Sunday, May 27, 2012

Me Again

Sorry to be late today - but had a big night last night and am a wee bit hungover.  Not much to say today.

Thanks to Belinda - she taught me how to get rid of those bloody escort commercials.  And while I'm at it?  Carrie wrote and asked for instructions as how to add a comment,  Someone (hopefully brighter than me) tell him the secrets?

Something that helped?  Someone wrote a glowing review on one of my published books.   I know that getting you guys to write here is like pulling teeth - but if you do buy any of my books?  A nice review is a major help.

Here's my short story this week.  Hope that you like it.  A few squibs of Rosie's follow after mine.

By Bea

"Come ON Alan!  You can't be asleep already!"
"Hey!  I'm exhausted!"

She slides into bed beside me and gives me a quick kiss. "Writer's block again today, huh?"
"Yes.  And it's mentally exhausting!"
"Where were you when Hilda came by?"
"She came by?  I didn't know" (Lying in my teeth.).  "She should have called ahead, like I expect people with manners to do."
"Oh, it was just a spur of the moment thing I guess."
"Well, when I get into a mental turmoil like I was today?  I'm not fit company to anybody."
"Poor baby!  Why don't we make a little love, huh?  It'll relax you!"
"Sorry darling.  Just not up to it tonight"
"It's been a while.  Quite a long while, actually"
"Well, I'm sorry."

She settles down into the bed. "Hey darling?  I know you're the writer here but I've been thinking about a plot for a short story myself."
"You?" I say and feel her stiffen.  "Sorry.  Didn't mean it to sound like that."
"Well, it did sound like that! And for all the writing you've done recently? I don't see where you get this superiority complex from."
"I said I was sorry!"
"Not enough! Sorry dear. Punishment time!"
"Aw, come ON.  I'm tired!"
"Okay.  I won't spank you this time as I'm tired too.  But here  . . ."  I feel her reach to the side of the bed.
"What's this!" I say indignantly as she fits something elasticized over my head and down to cover my eyes. "I can't see!" and I raise my hand to take it off.
"It's my panties," she says, giving my hand a smack.  "Leave them alone!"
"These silly punishments of yours.  Don't you think you're getting carried away with them?"
"No," she says shortly, still upset.
I think she turns off the light, but as I can't see too well, it's debatable.

"Okay!" I sigh.  "Why don't you tell me your plot?"
"Yes, I'm sure.  Now, will you get ON with it?"
"My!  Just listen to the bossy little man with panties all over his face."
"Okay."  She slides an arm around my neck and pulls me into her.  Starts.  "Once upon a time, there was this husband and wife, who had a friend called Hilda.. ."
"And their names are Alan and Joan, right?"
"Probably.  I may change them later on in the story – especially his."
"And they live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood.  She works for a living – owns her own business.  He stays at home and writes . . Doesn't make much money – any money, but she makes enough for both of them.."
I yawn, theatrically.
"Listen up!  I haven't heard a plot out of you in a LONG time, so maybe this'll get you going again. ."
"Sorry.  Said I was tired, didn't I?"
"Want me to wake you up?  Really wake you up?"
"No thanks. I'm sorry."

"Getting back to my plot? She finally gets kinda fed up with him lazing about the house all the time and starts hinting that he pitch in with the housework . ."
"Hinting?  Some hinting!"
"He doesn't listen – or pretends not to hear her, so she has to make the hints clearer and clearer.  He still doesn't listen, so one night she slaps him. ."
"It hurt too!"
"Poor baby!  But it gets his attention.  He's very apologetic . ."
"If you'd seen your face?  I don't know of anyone who wouldn't have apologized . ."
She laughs,  "Scary, huh?"
I just nod.
"Well Hilda doesn't get scared of Joan.  At least she doesn't show it like her husband does."
"She a bull dyke in the story too?"
"Probably.  We'll see.  But she starts coming onto Joan . ."
"See!  What did I tell you?"
"Hush!  And after a while?  Joan reciprocates."

