… Tony escaped

Tony knelt before the Alpha from London, her petite body quivering as his thick fingers traced the edges of her skimpy black leather outfit. The material clung to her like a lover’s grasp, the halter top barely containing her modest but perky breasts, the short skirt riding up to expose the smooth, hairless curve of her thighs. She let out a soft, breathy whimper—practiced, automatic from a year as Tawny —as his hand cupped her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

His ring gleamed on his finger, a reminder of the power that had once been hers. It taunted her.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his British accent laced with smug satisfaction. “You’ve got quite the reputation, Tawny. Once Tony. Former Alpha Captain, living an existence as a slut and constantly denied a proper fucking. Who’d have thought you’d be reduced to this? Open wide.”

Anthony’s mind, sharpened by the silver pendant hidden beneath her outfit, screamed in outrage, but her body obeyed - and a year of embracing this role blunted her anger. She had loved sucking cock as Tawny and it was hard to divorce herself from that persona completely. Her plump lips parted, and she took him into her mouth, the salty taste flooding her senses. The all too familiar female lust surged through her, making her nipples harden against the leather and her pussy clench with need. To the freed thoughts of Tony this was humiliating, this betrayal of flesh—but her tiny frame was designed for submission and every was curve a testament to Anthony’s own arrogant fantasies. But now, with clarity restored, she struggled to compartmentalise it. Endure it. Use it. And not enjoy it.

As she bobbed her head, hollowing her cheeks to draw out his pleasure, her thoughts raced. Kilgore’s gift had bought her time, but not much. The pendant pulsed faintly against her skin, a cool anchor amid the heat building in her core. If she lost the pendant then she would be fucked… well not fucked. But figuratively she’d be fucked. Tatiana was still in her booth, laughing with her entourage, but her eyes occasionally swept the room like a predator scanning for weakness.

If that dominating bitch sensed anything off—if Anthony slipped and let her old cunning show through Tawny’s vapid facade—they’d strip the charm away and plunge her back into mindless bimbo hell. Or worse. They could make her wear the pendant and continue to work here…

Anthony Locke hadn’t built an empire by trusting anyone, least of all other Alphas. Kilgore’s “loyalty” was suspect—a debt paid, maybe, but Alphas were snakes. This could all be a game of Tatania’s - let her think she was free, let her think she had escaped… then dash her hopes.

They could turn on her the moment it suited them.

And reversal of her female state? That was a pipe dream. The rings’ magic was absolute; once turned, there was no going back. No reclaiming her lost manhood, no undoing the curves, the urges, the weakness. She was stuck in Tawny’s girlish body for good. At least she wasn’t a huge breasted bimbo. That was something. No. The best she could hope for was freedom—disappearing somewhere remote, living out her cursed existence on her own terms, away from the 999’s grasp. Maybe she could finally get a proper fucking… that thought slipped in unbidden - it had been Tawny’s most fervent desire for the last year and it remained with Tony. Tawny’s fucking baggage!

“Fuck, you’re good,” the Alpha grunted, his hips bucking as he gripped her pixie-cut hair, pulling her deeper. “That’s it, you little slut. Suck like you mean it.” Anthony’s body responded with a shameful thrill, her thighs slick with arousal, but she fought to keep her mind detached.

She glanced sideways, spotting Nicole—the bully girl in charge of the floor tonight—distracted by a rowdy group of visiting Alphas demanding lap dances. The back exit was near the dressing rooms, unguarded during peak hours. If she could slip away during a shift change…

The Alpha groaned, his cock twitching in her mouth. He pulled out suddenly, stroking himself as he aimed at her face. “Beg for it, Tawny.”

“Please, sir,” she whined in her high, girlish voice, forcing the words out while inwardly both seething and ecstatic. Tawny loved a good facial. “Cum on my face. Mark me like the bimbo I am.” The humiliation burned, but it sold the act - although it wasn’t a complete act. Hot ropes of semen splattered across her cheeks and lips, dripping down her chin. She licked it obediently, her tongue darting out as her body craved more, even as a part of her mind recoiled. The thrill was real though.

He laughed, tucking himself away and tossing a few bills at her feet. “Worth every penny. Go clean up, pet.”

Anthony nodded meekly, scooping up the money—adding to the wad of tips she’d stashed in her outfit from the night’s earlier “customers”—and shuffled toward the dressing rooms, her too short skirt swishing against her pert ass.

Her heart pounded. This was her window. The club was in full swing: girls on stages twisting around poles, their exaggerated curves bouncing under the strobe lights; booths filled with Alphas groping bimbos, the air thick with moans and the scent of sex. No one paid attention to one more cum-streaked slut heading backstage. She, like the other girls, were part of the furniture despite her being a semi celebrity.

