pants. "You want your money now?"

She pulled a lipstick out of her purse and repaired her make-up. "Sure, sugar," she said, pressing her lips together to even out the lipstick. "And if you really liked it, give me something extra."

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a wallet. Opening it, he frowned and said, "Oh-oh! It looks like I left my wallet in my other suit. There's no money in here!" Holding it up so she could see its contents, he added, "Here, take a look for yourself."

The "wallet" was actually a "buzzer" -- the leather case law enforcement officers use to carry their badge and credentials. On one side was a seven-pointed silver star that carried the numbers 75312 and said he was an "Inspector, San Francisco Police Department." On the other was a laminated identification card identifying him as Inspector Jack Clary, a member of the city's Vice Squad.

"I guess you just crapped out tonight, honey," Jack said with a wolfish grin, flipping the leather case shut and tucking it back into his jacket. "It looks like that great blow job you gave me turned out to be a freebie."

"You son-of-a-bitch," Cassandra said angrily. "Just my luck -- three days on the street in San Francisco and the first cop I run into rips me off."

Clary's face twisted with sudden anger and her slapped her with the back of his right hand so hard it snapped her head around. She fell back against the window with her hand on a darkening bruise that covered the entire side of her face, looking at him with fear in her tear filled eyes.

"Shut up, cunt!" he snarled. "One more peep out of you and I'll take you out to Land's End and throw your sorry butt in the Pacific. You wouldn't be the first one I took there for a moonlight swim. Count yourself lucky that I'm just taking you off for a knob job tonight. I could throw your well-rounded little ass in the tank downtown for prostitution.

"Remember me well, bitch," he said leaning so close to her that she could see the broken blood vessels in the whites of his eyes and the pores on the bridge of his nose. "I patrol this area regularly, and I'm God on the streets in the Tenderloin --you just ask the other girls that turn out.

"If I come by and want a blow job or a piece of ass, be ready to let me have it. If I ask you for a contribution to my little personal 'widows and orphans fund, `be ready to pay it. Don't ask any questions, don't tell any tales and don't ever, ever play any games with me, because they will be the last ones you ever play. Now beat it -- and don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!"

Cassandra stumbled into the alley, still holding her throbbing jaw. Clary slammed the door of the Lexus shut and burned rubber as he drove away from her. She sniffled loudly and turned back toward Leavenworth. A pay telephone was illuminated by the street lamp on the corner, and she moved toward it, tears streaming down her cheeks from the pain of Clary's slap.

She found two dimes in the bottom of her purse and dialed a number she knew by heart. It rang only twice before it was picked up.

"Auntie Yvonne? This is Cassandra, your niece from Los Angeles," she said into the phone as she leaned against the side of the booth, her hand pressed against her face. "You know that offer you made me? I've decided to take you up on it. I've decided that the streets of San Francisco aren't the best place for me to work."

She listened for a moment to the low soothing voice on the other end of the line, then spoke again. "Yes, I've had a problem with a cop," she said. "his name's Jack Clary and he's with S.F. Vice. He took me for a blow job then said he was going to take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Money, too."

She listened for a moment in silence as the other party spoke, then nodded her head in agreement.

"Yes, Auntie -- I would definitely like to make him pay," she said finally. "But how can I -- I mean, he's a cop, what can I do to him?"

Cassandra listened a bit to what the person at the other end of the line had to say, then smiled. Her smile grew broader as the person on the other end of the line continued to speak, and she laughed outright at the last thing the other party said.

"Deal, Auntie!" she said before hanging up. "If you can make that happen, it's worth a case of Dom Perignon to me -- and I'll help you drink it!"

Part Two: The Bait

Jack Clary had it all: the expensive car, a closet full of designer suits, a job with lots of power and a badge that made all of it right. He had only been in the vice squad for two months, but he had already shaken down half the street prostitutes in San Francisco's Tenderloin for sex, cash or both. He had beaten up one pimp badly enough to send him to Mission Emergency with internal injuries, and scared two others into moving out of town entirely. At the same time as he was slowly extorting the city's most vulnerable street hookers, he was also getting a reputation as the most aggressive vice cop on the street, with 20 felony procuring busts, 47 misdemeanor prostitution citations and two arrests for possession of controlled substances.

Life was good. He had more money than he could spend without arousing suspicion and he had all the professional sex he could handle, free of charge -- like the intriguing Afro-Asian woman he had conned into oral sex two nights before. He smiled at the thought. Too bad he'd had to pimp slap her smart mouth. He intended to see her again.

Clary's crooked cop lifestyle also had its professional benefits. His name had already been mentioned favorably during command staff meetings at the Hall of Justice, although his impact had been decidedly less favorable among other members of the vice crimes unit. Most of the old timers thought he was way too vigilant in his enforcement of petty prostitution statutes, and among themselves they wondered why he was making no effort to "roll over" some of the girls he arrested and turn them into informants. They were convinced that he was more interested in big arrest statistics than in making quality vice cases -- those that involved controlled houses of illicit sex, or prostitution operations that specialized in robbing or extorting their victims.

The younger cops thought he was too openly ambitious -- that he hoped to parley his impressive arrest numbers into a promotion out of the unit, or, worse yet, collect a ridiculous amount of overtime pay for showing up in court to testify against each of the pathetic hookers he arrested.

In fact, Jack wasn't interested in either of those scenarios. Instead, he wanted to stamp out Tenderloin street sex entirely -- at least, as it presently operated. Street prostitution in San Francisco was a loose, unorganized meat market in which every woman -- and every pimp -- worked against each other. He wanted to do away with this inefficient free market anarchy and replace it with a totalitarian model: he wanted all the streetwalkers in the district to work under his direct control. Moreover, he wanted all their pimps out of town. Clary had no illusions about ending prostitution entirely or even reducing it substantially. He simply wanted to be the primary person to benefit from it financially. In essence, he wanted to be the district's blue-jacket pimp, with every street hooker in the 'Loin working directly for him.

