14 Inches: Jillian's Story: Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Bryan backed off after his crony was arrested. He wasn’t stupid enough to pursue having me killed so quickly after the news of the arrest—but I knew that he would probably try again once the heat died down—so I knew I had to leave.

So over the next couple of months, I saved as much money as I could between my job at the mall and my ‘private clients’ at the motel. I saved up enough for a deposit on an apartment in Calgary, and a Greyhound bus ticket to get me there. 

Leaving my town was surreal. I wasn’t expecting to feel so sad—especially because I didn’t go to say one last goodbye to my mother before leaving. I looked back at the town, and I knew deep down that I would never return—and that I would never see my mom again. 

Bryan would never let me see her. He was, quite literally, willing to kill to keep my mother all to himself. 

So I set off to start a whole new life… though I really didn’t know what I was going to do.

Sadly, I hadn’t finished school. I was a drop-out, and my only working experience—unless you count prostitution—was that mall job. And that mall job wasn’t exactly a shining feature on a resume. 

But at least in Calgary, nobody was trying to kill me. 

The apartment wasn’t great. In fact, it was a whole lot shitter than the ad I had seen online. It was small, with only a single window in the living room. But maybe that was for the best; I didn’t want to be the kind of person who just sat around home all day. So between dropping off resumes, I would just wander around the town. 

I wasn’t familiar with that city. It was a hell of a lot bigger than I was expecting—bigger than anything I was used to. I’d been to Lloydminster when I was younger, and I sort of assumed that Calgary would be similar… bit Calgary turned out to be about twenty-five times the size, and the traffic was just crazy. 

I found myself in an employment office after two weeks in the city—with no job bites. “What would your dream job be?” the employment agent asked me.

“I, uh… really don’t know.”

He looked me up and down. “Maybe… a cashier job… at Hot Topic?” 

I scowled at him. “I would really like to work towards something more fulfilling than that.” 

“Well,” he said. “The problem you’re going to face is your… look. The tattoos. The black hair. The black clothes… It’s a turnoff for employers.” 

“Is it really though?” I asked. “I mean, I can hide my tattoos… and lots of people have black hair.” 

“Yes, but the way you present your hair is more… scary.” 

I bit my tongue. I knew right away that he wasn’t going to get me anything—except for maybe a job flipping burgers, if I was lucky. And maybe that was better than nothing; maybe that would at least cover my rent while I tried to figure out something more substantial… or until I could find clients like I had back home…

I didn’t want to go back to prostitution—especially in such a big city. 

The agent wasn’t much help… but the visit to the agency proved to be useful. When the agent went to talk to his manager, I noticed a copy of TREND Magazine on his desk. I mindlessly flipped through the pages, just to see the outfits on the cool alt models that had been submitted by various photographers—

And then I saw a headline: “Corruption in the Mayor’s Office”. More interesting was under the headline: ‘Submitted to TREND by Nathanial Greene.’ 

At first, I didn’t think much of it… but then, later that night, I saw an article on my phone: the mayor of the city was stepping down, and it was because of that article in that magazine. 

I couldn’t help but think of my own little investigation that led to the arrest of a murderer. This Nathanial Greene had accomplished something similar: he’d launched his own investigation, assembled his evidence into a neat package, and it led to change. And that was pretty cool—to think that a normal person can summon the power to change the world for the better, especially knowing that the police can be so lazy—or corrupt. 

I found myself a copy of that magazine so I could read the article—so I could see how he found his evidence and how he presented it. And then, catching my interest in the back of the magazine, was a note from the editor.

At TREND Magazine, we celebrate creativity, style, and the bold voices shaping our culture. But sometimes, the most important stories aren’t just about fashion—they’re about uncovering the truth.

Nathanial Greene’s exposé on the corruption in the mayor’s office is proof that independent voices can make an impact. We believe that investigative journalism isn’t just for big newsrooms—it belongs to anyone with the determination to dig deep, ask the right questions, and bring injustices to light.

If you have a story—something hidden that the public deserves to know—we want to hear from you. Whether it’s political corruption, corporate misconduct, or something closer to home, we’re offering compensation for well-researched, compelling exposés.

The truth is out there. Help us find it.

— Elliot Vance, Editor-in-Chief

Compensation. I could use some of that…

That night, I reached out to Nathanial, to congratulate him on his article. I was stoked when he replied… because more than anything, I wanted to pick his brain a little bit… and I wanted to ask, “How much did they pay for the article, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“That one?” he replied generously. “They paid me a thousand dollars for it. Not the best payout, but it’s a smaller magazine, and I like what they’re doing.”

He made it sound like a thousand dollars was nothing. In that moment, it sounded like lottery winnings. I hate to say that the thought of money had me motivated… but the thought of getting some cash definitely had me motivated.

There was just one problem… I didn’t have anything to write about. I wasn’t aware of any corruption or unsolved murders. 

But that all changed the next night.

Not wanting to sit around in my cramped little apartment, I went out for a walk. It was late, and I was feeling restless—excited, because I’d been thinking more and more about this investigative journalism thing, and it seemed like something that I could actually pursue as some sort of career. 

I was walking down the streets—streets that I’d walked many times before, but never quite this late at night. I wasn’t surprised to see some teens skating in the skatepark. I thought about sitting down to watch them, but they kept looking over at me like they didn’t trust me, so I kept walking.

Then, walking by a playground, I saw a group of black-clad people standing, smoking a joint. One girl was wearing an adorable black corset and skirt, with tall black stockings that had white spiderwebs on them. I guess she saw me admiring her outfit because she waved at me—and then she waved me over.