I stir. "This is something new, right?"
"Of course!  Just a story, isn't it?"
"Hilda a writer in this one too?"
"Of course!"
"Writes these ridiculous private eye bullshit stories with the nom de plume of Rock Rhodes?"
I feel her shrug.  "Yeah, I guess so.  Don't know I'll make her as successful in the story though."
Jealousy runs through me. "Just because she's been published a few times!"
"And sold the book rights to the studios – twice.  And anyway?  How many books have you had published?"
"Why don't you go on with your plot," I say, avoiding the question.

"Well, Hilda and Joan become quite an item.  Alan doesn't seem to notice that Joan isn't so hot to trot in bed any more – he's become quite busy around the house."
"Doing what, exactly?"
"Housework, you ninny, what else?"
"I thought you said he was a writer?"
"Well – he says he's a writer, but he discovers what a marvelous aptitude he has for being a housewife – just loves it!  Just can't get enough of it.  Grumbles and complains to Joan all the time, but he keeps the house immaculately – that's one of the reasons she doesn't spank him for being so worthless in bed."
"Oh.  I guess that Alan has to go through punishments too?"
"Naturally.  The story Joan discovers how much fun it is to embarrass and humiliate her Alan – just the way I do with mine.  Wearing pretty hair ribbons in his hair at times.  Polish on his toe nails.  That sort of thing."
"No spankings?"
"Well, hardly any.  He's become such a sweet little thing that she doesn't have the heart to make him cry."
I decide to get away from that issue.  "But how come housework gets in the way of him performing his marital duties in bed?"
"Didn't I tell you?  Silly me!  See, he puts Joan's clothes on.  See she's got LOTS and he figures she'll never notice."
"And that tires him out?"
"Well, he masturbates you see.  Plays with himself.  Sometimes he puts on his favorite undies, then makes his face up – and then the poor dear'll get so excited!  Just has to run for the bathroom and jack off!"
"Doesn't seem like that would be a lot of fun."  I say.
"Must be for him.  Does it just about every day.  Oh, he loves it!  Flitting around in gauzy little dresses doing women's work.  Makes sure he doesn't get any surprise visitors by demanding that they call him first."
"Well, if Joan had treated him any better – shown him more respect?  He probably would never have done anything like that," I say.  Then a thought crosses my mind. "Hey.  You got a problem in your plot line.  How do Joan and her dyke friend know all this?"
"No problem.  With all of Hilda's research into private detectives?  She makes contact with a lot of snoops.  Easy to rig up a couple of twenty four hour surveillance cameras in a house nowadays."

I pause after I gasp for breath. Try to speak nonchalently. "Well, do you have an ending in mind?  That's essential you know."
"I realize that.  Yes.  Hilda moves in as Joan's lover . ."
"What happens to him?  Do they bump him off?"
Hilda's voice is at the side of the bed and I feel her weight as she sits.  Hear/ feel a kiss between the two women. "Sorry I'm late Joan."
"Bring your stuff?"
"Yeah, enough for a day or so. I'll get the rest later."

I'm suddenly frightened.  Lick my lips nervously. "Do they bump him off?"
"And lose a perfectly good maid?" Hilda says.
"Yes." Joan pipes up.  "You can be Hilda's maid during the day now.  Just wait and see what pretty uniforms she's gonna have you wear!  You'll have the room just down the hall – the one you decorated in pink and white.  You're going to be so HAPPY!  You can do our hair – and our laundry!  Learn to sew and crochet!  All sorts of girly things!"
Hilda laughs. "But first things first.  Have you lubricated Helen's ass yet?"
"No dear.  I thought you might want to – it being such an intimate act, you know?" Joan says.
I feel Hilda's strong hand on my shoulder. "Right you are Helen, over you go!  Upsa daisy!" And I'm lying face down on the bed and a hand is smearing something cool up inside my back passage.
"And they lived happily ever after!" Joan says – and kisses Hilda as she clambers up and straddles me..