He parked the Lexus in the garage under the Hall of Justice and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor for the beginning of his shift. As he entered the office, Captain Lang Jeffords, his boss, approached him with a pink message slip in his hand and a harassed look on his face.

"Okay, hot dog!" Jefford said, flashing an unpleasant smile that let Clary know he was about to get a shit assignment. "Skip the line-up tonight. I want you to check this out first."

Clary frowned at the message form his commanding officer had handed him. "What's the deal, cap?" he asked. "What's it all about?"

Jeffords put his hands on his hips in exasperation. "This could be the big time for you, sonny boy," he said. "Lady called in about forty minutes ago, asking me to pass this to you by name. Said there's a cat house operating out in the Mission just above Valencia Street. Said there were big people involved, and the girls were hanging around out in front, looking like street whores."

Clary looked up at him questioningly. He knew that Jeffords didn't like him for some reason, but he didn't want to get stuck on some make work assignment that would keep him out of the Tenderloin all night. "So what's the big deal?" he asked. "Just sounds like a cranky granny with too much time on her hands. Why don't I just call her up and make nice and blow the whole thing off?"

Jeffords poked him in the chest with a short stubby finger. "She says there's going to be a community meeting about this. The neighbors out there are howling for blood, she said, and if somebody doesn't take action, they are going to the Mayor about it, capisch?"

Clary held the note up with a frown. "But, cap," he said pleadingly.

"This is a house in the Mission -- my sector is the Tenderloin."

Jeffords tapped the badge hanging from his shoulder holster harness.

"See this, hot shot?" he asked with a snarl. "The tin star says 'San Francisco Police,' not 'Tenderloin Police,' or 'Chinatown Police,' or 'Mission District.' If you're a cop for the city, you work where ever in the city you are needed. Tonight, you are needed in the Mission District.

Tomorrow it may be Hunter's Point. I don't want you to give me a bunch of bullshit about where you have to go. Just go there, understand."

Clary swallowed and nodded in silence.

Jeffords slapped him on the shoulder and turned him back toward the door. "Get moving, hot dog," he said. "I want you to check out that address on the slip and report back to me directly, you understand. Take no action by yourself. If you can get inside, look around and see what's going on, but don't arrest anybody. I want a full report on my desk in the morning."

Jeffords leaned down close to Clary's face and smiled unpleasantly.

"Don't fuck this one up, big shot," he said. "The last thing I need is a bunch of angry citizens getting the Mayor involved in my fucking command!"

A final shove sent Clary out into the hall where he glanced at the note: it gave an address in the 2200 block of Valencia Street, and described it as a blue house with white trim. He thought it was odd that the captain hadn't put the informant's name or phone number on the note -- he would have liked to talked with her first, just to get the lay of the land.

He tucked the note in his jacket pocket. No matter. He would do just what the captain ordered him to do. When this blew over, he would be go right back to his home territory -- and his plan to take it over. Smiling, he thought to himself, "who knows -- maybe if I am able to break this I can come away with a promotion or something. Maybe it will change my life!"

He had no idea how true those words could be.

Part Three: Hook Taken!

The house on Valencia was easy to find, a large, two-story Victorian frame building not far from Dolores Park. The surrounding neighborhood was middle-class residential, and Jack drove past twice checking the place out before he looked for a place to park. Two young women, both stunningly attractive blondes, were on the front stoop, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They didn't look like hookers to Jack – both were wearing expensive designer suits and smartly styled hairdos that made them look like business women, albeit business women wearing heavy make up and very high heeled shoes. But Jack had relatively little experience with any prostitutes besides the exotically dressed girls from the Tenderloin, who were about as easy to spot as a giraffe at a pigmy barbecue. He decided that the scene required further examination, so he pulled his car over in a miraculously open parking space at the curb.

Jack decided his safest approach would be to pretend to be a tipsy businessman looking for a little action, but too drunk to be smooth. He pulled a pint bottle of bourbon out of his glove compartment and took a swig, then dabbed a little on his throat like expensive aftershave. He exaggerated his actions as he climbed out of the Lexus, moving slowly and clumsily and locking the door from the outside so that he could fumble with his key. One of the women walked part way down the steps outside the house, a look of mild concern on her face.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked, flicking her cigarette into the street. "May I help you?"

Jack weaved slightly and looked at her as if having trouble focusing his eyes. "My God," he said with a slight slur. "Aren't you the pretty one?"

Leaning back against the car he looked at both women with one eye closed, as if that made it easier to focus. "My friend, Charles, told me I could have a good time here," he said, gesturing broadly at the house. "I am in the right place, aren't I?"

The girl closest to him looked back at the other and winked broadly. "You sure are, sport, if the price is right," she said with smooth confidence. "Come on up and I'll introduce you to our boss, Madame Yvonne."

Jack grinned back vacantly and stepped forward. She slipped her arm into his and led him up the stairs. "Georgette, go and get the mistress," she said to the other girl as she guided him through the door. "Tell her we have a special guest."

Inside, the house was expensively decorated, with a long Persian rug in the corridor, plain, dark-stained wood paneling and antique overhead light fixtures and wall sconces. The girl who had his arm introduced herself as Annette and escorted him into a brightly lit drawing room with a wet bar on one side. She pushed him gently onto a large burgundy leather sofa and strode elegantly to the bar. "Madame will be down in a moment," she said as she moved behind the bar and filled crystal glasses with ice. "I'll entertain you until she comes down. What would you like to drink? Single-malt Scotch? A cocktail?"

Clary grinned at her and sank back onto the soft couch. "What type of Scotch do you have? He asked, saying the words slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid of mispronouncing them.

"We have Glenfiddich, Glenlivet and Glen Moranjie," she said lightly, glancing at the bar below her. "There are also a couple of blends -- Dewar's and Johnny Walker -- and an assortment of other liquors."