Blushing, I went over. I figured they just wanted to offer me a drag from their doobie. Instead, she looked at my face and said, “Oh, sorry—I thought you were Liz. You looked just like her from the street.”

“Oh. No. I’m not Liz,” I said, and I was about to walk away when one of them held out the joint.

I accepted… not because I liked smoking pot, but because I didn’t know anybody in that city, and these people actually seemed… a lot like me. They were dressed like me and seemed friendly enough. And right away, they started talking about music that I liked. Before long, they were inviting me to go see local music shows with them, and they were adding me on social media. 

I went to a couple of shows with them: some shitty bands, some decent bands. They brought me to some cool bars where cool people hang out. I got a tattoo with the girl in the corset, Amy. Her friend was the artist and did it for free. 

For the first time in a long, long time, I felt like I was somewhere I sort of belonged… but I still felt a disconnect. I still felt like I was missing something—and I don’t just mean money and employment. My soul felt like it was missing a piece… 

I kept thinking about my dad… And I found myself thinking about the dread that I felt for so long before proving that he didn’t kill himself. Maybe I wasn’t able to get all the involved arrested, and maybe I wasn’t able to prove why my father was targeted—though I was pretty sure I knew it was so Bryan could have my mother—but it still felt good… and there were so many people like me who wanted answers.

Maybe I could give them answers…

I went back to see Amy’s tattoo artist friend. She had sent me a picture of some flash she’d made. “I thought you would like this,” she said. And she was right; I liked it, so we set up a late night appointment, and I went. 

There was one other artist in the shop: another young woman who did mostly feminine floral stuff. But Amy’s artist, whose name was Liz, was more into super bold, dark designs, only dealing with black and grey. 

“Where should we put it?” I asked.

“It would go really hard on your pelvic bone.”

I laughed. “Above my crotch?” 

“Well—am I wrong?” she asked, holding the cutout above my crotch. “It belongs above a pussy.” She giggled.

“Well… I don’t exactly have one,” I said. 

Her eyes glazed over. “What do you mean?”

I explained that I was born male. She was cool with it. We went ahead with the design. I had to take off my skirt. Liz put up some black curtains around her station, so we would have some privacy while she worked. 

Then, she saw my bulge, which I just couldn’t hide without a skirt. She blushed. “What are you hiding in there?”

“I know… It’s really big. It’s a pain.” 

Her face remained red. As she worked, she had to touch it many times in order to get the angles she needed to do the tattoo. All of that touching—and the buzzing of her machine… it was a bit arousing. It helped that Liz was a very, very attractive girl, with cute black fringes and long black eyeliner. 

She noticed my bulge growing. I was so embarrassed when I saw her gaze track down. “Sorry. It’s just… all the touching,” I said. 

“It happens,” she said, blushing. “It’s just so… big.” She giggled. “It’s kind of distracting.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

But she kept touching it: grazing it, sliding her wrist over it—and at one point, she had the butt end of her tattoo machine resting on it so she could tattoo the bottom of her design. I let a small moan slip… it just felt nice. 

She blushed. My cock had gotten so big that it was pushing out the bottom of my panties. I didn’t realize it until she said, “You’re, uh… hanging out down here.” 

I looked down and turned dark red. “I’m so sorry,” I said—again. 

She giggled. “I’ve worked around a lot of dicks—but nothing like this. I’m going to be honest with you… I’ve never seen a dick this big.” 

“I know. It’s a real pain.” 

“I mean… it’s kind of hot, so you have that going for you.”

“You think it’s hot?” I asked, looking into her eyes.

She paused and stared into my eyes. “It’s a big, fat cock hanging between the thick thighs of a pretty goth girl. Of course I think it’s hot.” 

A moment later, we were making out. She was grinding hard on me—and she was wet. She must have been wet that whole time, because her panties were practically drenched with a warm, gooey liquid from her tight little pussy.

She squirmed when I pushed into her. It was tight—but there was another artist working with a client on the other side of that certain, so we had to be quiet. She put her hands over her lips to stop herself from making noise.

She trembled all over. She stared down at her pussy, stretched wide by my throbbing girth. Her lips parted, but she managed not to make a sound. She bounced slowly, which actually felt even better than her bouncing fast. She couldn’t take the whole thing—not even close… so her tight pussy was mostly massaging my tip… I didn’t last long. She kept bouncing while I was cumming—and gooey white cum gushed out around my shaft, dripping down on her table. 

We quietly cleaned up, blushing and giggling, and then we finished the tattoo. 

And while she was wrapping me up, I overheard the other client talking to her artist at the other end of the shop. “They just found him dead. No signs of a break-in… stabbed in the chest, but no weapon recovered. And get this… they ended up ruling it a suicide—simply because they couldn’t find any evidence on the contrary.” 

“That’s wild. Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” the artist said. 

“That was five years ago, and I still can’t sleep over it, knowing someone killed my brother, and I’ll just… never know why.”

“Well, you’ll always remember him,” the artist said. “With or without this tattoo—but hopefully this tattoo helps you to feel closer to him.”

The story reminded me so much of my dad… so I waited for the girl to be done with her tattoo, and I approached her. “I was, uh, wondering if I could ask you some questions about your brother.”

She looked at me strangely, so I explained the story of my dad, and how I managed to figure out that he was killed. “The cops tend to do a bare minimum,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean the story has to end there.”

She smiled: a small glimmer of hope. I hadn’t done anything yet, but it was nice to see that little smile on her face, to think that I could provide a tiny bit of relief to someone who had been suffering. That little glimmer of hope was all of the motivation that I needed to try my absolute best.