Womanized Read online

  WOMANIZED:

  15 BOOK MEGA BUNDLE

  A TRANSGENDER ROMANCE BUNDLE

  BY

  NIKKI CRESCENT

  INCLUDED IN THIS BUNDLE:

  THE IMPRESSION

  TRAP THOT

  HOSTEL GIRL

  GOING THROUGH CHANGES

  TRANS CURIOUS

  THE SISSY DEAL

  SECRET LIFE

  SPIN THE BOTTLE

  PRETENDING

  THE GAMBLE

  PASSING GRADE

  COMING OUT

  SISSY FUN

  SHE CAN TAKE IT

  BOYS HAVING FUN

  KEEPING UP WITH

  NIKKI CRESCENT

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  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

  Published By Honey Wagon Books Inc.

  Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Crescent

  Model License Holder: Honey Hunter (Shutterstock Inc.)

  Background Image License: Whiskey Boone (Shutterstock Inc.)

  Cover by Fleetwood Lebowski (Honey Hut Designs Inc.)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To all of my readers

  You have made everything possible

  Thank you.

  THE IMPRESSION

  Joe has always done incredible impressions, so naturally he decides to make a career of them. One night, he gets a well-paid job from a journalist, who wants an impression of a presidential candidate saying offensive things.

  And it’s that impression that gets the candidate’s competitor elected. A few weeks after the election, the country goes to war, and in a way it’s all Joe’s fault. But instead of showing up for basic training, Joe decides to use his little talent to get out of serving in a war that he started. He can do a spot-on female impression, after all.

  CHAPTER I

  I was used to meeting in dark parking lots at night, though I wasn’t sure why people—especially journalists—always wanted to meet in parking lots at night. I guess they didn’t want me to know where they lived, though I don’t think I was an intimidating guy with my 130-pound figure.

  That night was an especially dark and quiet night as I waited for that journalist on the eighth floor of that massive parking garage. I was told to be there at 11:00 PM, so that’s when I showed up. Sadly, the guy who asked me to show up didn’t come until 11:45 PM, but I waited, even though it was kind of cold, because the money was good.

  He was wearing dark sunglasses when he showed up, as if he didn’t want me to recognize him. I didn’t know his name, but I would know it in twelve hours once his story leaked—so the hidden identity seemed silly to me. Or maybe he thought that I was setting him up to be caught, filming the whole thing with a hidden camera. I didn’t care nearly enough.

  “Okay, let’s get this done,” he said, a few seconds after slipping out from his car. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a recorder. “We’ll get a few options, and I’ll use the best one.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” I said. I took a deep breath and I got my lips wet with my tongue. Then I stretched my neck and straightened my back. Good posture is important for a good impression.

  “Are you going to say it, or what?” he asked.

  “Give me a minute. Jesus. Do you want the recording or not?” I did a few more stretches. I could see that the journalist with the dark sunglasses was getting antsy. I wondered how he could see with those dark sunglasses on—and how could he drive? Those sunglasses made him look extremely idiotic and sketchy. If I were a police officer, those shades would be enough reason to pull him over. But that was his own business. He could do whatever he wanted, as long as he paid up. “You have the money, right?” I asked.

  “I’ve got it—in the car,” he said. He was looking around every few seconds, worried people were watching.

  “We’re alone, dude. Quit worrying.”

  He walked over to his car and popped his trunk. He took out a black duffle bag and then reached inside. He pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills. “It’s all here—ten thousand dollars.” The duffle bag seemed ridiculous. Was there anything else in there? Or just that small wad of cash.

  “Can I have it?” I asked.

  “Once you give me what I want. I’m starting to think you can’t even do it.”

  I laughed. “Look, man. I don’t have to do this. I can do a pretty good Hilary Jenkins impression too, you know. If you aren’t nice to me, this could really backfire on you.” Hilary Jenkins was the presidential candidate running against Marcie Dunbar. “A deal’s a deal,” I said in Hilary’s voice—that was Hilary’s catchphrase. I watched as the journalist’s face turned a shade of white. That’s when I noticed the Hilary Jenkins sticker on the bumper of his car. I tried not to laugh. Why can’t journalists just pretend to be unbiased?

  He handed the cash over to me. “There. Are you happy? Now do the line—a few times—and it better sound convincing.”

