The entire situation was impossible. Miss Satomi didn’t care about her being transgender. Miss Satomi didn’t care about her being a runaway. Miss Satomi didn’t even care about her money.

But why did Miss Satomi care about her?

She was to be the next touring superstar? Yeah, right. She couldn’t even play a proper spiccato. Or was that an arpeggio?

And there was yet another concern. Even if she stretched her doses, Katrina had only enough hormones for two more weeks. What then?

Just walk up and ask Miss Satomi for money to buy spironolactone and estradiol?

Katrina quickly finished the rest of her sandwiches. Okay, then. She was on borrowed time. Katrina trusted Miss Satomi enough to assume she would not be kicked out tomorrow, but sooner or later, Miss Satomi would have to realize that selecting Katrina was a mistake.

Katrina fished through her bag and pulled out her camera. She had no idea how long she had, but for now, there was fast Internet, a room, a bed, and a door.

The nice thing about being young and trans, especially if one looks “exotic,” is that anonymous men will pay to see you cum.

Katrina picked a good spot for the cam. Then she undressed and stepped into a cute little red satin slip dress that never wrinkled and that cleaned off really easily.

As she did her makeup and teased her hair, her body already betrayed her excitement. Yes, this was for money, but as she looked herself over, her usual doubts about how ugly she was, how gross and freakish—went silent. She felt sexy and beautiful. And soon, people were going to pay money to tell her just that.

Was that such a crime?

She checked the camera angle, lay back, and logged in. Almost immediately people responded.

“Hey, Yvette! Welcome back!”

“Yvette!”

“Where ya been?”

“Let me see that pretty ladyboy cock.”

Sure, if a guy was desperate or horny enough, he would compliment a mailbox, but at least they were compliments.

“So hot. I wish I could be sucking on that right now.”

Most people sent text messages, but some paid more to cam themselves. They never showed their faces, just their penises like turtleheads bobbing in the dark.

She looked at their pseudonyms. That was probably a vet. That was a cop. That name was from a Bible verse. These same people would probably beat her up in the bathroom. But no matter.

She had them now. She would take their money, then make them give more money.

She started to get excited.

Slow down. The longer one can make it last, the more one could make.

“Ooh! Yvette! Slow down.”

“She must have missed us—the bitch is already wet.”

But it was no use. She grabbed a pillow, buried her head in it, and screamed.

For a split second, she was beautiful, her music was beautiful, her body was beautiful.

Then the door swung open.