In the dressing room, she wiped her face quickly with a towel, her reflection staring back—wide blue eyes, delicate features, a body built for fucking. She half hated it now that she could think properly. But again, her year as Tawny blunted the emotion. The pendant, her freedom, gleamed against her collarbone, hidden under the leather.

She grabbed a discarded coat from a hook—oversized, but it would cover her skimpy outfit—and slipped it on.

Her mind flashed to Tatiana’s words from that fateful night: “You are going to out-slut them all.” Not anymore. She was grateful, in a twisted way, that no one had fucked her tonight—or for the last year. It had kept a part of her constantly unhappy and that made her feel as though she hadn’t completely succumbed to her new female body. The other girls fucked and embraced their new roles as bimbo sluts. She was denied that and she was thankful for it.

But gods, the pent-up frustration… over a year without release, her body a constant simmer of horniness, pussy dripping at the slightest touch. Even now, thinking about it, she was horny as fuck, thighs rubbing together as she walked, but the pendant let her push it down. For now.

The back door led to an alley, and she pushed it open, the cool San Francisco night air hitting her like a slap. Freedom. But she wasn’t safe yet. Tatiana’s bully girls patrolled the perimeter, and if they caught her…

Footsteps echoed from around the corner. Anthony froze, pressing against the wall. A bully girl—tall, statuesque with a she-male bulge straining her pants—rounded the bend, her eyes scanning the alley. “Who’s out here? Smells like fresh meat.”

Anthony’s body betrayed her again, a flush of arousal at the sight of the bully girl’s dominance, her clit throbbing under the skirt. But she clamped down. Think, damn it. She ducked behind a dumpster, holding her breath. The bully girl paused, sniffing the air, then shrugged and moved on, muttering about “horny bimbos sneaking smokes.”

Now. Anthony darted out, her high heels clicking softly as she ran down the alley toward the street. She ditched the heels in a trash bin—too noisy, too bimbo—and went barefoot, the wad of tips (a couple hundred bucks, mostly singles) stuffed in her coat pocket. No cab; too traceable. Instead, she headed to the nearest bus station, keeping to shadows, her tiny frame making her easy to overlook in the late-night crowd.

At the Greyhound terminal, she bought a ticket with cash—no ID needed for the short haul. Inland, away from the coast, away from the Alphas’ urban strongholds. Boulder Creek, a speck of a town in the Santa Cruz Mountains—remote, nestled in redwoods, population barely over a thousand. No Alphas there, she bet; too small, too boring. Perfect for vanishing.

The bus rumbled out of the city, headlights cutting through the fog as it wound eastward. Anthony huddled in a back seat, coat pulled tight, her body still buzzing with unmet need. Every bump sent a jolt through her sensitive pussy, nipples chafing against the leather top. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to touch herself. Horny as fuck didn’t begin to cover it; it was a gnawing ache, a constant whisper in her mind to submit, to beg. If she submitted she might be arrested. Then Tatania would bale her out and she’d be back to her deprived mindless existence. Freedom was worth it. No more stages, no more kneeling, no more being passed around like a toy. And maybe she could finally get a proper fuck.

Hours later, the bus deposited her in Boulder Creek at dawn, the November chill biting through her coat. The town was as remote as advertised: a main drag with a few diners, a grocery, redwood trees towering like sentinels. No skyscrapers, no clubs, no Alphas.

She found a cheap motel—cash again, no questions—and collapsed on the bed, her small body curling up as the frustration hit in waves. Fingers slipped under her skirt almost unconsciously, rubbing her slick folds, but it only built the edge higher, no climax in sight. She groaned into the pillow, hips grinding futilely. “Fuck… why won’t it stop?” Would she orgasm if someone fucked her? She hoped so.

By morning, she’d composed herself. The pendant kept her mind clear, but her body was a prison. No going back—that was the truth she’d accepted. No alliances, no **** plots. Just survival. She pawned a cheap necklace from her outfit for extra cash, bought some thrift-store clothes—jeans that hung loose on her slim hips, a baggy sweater to hide her curves—and hit the streets.

The local diner, Redwood Cafe, had a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. Waiting tables—innocuous, low-profile. She walked in, forcing a shy smile, her high voice pitching up nervously. “Hi, um, I’m T… Tanya. Looking for work?”

The owner, a grizzled woman in her fifties, eyed her up and down but shrugged. “Can you carry a tray without spilling? Start tomorrow. Cash under the table, no questions.”

Anthony—Tanya, for now—nodded gratefully. It wasn’t power. It wasn’t ****. But it was freedom. In this remote nowhere, she could live quietly, the pent-up horniness a private torment she’d learn to endure. Waiting tables by day, alone with her thoughts at night. No Alphas. No rings. Just her, in this body, making do.

For the first time in over a year, it felt like enough.