  I’d spent the past few days perfecting that impression. I’d repeated that line over and over in that feminine voice, getting it just perfect, even though I thought it was a waste of time—not for me, because I was getting paid—but for my journalist client. Jenkins was behind twenty-five points in the polls. Even if people believed that my Dunbar impression was real, it wouldn’t be enough to knock Dunbar down that much. But if he wanted
to pay me ten grand, then I was happy to take ten grand.

  I leaned in towards his microphone. “Test one, two, test one, two,” I said, getting into the voice. I saw the journalist’s eyebrows rise over his sunglasses. “Hi everyone. Hello everyone. This is Marcie Dunbar. I’m so happy to be here in San Francisco today.” Then I watched as the journalist’s lips parted. He was apparently impressed with my impression. “I just wanted to say that… I hate niggers. I hate niggers. I really hate those niggers. Oh God, I just hate niggers.” I said it dozens of times with different inflections.

  And then, I went silent. I stared at the journalist, waiting for his reaction. He was silent, in shock, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Y—You sound just like her,” he said. “How do you do that? How do you make your voice sound like a woman’s?”

  “Yeah. That’s why people pay me ten grand for a single sentence,” I said. “You happy? Can I go home now?”

  He slowly nodded his head before looking down at his recorder, as if he was holding a nuclear bomb that was armed to explode. And in a way, he kind of was. I had no idea how big the explosion would be—and I don’t think he fully realized how big the explosion would be.

  It was the next morning when I heard my own voice on the news. Of course the news bleeped out the word ‘nigger’. I flipped through the channels. My voice was on all of them. “A recording has surfaced this morning of presidential candidate, Marcie Dunbar, saying an extraordinarily racist phrase,” said one anchor.

  They cut to people on the streets, already protesting, already outraged. “Dunbar has not yet given a statement about the leak, but she is expected to later today. With just one week before the election, this disastrous blunder could potentially change the course of the election. It’s believed that Hilary Jenkins’s team has had this recording in their possession for many months now, and they’ve been holding off until now to release it. Coming up in a few minutes, we’re going to speak with Darcy Daniels, Dunbar’s campaign manager—or I should say, former campaign manager, as she resigned earlier this morning.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. People really believed the recording. One news channel even had a former police voice analyst on. “The recording is real. I don’t hear any signs of computer modulation or pitch changing. I truly believe this is real,” he said.

  After an hour, they cut back to the protests in New York City. They had grown massively. The streets were packed with people. And that’s the moment I realized I’d just altered the course of history.

  CHAPTER II

  Marcie Dunbar lost the election, but it wasn’t just because of me. It didn’t help that she went into her press conference and said, “I’m sorry about what I said. I’d had a few drinks and I didn’t know that I was being recorded. In fact, I hardly remember saying it at all. But I want everyone to know that I don’t really feel that way. That’s just the way people talk when they’re drinking with buddies.” She was booed heavily during her press conference, and then she didn’t make another appearance—not even to congratulate her opponent on election night.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole ordeal. I wasn’t a political person. I didn’t vote in the election, and I didn’t even have a favourite candidate. I thought they were both losers who were just in it for the advancement of their own careers. But my little impression did a lot more damage than just deciding the winning candidate. Jenkins’s team also won almost the entire House and almost the entire Senate. It was a landslide victory, giving Jenkins as much power as a political party can possibly have.

  It was only two months before she declared war on China, after a few weeks of bickering back and forth with their president about tariffs and taxes. Very few people volunteered for the outrageous war, so it was only a few weeks before Hilary Jenkins brought back conscription. I thought that I was having a nightmare when I heard the announcement on the evening news. “All military aged men should expect a letter in the mail over the coming months.”

  I didn’t want to fight in a war. I didn’t even know what the war was about. I’d never shot a gun before, and I certainly didn’t want to be shot at—not over some import tax that couldn’t be settled between a couple of people with too much power. I didn’t sleep that night, wondering if I would be one of the people to get the letter in the mail. I was told to expect one, but they couldn’t seriously draft every able-bodied adult male, could they? Some men had to stay back to work, did they not? How would the country operate otherwise?

  My gut churned with regret. I had nightmares about that cold, dark parking garage. I could vividly remember leaning into that microphone and repeating that rehearsed racism over and over. I could still remember that journalist’s face as it turned whiter and whiter.