Clary stretched out his arms along the back of the couch. "I'll take the Dewar's, on the rocks, please," he said. "Make it a double," he added, deciding that asking for a stiffer drink would make him seem more relaxed and less likely to be a cop.

She prepared the drink and brought it over to him, carrying a similar one for herself. "Here you go," she said, handing him two generously-poured jiggers of dark amber liquor over several cubes of ice and making a toasting motion with her own glass.

He clinked his glass against hers. "Success to crime," he said, a toast he had learned from Dashiell Hammett's "Maltese Falcon."

"Bottom's up!"

Both took large sips. As Clary swallowed, a door at the end of the room opened and a magnificent black woman nearly six feet tall swept into the room, trailed close behind by the other blonde who had been on the front stoop when he parked.

The black woman -- dressed in a sleek floor-length gold lame evening dress that clung to her ample curves the way a drowning man holds onto his lifejacket -- moved forward and extended her hand. Jack, rising from the couch, took it as a whiff of Chanel # Five reached his nostrils.

"Hello," she said in a smoky tenor. "I'm Yvonne and this is my house. You are most welcome. My associate here, Georgette, tells me that you were referred to us by someone named 'Charles.' Can you tell me which Charles it was that sent you our way?"

Clary thought fast. "Uh -- I didn't catch his last name," he said. "I met him at the Pacific-Union Club. I was the guest of a member and I didn't know any of the other people there, but I mentioned that I was looking for -- uh -- company, and this fellow, Charles, uh, he said I should swing by here."

Yvonne smiled warmly. "No matter," she said. "However, it was rather indiscreet of him to have mentioned our little club to a perfect stranger." She placed her hand on his upper arm and stroked it gently, as if sizing him up. "Of course," she added, batting her eyelids at him, "when the perfect stranger is so -- well, perfect -- I tend to make slight allowances."

"So tell me, mister, uh --" she looked at him with question marks in her eyes.

"Simmons," he blurted, using his fake street name. "Jack Simmons. At your service, ma'am!" He took her hand again and bowed low.

She blushed. "Why, thank you, Mr. Simmons," she said. "It's always a pleasure to meet a real gentleman. Now tell me, Jack, how can we at Madame Yvonne's help you find your pleasure tonight?"

Jack looked at each woman in turn, licking his lips. His mouth suddenly felt quite dry. He took another deep swallow of the whisky and cleared his throat. "I, uh -- well I am looking for . . . " He struggled for a moment as if he was having difficulty remembering exactly what it was he was trying to say -- then suddenly realized that his confusion wasn't part of his drunk act -- he actually was having difficulty remembering.

"Uh, I -- I --" he said as he struggled to gain control of his thoughts. His mind seemed to be slowly shutting down from the outside in. His mouth felt even drier and he raised his glass to his lips in order to quench his thirst. As he swallowed the last of the scotch, he vaguely realized that the liquor -- or something dissolved in it -- was what was fogging his brain.

His fingers seemed numb, as if injected with Novocain. The whisky glass slipped from them and fell lazily to the floor, bouncing up from the Persian rug in what seemed to Jack to be slow motion. He turned his head and saw Madame Yvonne's face so close he felt he might have been able to kiss her, if only he had any sensation in his lips.

"Uh-h-h!" he said as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor so limply that his unprotected forehead landed with a crack on the bare wood just beyond the rug's edge. "Uh-h-h-h!" he said as he sprawled on the floor, his face flat against the rug. He could see nothing but a patch of woven wool and was completely unable to move any part of his body. Despite his paralysis, he still could hear what was going on around him quite clearly.

There was a moment of silence, then one of the blondes -- he was not sure which -- asked: "Is he okay?"

Madame Yvonne's honeyed tones reached his ears. "Yes, he'll be fine,"

she said. "Get Rufus or Deke to come up here and help us. And tell him to bring Dr. Mosloff with him!"

With her last words, Clary's world went dim as his eyes involuntarily closed. The last sound he heard was what he later realized had been his own deep-throated snore.

Jack dreamt weird dreams. Like most dreams, they merged and diverged, dovetailed with other phantasms and forged their own strange coherent story. He dreamed of his experiences as a boy, learning at his father's knee that women were worthless, treacherous and untrustworthy. He remembered his father's words of wisdom: "Never look past a woman's cunt, kid. That's the only genuine thing about the female of the species." He glimpsed scenes of his father slapping and punching his mother, of the time he pushed her down the stairs during one of their recurrent arguments about his drunken unfaithfulness.

Jack's dreams contained visions of his mother in a nun's habit, lit from below like a saint, and also in a black corset and seamed black nylons, her huge painted lips pursing at him like a hooker in a blue movie. He flashed a hallucination of his mother as she had looked the time his dad -- an inspector of police -- sent her to the hospital, in a gurney, with facial bruises and a tiny tube up her nose feeding her oxygen.

In his unconscious state, Jack groaned and tried to turn over. He could not control the movements of his body and he sank back, covered with sweat, to dream again.

He saw new visions: himself as a rookie police officer, outfitted in a pristine blue uniform and shiny badge, walking his beat for the first time. He watched as he shook down his first streetwalker, forcing her to give him head, then taking the money a John had given her earlier in the evening. He saw himself using his club to knock down her pimp, striking the man over and over on his shoulders and back as he went down. He saw himself telling the injured man to get out of town -- that if he ever saw him in San Francisco again, he would arrest him on drug charges and have him sent to state prison.

Jack sweated and strained, trying to toss and turn, but failing, his muscles unable to respond to his mind's desires. New hallucinations swam into his head. He saw himself in a tuxedo, being married to a girl he had known since they went to Saint Ignatius High School together. He saw himself slapping her when she refused to perform oral sex on him like a street hooker. He saw her say goodbye to him when the annulment went through, giving him back his expensive wedding ring with a flourish.

The visions swirled inside his head. He saw himself working the patrol division in the Tenderloin, forcing prostitutes to suck his cock, then sending them back out on the street with the warning that anything they earned, they must share with him, Finally, he saw himself being promoted to the vice unit -- a job he planned to use to become the boss of San Francisco's street prostitutes, a pimp with a badge, able to score all the pussy he wanted, and a rake off from the street girls, as well.

Jack's eyes opened with a jerk. He tried to wipe the dripping sweat from his face, but he could not make his hand obey him. Instead, he remained flat in bed, in sodden sheets, his body quivering slightly as his breath came in spasmodic gasps.

The room was dark, but after a period a glaringly bright light switched on. He could see it came from an unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling. He tried to see where he was, but was unable to move his head.

Part Four: A Tight Squeeze!

"Well, well. The prodigal has returned," said a familiar female voice.

In a moment, Madame Yvonne loomed over him, smiling sardonically. "I guess you are back among the living. It's time for your transformation to begin."

Jack wanted to shout at her that he was a police officer and she was under arrest. But his efforts succeeded only in forcing a thin stream of drool to drip from the side of his mouth. He was totally paralyzed.

"We wanted you to be awake before we started," she continued, unaware of his effort to yell at her. "It's been about four hours and you've been sleeping like a baby. You'll enjoy the photos we took of you during your beauty sleep, Officer Clary!"

Her use of his real name stunned him. Of course, he thought. She has had all this time to go through my wallet. She knows exactly who I am.

She held up a Polaroid print, close enough to his nose to make him cross his eyes to focus. It was a picture of him giving a man a blow job, lighted well enough so it was easy to identify Clary, but dark enough to obscure the man he was servicing.

"Like it?" she said in her mellow voice, looking at the photograph with pleasure. "I think it's a very flattering shot, myself. My heavens you were eager! I can see a little drip of cum on your chin."

She held another picture in front of his face. It was Clary getting reamed from behind by a man who was just out of focus. Jack's face bore a sickening smile of pleasure.

"This one is really hot!" she said, tauntingly. "Look at your face, honey! You must really enjoy getting it up the mine shaft!"

The third picture was even worse. He had his hand wrapped around the other man's penis, big and hard as a Howitzer barrel, with a sickly love-struck smile on his face. Like the other photos, the man he was fondling was not quite visible in the picture. But his cock was, and so was Clary's insipid smile, like he was posing for a club photo in his High School yearbook.

Clary tried to speak, but only succeeded in wetting the back of his throat. He was still completely unable to move.

Madame Yvonne gave him a cool appraising glance. "Sit up!" she demanded in a clear, strong voice.

Clary was stunned to feel himself rise up off the bed and assume a sitting position, his hands at his side, his legs straight on the damp sheets in front of him.

"Grab your dick!" she said sternly.

He watched as his hand immediately wrapped around his member like he was trying to throttle a chicken.

"Now, jerk yourself off!"

His hand began to stroke up and down on his penis. He pumped harder and harder, panting slightly toward the end, until he suddenly climaxed in a milky spurt that landed half on the sheet, half on his thigh.

"Now lick that up," Madame Yvonne demanded in a no-nonsense voice.

To his amazement -- and disgust -- Clary found himself scooping the jizm off his leg with his hand and lapping it up eagerly. Next he climbed doggy style on the bed and licked his ejaculation off the sheet.

Madame Yvonne smiled with satisfaction. "You do exactly what I say,

Inspector Jack, because you have been given a massive dose of a medication I got from a member of the federal Drug Enforcement Administration who is a regular customer of my girls. It's an experimental drug that renders the recipient unable to do anything but acquiesce to the will of the person he is with. It was originally created for the CIA to use during interrogations, but proved to be much too effective in field trials. The subject would physically do anything he was ordered to do, but lacked the personal will power to answer a question as basic as, 'what is your name and what do you do for a living.'"

Yvonne paused. "I will give you a demonstration, not that you need one at this point," she said. "What is your name? What is your assignment?"

Clary wanted to shout, "Jack Clary, SFPD -- Vice Squad. You're under arrest!" but he could not even open his mouth. It was as she had said: he was totally under her control.

"See what I mean," she said tauntingly. "You can't make a peep in response to a question, because that requires personal will. But if I tell you to do or say something that I choose, you will, whether you want to or not. That's how we got all these wonderful photos -- and let me tell you, there are 33 more where those came from. You will even say anything I tell you to. Let me give you an example: tell me you are a rotten mother fucker, and say it like you mean it!"

Jack heard himself say, in a normal, conversational tone of voice, "I am a rotten mother fucker. Really -- I am rotten and I am a mother fucker!" The sincere and natural tone of his voice surprised even him. He didn't sound drugged at all, even though he knew he was wired to the eyeballs.

"Very good," she said. "The dose you have received should last about 15 hours according to my federal nark friend. About four are already gone, so we have most of the night left. That should be plenty of time for us to deal with you."

She turned and clapped her hands: "Girls! We're ready to begin." Two women entered the room. One was a willowy blonde with straight hair that hung below her broad, well-formed shoulders. She had the face and coloring of an angel, but the figure of something far more profane. She was wearing a PVC bustier and ankle strap shoes with heels that must easily have been six inches tall. To balance on the spikes she walked with a slow, undulating pace that made her full breasts jiggle under their plastic covering.

The second woman -- dressed in a tiger skin patterned lycra bodysuit -- was someone who looked familiar to Jack. She was tall and well-built, with dark skin and unusual Asiatic features. Her hair was done in cornrow braids that came halfway to her chiseled shoulders. He suddenly realized that she was the street whore he had ripped off for a blow job just off Leavenworth the night before. Only tonight she was wearing her natural hair instead of the platinum blond wig she had been in when he picked her up.

"These delightfully lovely young women are Dominique and Cassandra," Yvonne said, gesturing to each in turn. "Ah, I think he knows who you are, Cassandra," she added with pleasure. "He's doped up, but not so much that he can't recognize somebody he fucked over!"