  I looked that journalist up online. He was famous now, and a hero to Jenkins supporters. I found pictures of his massive mansion, which he bought shortly after that story leaked. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to be drafted. I went online to read his latest stories. “Why every American should be happy about the war with China,” was his latest headline. “You should be happy if you receive a draft letter,” said another of his headlines. I wished I could go back in time and grab him by the throat in that parking garage. It wasn’t worth the ten thousand dollars I made. It wasn’t even worth a million dollars—though maybe I would have done it for a few million. With a few million, I could have escaped to another country and lived comfortably for the rest of my life in a big mansion of my own.

  But instead, I was in my small apartment, sitting in a dark corner with a pounding heart. Casualties were expected to be high. The first wave of soldiers had already clashed in the Pacific Ocean. An entire ship had gone down, along with a couple thousand men. Many of the men were supposedly eaten by sharks while trying to escape the battle. Some men were stationed in Los Angeles, to arm the anti-air guns. They were all expected to be killed as soon as the first nuclear weapon was launched. Los Angeles was already being evacuated in anticipation of that first nuclear explosion. The whole Pacific Coast was in a complete hysteria.

  It wasn’t until the next morning when I had the courage to go downstairs to check my mailbox. I put the key in slowly and turned carefully. There was a white envelope waiting for me. I prayed it was an overdue heating bill, or even a ticket for speeding in a school zone—anything but a draft letter. I closed my eyes as I picked the letter up, and then I took a deep breath before opening them. Then I saw the US Armed Forces insignia.

  ‘ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAMINATION.’

  My heart fell into my stomach and my legs began to tremble. I nearly threw up and then I nearly fell over. I felt tears filling up my eyes. I felt like such an idiot. This was all my fault. Millions of Americans were getting the same letter—Americans with families: wives and children who would also be crying next to them. I was a villain. I was a demon. I deserved to be sent out into the Pacific Ocean to be eaten by sharks.

  I tried to think of what I could do. I thought about going to the news, to tell everyone that I was the one who did the Dunbar impression that changed the course of the election. But that idiot Dunbar went on TV and admitted the recording was real, even though it wasn’t. Or maybe she’d actually said racist crap like that before—who knows… But I had to do something.

  I looked up that journalist’s address and I went over right away. I figured he got me into this mess, so he should be able to get me out. When I showed up at his large cast-iron gate, there were five armed guards standing out front. “Turn around,” one of them yelled. “You cannot come within twenty feet of this gate, or we’ll be forced to shoot.”

  “I know the guy who lives here. You need to let me in to talk to him,” I said.

  “Sorry, sir. No one gets through this gate. We’ve had four assassination attempts in the last forty-eight hours. So please step back.”

  “You don’t understand!” I said. My legs were starting to tremble and buckle again. I felt so weak and so foolish. “
I really do know him. Just tell him I’m here and I swear he’ll tell you to let me in.”

  “No can do,” said the armed guard. “Now step away or we’ll shoot. This is your last warning.” He raised his rifle, making me wince away. So that’s what it’s like having a gun pointed at you… It wasn’t something I could see myself getting used to. I wondered if the Chinese had good aim. I wondered how long I would last if I even made it to the Asian coast—probably not long.

  I made my way back home. My mind was spinning. I looked at that letter again and then I found myself in the bathroom, vomiting. Back in Vietnam days, you could lie about being a homosexual and they would let you skip the draft—at least that’s what I heard. But now, they wanted everyone. They didn’t care if you had bad knees or bad hips or if you liked to suck ten giant cocks a day—no one was getting out of fighting the Chinese in the war—no one except for women and children. They even raised the draft age to fifty, so the net could catch more fish.

  I didn’t sleep that night. I tossed and turned and tried to think of some way out of having to serve. I was too small to fight. The only thing my small body was good for in battle was cannon fodder—and I had a feeling the army would realize that immediately.

  I hated the idea of being a draft dodger, but I hated the idea of fighting and possibly dying in a war that I didn’t understand or agree with. Or even worse—what if I killed someone? What if I had a Chinese man in my sights and I pulled the trigger? We were invading them—they were just trying to protect their families. I couldn’t be a part of that. I couldn’t participate in such terrible savagery.

  So I went online to see what other people were doing. There were large groups of people planning on getting together to escape to Mexico. They would never be allowed back in America again. Some people suggested going to Canada, but they would have to hide in Canada, as Canadians were supposedly deporting Americans back. Some were going to Europe, but it was only the poor European countries that weren’t deporting Americans. So the options weren’t great.