Yvonne gathered the tall young black woman under her arm in a familiar gesture. "This is my niece, Cassandra Greene," she said with pride. "Beautiful, isn't she? I understand you screwed Cassandra over the other night . Where I was raised, it's grossly impolite to screw a girl without at least kissing her first."

Jack was beginning to feel totally helpless against these domineering women. The drug he had been given made him pliable in their hands, and he felt sure they intended to do some serious plying as the night wore on.

Cassandra was carrying something that looked like a deflated love doll from an adult book store -- one of those vinyl bimbos with a mouth and crotch designed to take a man's penis in full erection. Jack's throat suddenly felt dry and he would have licked his lips had he been able to control his own tongue.

The other woman -- Dominique, as Yvonne had called her -- was carrying a wig and a smaller bundle of something that looked like inert, flesh colored plastic.

Jack was nervous. He had no idea what the women intended to do with the objects they were carrying. Yvonne gestured for Cassandra to move forward. "Honey, get started, she said assertively. "We don't have all night long."

Cassandra stepped forward and ordered Jack to stand up. He rose, involuntarily, terrified of what type of revenge she intended to exact for the rough way he had treated her in the Tenderloin District alley.

"Stand up, you cunt!" she said viciously, her teeth showing as she spoke. "You are going to be getting a brand new body, and you need to start getting ready for it. Stand up and spread your feet wide apart."

Jack rose, his body obedient, even though his mind rebelled. He stood up and walked to the middle of the room, positioned his feet about a yard apart and stood there rigidly. The young woman named Cassandra put her bundle down on the bed and walked toward him with a four-inch wide roll of adhesive tape and a pair of scissors. She cut a strip off the tape about 18 inches long then stuck the tape to his side while she knelt at his crotch. Her hands were cool and soft, Jack thought inanely as she took hold of his testicles and gently poked them up into what seemed to be little sockets in his groin. Jack was shocked as his balls disappeared inside him, but he was even more shocked when she took his member and shoved it back between his legs, adjusted it slightly to make it as flat as possible, then held it in place with one hand while she used the tape to secure his genitalia all neatly inside his crotch.

"Now, Dominique," she said gesturing with one hand. "Give me the horse needle!" Dominique stepped forward with a huge syringe filled with a clear liquid. Cassandra took the instrument, looked at Jack's groin carefully, then jammed it into the area just above his scrotum and shot the plunger home, filling his groin with its liquid contents. The pain was excruciating as she emptied the needle into his crotch, but Jack could make no sound of protest.

Dominque looked at Jack evenly. "That's a special compound that makes the tissue it is injected into extremely sensitive to any type of stimulus," she said matter-of-factly. "In a few minutes, any touch you receive in your crotch will be so sexually exciting, you will be crawling the walls for more."

Cassandra examined her work carefully, feeling with her hand to make sure everything was as tight and flat as possible there, then began winding the rest of the adhesive tape around his crotch and thighs until his entire groin was completely sealed in the tape. As she wound the tape tightly around his imprisoned testicles, the new medication began to take effect. Soon the feel of her hands on his genital region became incredibly erotically stimulating, and his breath was coming in small gasps as a thin film of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He could feel that she had left his rectum uncovered during the operation, and he shuddered to think why.

"That's enough for that part," she said with satisfaction. "Now even if you get an erection, nothing is going to show. Now we do the rest of you." She took out a flesh-colored garment that Jack recognized as a waist-cincher -- a type of girdle designed to be worn around the midriff and take a few inches off a woman's middle. "Arms up in the air and keep them there," she ordered with a mean grin, and Jack obeyed her instantly, even though everything in his psyche fought against it.

She slung the garment around his middle and pulled it tight in back, fastening a series of little hooks to close it, squeezing Jack's waist like a boa constrictor in the process. He could feel the wind leak out of him as she closed the garment. When it was completely fastened, he could only breathe in small shallow gasps.

She stood back, hands on hips, and admired her handiwork. "That looks good, but not good enough," she said finally. She strode to the bed and picked up another roll of adhesive tape -- also the wide medical type -- and began wrapping it all around his torso, circling him with the tape like she was wrapping a ribbon around a May Pole, stopping occasionally to make sure she was cinching him in as tightly as possible. She used two of the rolls of tape in the process, and when she was done, his body had an hourglass figure, with a waist that was at least seven inches narrower than his hips and chest.

Jack's arms, still stretched high above his head, were burning with fatigue, but he could not protest or lower them to ease his suffering. Cassandra placed her arms on his sides, stroking up and down to feel how much his waist had been diminished. Jack's skin, armored by the tape, could barely feel it. Only his crotch remained sensitive, and it burned from her touch.

"Now that's better," she said finally. "You finally have the beginning of a nice slutty figure. Of course, when you try to get that tape off, it's going to hurt like hell. And it's going to take you a couple of months to grow your body hair back. But that's all in the future, and we want to concentrate on the here and now."

Part Five: Sealed and Delivered

She went to the bed and picked up the flesh-colored bundle she had dropped there. "This is going to be your new skin, bitch," she said, holding it out to him. "Take it and put it on."

He watched as his hands took the bundle from Cassandra and shook it out. The "skin" was made of molded latex in a light flesh color and looked for all the world like a woman's skin, with the woman cunningly removed. It had fingers, toes and breasts, and its neck was as high as a turtleneck sweater. He turned it around and saw a zipper on its back that ran from the buttocks to the nape of the neck.

"Unzip it and put it on, you cunt!" Cassandra said with feeling. Jack could not believe it. His hands unzipped the back of the skin and he stepped into it, releasing a light cloud of talcum powder in the process, and began pulling it up over his legs with a rubbery rustle. He wriggled the suit up over his legs and butt and slipped his arms into the sleeves and hand-like gloves. It took him only a minute to position the large, liquid-filled breasts on his own chest and, straining slightly, he reached behind and zipped the skin up at its rear, noting that it had padded hips and buttocks that gave him a tulip like feminine form. Jack also noticed that the crotch of the "skin" had been designed with what appeared to be a flesh colored latex projection right between the cheeks of the ass, sort of like a penis mounted on the suit's wrong side. There was no penis on the front; instead, right between his legs was a molded latex vagina. Inside the skin behind it was a heavy-duty latex tube that was designed to lie flat between his legs, right over the top of his taped genitalia.

Cassandra made him pirouette in front of her as she inspected the suit.

Jack had already been sweating a little because of all the tape confining his body. He noticed that he was perspiring freely underneath his new skin-tight female body.

Cassandra stepped back to the bed and picked something up. As she moved back toward him, Jack realized that it was a huge latex dildo shaped like a monstrous penis, complete with testicles.

"We have to get that butt sac inside you, bitch," she said with malicious pleasure as she brandished the grotesque sex toy. "Bend over and touch the floor with your legs apart. We're going to find out how limber you are."

Jack obeyed her without hesitation. She had positioned him so that when he bent from the waist and put his palms on the floor, he could look between his legs and see his backside in the mirror.

"That's right, baby -- you watch this!" she said as she took the shaft,

slathered it with KY Jelly and slipped it into the end of the rubber "penis" projecting from his buttocks. She pushed the long end of the dildo part way up into the sleeve to insure that it was mounted properly, then slowly shoved the entire instrument up Jack's rear, inverting the little rubber sac and pushing it all the way inside his rectum.

Sweat ran down Jack's forehead as he watched the operation helplessly in the mirror. He grunted involuntarily at the penetration and the incredible pressure on his prostate gland it caused. The sensitizing chemical he had been injected with had completely taken hold now, and the sensation of the dildo sliding inside him was exhilarating. He was surprised to realize that, deep inside him, he was erotically excited by having his male body ruthlessly feminized and then butt-raped by this exotically beautiful young black woman.

When Cassandra had finished pushing the sac up inside Jack, she withdrew the dildo very slowly, stopping from time to time to probe and manipulate it inside his ass. When she had it completely out, she slathered it with more lubricant gel and forced it back up inside him again, this time, pushing it in and out more easily, as his anus had stretched slightly.

After a few moments she removed the shaft and told Jack to stand at attention. He complied instantly in silence.

"That's good enough for the body," she said, cupping her hands under his full, jiggly false breasts and sliding them down the sides of his rubber skin to his thickly padded hips and buttocks.

"The boobs look fine, and so does the ass and hips. We know the waist couldn't be any trimmer." He groaned involuntarily with pleasure as she crouched and ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, to his artificial vagina, then wedged two of her fingers inside the thick latex tube behind its rubber lips and stroked the slight bump where Jack's penis was bound flat with adhesive tape. "Even the pussy feels real. Now we have to do something about your fucking ugly male head!"

Cassandra stepped back and let Dominque move ahead of her. Dominique held out the smaller flesh colored bundle and grabbed Jack roughly by his chin, leaning into his face before she spoke. "This is your new face, bitch," she hissed at him. "We'll put it on you. We don't think that a stupid sex-starved cunt like you is smart enough to get it on right!"

She shook out the bundle and Jack could see that it was a latex hood made to fit over his entire head. The latex draped down in such a way that it would overlay the wearer's shoulders completely. The hood had a molded latex face that had been painted with huge, blank blue eyes, full inviting dark red lips, thin, well-shaped brows and a host of other feminine details, including a large black birthmark on its lower left cheek.

Dominique unzipped the back of the hood and moved closer to him. "Hold still while I put this on you," she commanded brutally.

He complied meekly while she stretched the hood over his head, pulled it back over the crown and smoothed the mask's utterly feminine features over Jack's own male face.

"Can you breathe?" she asked as she manipulated the mask into position.

Jack, unwillingly, nodded affirmatively, compelled by the drug flowing through his system.

"Good!" she said as she zipped the back of the mask home. The hood could not have fit more snugly had it been molded on Jack's own head. As the zipper closed, the last bits of air were pushed out of the tight latex helmet and it sealed itself against his skin with a slight sucking sound. Jack was surprised to find that tiny holes in the pupils of the mask's eyes allowed him to see out. The neck was slightly smaller than Jack's own and completely concealed his Adam's apple. The slight overhang of the shoulders draped flat against Jack's own upper body, with the edge almost invisible against the flesh-colored latex of his female body suit.

Cassandra moved forward again, holding a small bowl filled with pinkish liquid. "This is liquid latex," she said, staring into the tiny holes in the mask's irises that had been made for him to see through. "We are going to use it to seal you into this suit. Once you are painted in, it will take you hours of work with a sharp knife to cut your way out. Until then, you will be 'Jacqueline,' one of Madame Yvonne's girls -- and you will service as many randy men as we tell you to! Do you understand me, bitch? Nod your head and tell me you do."

Clary wanted to stop her, to fight his way out of there and escape. But he found himself bowing his latex covered head to her in subjugation. "Yes, Mistress Cassandra," he heard himself say in a breathy, utterly submissive falsetto. "Whatever you say, Mistress."

Cassandra had Dominique hold down the edges of the mask on his shoulders while she daubed layer after layer of liquid rubber over it, closing the edge completely and building up an almost invisible latex seam. When she was done, she used a paintbrush to smooth additional layers of rubber over the zipper fly at the rear of the head mask and the back of the body suit, until both had completely vanished from sight and were entirely impossible to re-open.

When the two women were finished, they used a tube of instant epoxy cement to glue a long curly blond wig to his mask's smooth bald scalp. After the glue had dried sufficiently, they used a comb with wide teeth to tease and form the wig into shape so that it cascaded freely down over his pinkish, latex-covered shoulders and breasts.

Cassandra and Dominique helped him to his feet and forced him to walk over in front of a full-length mirror. The reflection before him was that of a vacant-eyed woman with shoulder length blond hair, large hips and breasts, and perfectly smooth, hairless skin.

Cassandra sneered. "Very pretty, dear," she said bitterly. "The boys are going to love you tonight!"

Jack Clary, inspector of police, member of the San Francisco Vice Squad -- a tough guy who considered himself catnip to women -- looked at his reflection in horror through the pin holes in the mask. He wanted to scream, to fight, to flee, but all he could do was pose daintily, curtsy to his two young female tormentors with an exaggerated motion and say, "Yes Mistress Cassandra, yes Mistress Dominique! Whatever you say, mistresses!"

Part Six: Vice Reversal

The two men in business suits sat on the leather sofa in Madame Yvonne's waiting area while she entertained them with stories about her years in the skin trade. Dominique, still tucked tightly into her PVC merry widow and panties, emerged from a side door and whispered into her ear.

Yvonne turned to the men with a smile. "Boys, we have something special tonight," she said in a throaty purr. "You all have seen love dolls before, haven't you? Those little inflatable toys with working mouths and pussies? Well, one of our girls specializes in being a living love doll. She will give you pleasure in any way you want to use her."

Turning back to Dominique she nodded. "Bring Jacqueline in so these two gentlemen can have a look at her, honey!"

Dominique disappeared back into the side door and returned a moment later, leading "Jacqueline" by the hand. No one could have recognized the person inside the elaborate latex costume. Her facial features were grotesquely exaggerated in a perfect caricature of femininity, with large pouting red lips, heavily made-up eyes, rouged cheeks and glued on false eyelashes. Her waist was trim and narrow, her breasts enormous and realistic enough to jiggle slightly as she minced slowly around the room with her feet encased in opera pumps with four-inch heels. Dominique and Cassandra had dressed her in a garter belt, seamed black nylon stockings and a sheer, filmy teddy that stopped just above her pubic area, showing off the naked little latex vagina nestled between her sleek latex legs.

Programmed by the powerful drug "Jacqueline" had been given and the forceful suggestions of Dominique and Cassandra, she minced to a spot directly in front of the two men, bent slightly before them with her hands on her knees and purred, "I'm Jacqueline. I want to give you pleasure, gentlemen. Please use me any way you want."

One of the men looked at the other with a wolfish grin. "Who goes first, you or me?"

Jacqueline shook her head deliberately, her long blond hair swishing back and forth with the motion. "I would like you to both take me at the same time," she said. "Please, both of you have me."

The men rose simultaneously. "Yvonne," one of them said to the madam,

"You can charge us whatever you want for this one!"

The rest of the evening was a waking nightmare for Jacqueline. She serviced one customer after another, being used sexually by them in ways she did not even know were possible. The night seemed to stretch out forever, and after a while she could no longer differentiate between the men who used her. Their faces seemed to merge together, and all she could remember distinctly was what seemed to be an unending orgy of sex. Daylight was beginning to break by the time she finished with her last "customer."

When she finished her final "date," Cassandra ushered her in and made her stand at attention before Madame Yvonne. Jacqueline was in serious pain and now felt she knew the meaning of the term, "a world of hurt." Her rear end was so sore she could barely walk and she was only able to get comfortable by standing slightly bow-legged, since that relaxed the overworked muscles of her buttocks. Her jaws were sore, and with good reason. Almost every John she had been with during the night had demanded oral sex on top of everything else. The only place on her body that did not hurt was her vagina, and that was because it was made of thick, molded rubber. The groin area beneath it, however, was quite tender and sensitive, even despite the layers of adhesive tape with which it had been wrapped.

"Well, Jacqueline," Madame Yvonne said, eyeing her closely, "You've had a pretty good night for a new girl. Next time we won't work you so hard, but you have to remember that this was a breaking-in period."

Looking over at Cassandra, Yvonne asked, "How did she perform?"

Cassandra put her arm around Jacqueline's shoulders and grinned. "She was fantastic," she said. "I kept an eye on her all night long through the closed-circuit system that picks up each of the guest rooms. I know that dope had her completely under every John's control, but she really seemed to be getting into the swing of it with some of those guys. She did everything they asked for and then some!"

Yvonne smiled and looked directly at Jacqueline. "We'll give you a week off, honey, but you better be back here and ready for some new customers next week," she said "The way I figure it, between the time you spent on the street hassling girls while you were a patrolman and the hot ticket you've been running up there in the Tenderloin since you got onto the Vice Squad, you probably stole more than $200,000 from street girls in the last few years. And that doesn't even count all the free pussy and blow jobs you been shagging. Under my fee schedule, that means you are going to have to turn tricks in my little cat house one night a week for at least three months just to pay it all back. And every time we hear you hit on another street girl for money or sex, you are going to have to do another month turning tricks for me."

Yvonne held up the deck of Polaroid shots. "And you better come across, honey, otherwise these pictures -- and those X-rated videos we got of you gettin' it on with those boys -- are going to be sent to your boss in the Police Department, with copies to your mother, father and family priest. You got any questions, bitch?"

Jacqueline inclined her head. She knew exactly what she was in for – and she knew she would have to go along with it or have her reputation and career completely ruined. "Yes, Madame Yvonne," she said. "I'll do exactly as you say."

Yvonne tossed her head. "Fine. Cassandra, have Deke take this slut home. Put her in a raincoat so every asshole on the street doesn't get a hard on when he sees her driving by." Turning back to Jacqueline, she added. "In a little bit, you should get control over yourself again. When you do, you can cut your way out of that suit with a pair of scissors and throw it away. We've got a bunch of them here, so we can dress you up all pretty again when we turn you out again next time. Remember, be back here one week from today!"

Deke, Madam Yvonne's bodyguard and driver, drove "Jacqueline" to Jack Clary's apartment in Clary's own Lexus and ushered her up to Clary's room on the second floor where he used Jack's own keys to open the door. The man never spoke during the trip, but as he left, he showed Jacqueline two huge gold front teeth in an evil grin and said, "Maybe next time, I'll get in line for you, honey."

Inside the latex body and face of "Jacqueline," Jack had finally started getting control of his actions. He slipped off the raincoat Cassandra had given him and slung it on a chair, then walked over to the couch, moving more expertly and fluidly in his high heeled shoes after a full night's practice. He groped through the shopping bag in which Deke had put his shoes and clothes until he found his cigarettes and lighter, shook one out of the pack and lit it. Blowing smoke through the nostrils of the mask, Jack moved to the full length mirror in his bedroom and stood in front of it, staring at his reflection: before him stood an incredible shapely latex love doll with long curly blond hair, six-inch heels, a filmy black teddy and black, seamed stockings held up by a garter belt.

Surprising himself, he placed his latex clad hand on his hip and swayed back and forth before the mirror in a provocative hip-swiveling motion. He found it hard to believe it, but by the end of the night, he was beginning to enjoy having sex with the long series of anonymous men who had paraded through Yvonne's house of ill repute. And what Cassandra had said was true: as the sensitizing drug had begun to wear off, Jack had found himself working harder with each of his clients in order to bring himself to climax.

Inside his latex love doll costume, Jack blushed with a combination of shame and elation. He felt obscurely proud that he had performed so well with his customers. At the end of the long night, Cassandra had counted out over $1500 in tips that the men Jack had serviced had left for "Jacqueline" in a large bronze bowl.

As he finished the cigarette and stared at his temporary female persona, Jack realized something else. Every one of the men who had sex with Jacqueline had treated her kindly. Not one had used a harsh word to her, and not one had raised a hand. He vaguely remembered one of his last customers saying as he left her with a gentle kiss, "Even a whore wants to be treated like a lady."

Jack pulled back the covers on his bed and fell into it, still dressed in his prostitute's costume. He was too tired to try and cut his way out of the rubber suit and the adhesive bandages -- he would sleep as Jacqueline and worry later about turning himself back into Jack in time for his 4 p.m. swing watch.

Part Seven: Whatever Goes Around . . .

Jack was still in pain when he got to the squad room eight hours later.

Cutting his way out of the suit had been difficult, but it had been nothing compared to the agony of stripping off all the adhesive tape that Cassandra had wrapped around his body. He still had a little trouble walking without pain -- much as if he had spent the previous day riding a racing bicycle. His jaw was also still a little sore. When Jack walked into the Vice Squad admin offices, there was a note in his message box to see Captain Jeffords right away. Jack swallowed heavily. He did not know what to report to the captain.

Jeffords was behind his desk in his office and he gestured for Jack to enter and close the door behind him. "OK, Jack, where's your report on the Mission District cat house call?" he said quietly. "You sure as hell never came back here to write it at the end of your shift last night."

Jack sputtered, "Well, I -- I need to spend a little more time putting it together. I -- uh -- I haven't finished it yet."

Jeffords smiled. "I'll bet," he said. "Got a little bit busy last

night, eh? No need to explain, hot dog. I think these tell the story."

Jefford pushed an envelope across his desk top to Clary. Clary opened it fumblingly, almost afraid to see what was inside.

The contents were the three Polaroid photos that Madame Yvonne had shown him before she turned Cassandra and Dominique loose on him. He swallowed again as he stuffed the photos back in the envelope and tossed it back on Jeffords' desk.

Still grinning unpleasantly, the captain leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his belt. "Jack, you've been working hard since you made vice – too hard, I think," he said. "I'm going to be putting you on a special schedule for a while. Only you and I will know what your assignment is, but for the next few months, you are going to be off-duty on Thursday nights. I think both you and I know that you are going to be tied up on those nights, and it really won't be possible for you to go out on the streets then."

Jack could not believe his ears. Jeffords was in on the whole thing.

As if he could read Jack's mind, the captain nodded. "Yes, Yvonne was the one who called me and had me send you over to 'check out' her operation," he said. "You have been making quite a name for yourself with the street girls in the 'Loin, and at least two of them who are my snitches have told me about your exploits up there, shaking down women and getting free sex. Well, from now on, you are going to be the one giving the freebies, capische? As long as you hold up your end of the deal with Yvonne, I will look after you here in vice."

Jack nodded frantically in agreement. "I will, captain, don't worry," he stammered.

"I know you will, Jack," Jeffords said. "You know, not everybody in the prostitution racket is a real crook. This is San Francisco, and this town has always had a high tolerance for sex for hire, as long as whores aren't cheating or robbing their customers, and so long as the customers aren't abusing the women.

"Some of these girls are just trying to get by with the only skill they have," he continued. "It's bad enough that they get brutalized by their Johns, or extorted by their pimps. It's much worse when there is a crooked cop out there making life miserable for them. As a vice commander, I have always tried to cut some slack for the madams that were running clean, legitimate houses, and for the petty streetwalkers who were just trying to stay alive. There's damn little dignity in the life, and I hate to see them robbed of what little there is.

"So from now on, you are going to be working for Madame Yvonne one night a week. When you have worked off what you stole, we will have another little talk and see if you haven't learned a little bit of compassion for the women you used to abuse. Of course, the first time you slip up, these pictures and the videos go to the cop hunters in the Management Control Division. I can guarantee you, that will be the end of your career -- and your reputation."

Jack sat in silence.

"Any questions?" Jeffords concluded. "If not, get back out there and do your job -- only this time try showing a little heart in the way you do it."

Clary stumbled from the office and went to his desk. He shuffled through police reports, wanted circulars and rap sheets, but found it impossible to concentrate on real police work. Instead, his mind was racing. A phrase kept running through it, over and over: "What ever goes around, comes around."

Inspector Jack Clary had been what was going around for quite some time. He had a pretty good idea of what was coming around -- and he knew just where it was going to be coming.