The end

And now for Rosie

I opposed the idea of combining high tea and a barbecue for our garden party, and when Oliver got a spray of fat from a hot burger all over his pants and shirt, I had my proof. The party was a joint project between me and Bethany. Of course, as was the norm the past few weeks, her boyfriend Oliver was present when we were planning it.
I don’t know what he fueled his male ego with – for starters, physically he was hardly any bigger than me, so Bethany had both height and weight advantage over him. And, if I knew Bethany, it was her that wore the pants between them two. Still, as soon as he hear me say ‘garden’ he became all huffy and puffy, pushing his stupid barbecue idea forward. I don’t know why Bethany agreed to it, but I guess I couldn’t argue with both of them. Nothing would please him, though. When he heard I don’t have a regular charcoal barbecue but an electric hotplate, he started whining about how it was supposed to be done ‘for real’ and what not. I was only too glad when they left and didn’t look forward to the party anymore.
However, on the day of the party he had acted differently. He seemed subdued somehow, hardly any of his macho bullshit. Helped us set the table, didn’t complain about having to cook on the electric hotplate. He even dressed up nicely for the event, well, as far as that would go with him. I suppose a casual shirt with slacks was the most we could expect of him.
When he accidentally dropped too much water into the pan and the oil sprayed him all over, I actually felt regret for the guy, instead of spite.
“Oh dear,” I said, getting up from my chair, “What a mess you’ve made, Oliver.”
”It’s not my fault,” he sheepishly protested, “It’s the damn hotplate.”
“Oliver!” Bethany hissed from behind the garden table, “Behave yourself!”
“Sorry,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter,” I replied, “Let’s get you some fresh clothes.”
“Fresh clothes?” he repeated warily.
“Why yes,” I said, “I’m sure I’ll be able to find a shirt that would fit you. It won’t be terribly manly, I’m afraid, but it won’t be too feminine either.”
His face went as pale as the wall.
“But… but….” He stammered, “I don’t really think that’s necessary,” he said finally.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t have you standing around like that,” I said, pointing to the dark brown stain on his shirt.
“Well, shouldn’t I at least finish cooking?” he said weakly, “What if it splashes again? I wouldn’t want to stain your shirt too.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” I replied, “But no need to worry. I’ll give you one of my aprons.”
“Aprons?” he said, turning even into an even paler shade.
“Yes,” I said, “I know you don’t think of them as manly, but as long as you’re cooking, you’ll wear one. You wouldn’t have to change now had you been wearing one from the beginning.”
I swear, it seemed as if he was afraid of me! As I approached him, he started backing away, almost walking into the hotplate.
“Couldn’t I just keep the shirt on? I mean, just this time? I’ll be extra careful?” he stammered.
“Oh, Oliver, stop being difficult and do as Kate says,” Bethany said.
“Yes, dear,” he said, turned off the hotplate and followed me to my bedroom. The look on his face almost made me change my mind. I even considered letting him keep the ruined shirt. Granted it would bother me, but if it was such a strain on the poor guy, why torture him? Then again, what would I tell Bethany? I could tell her that none of my tops would fit him, but that was a bit hard to believe. The guy was more or less sizes with me. Furthermore, I certainly didn’t want to it to appear as if I had gone soft on him. I opened my closet and, after a few minutes’ search, found a simple pale blue cotton blouse. Except for the buttons being at the wrong side it could be taken for a men’s shirt, even at a bit closer inspection.
“Here, try this one,” I said.
“Can I change in your bathroom?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Thanks,” he said, with a sense of relief so huge it made me think something was afoot.
A few moments later, he stepped out of my bathroom, wearing my blouse. Perhaps it didn’t look as masculine on him as either of us had hoped but as I said, it wasn’t too obvious he was wearing a ladies’ shirt.
“Let’s have a look,” I said, pulling him into the light near the window. I don’t really know why I did that, I mean, why should I expect him to look any different than in the shade? But was I in for a surprise. As he reluctantly, but still obeying, followed me to the window, I noticed something strange underneath his blouse. Well, unexpected, not strange, as it was a sight one would associate with the blouse – I could distinctly see traces of elastic straps, buckles at his back and even some lace at front! He was wearing lingerie underneath! The creepy pervert, I said to myself, angered with the thought of him steeling my undies. But where would he get them? He couldn’t have gotten them from my bedroom and there weren’t any in the bathroom.
“Oliver? Are you wearing a bra?” I asked in astonishment, not really believing the evidence I’d witnessed.
His face went pale as he licked his lips. For a few moments he didn’t answer, then, as if he had realized there was no use in denying it, slowly nodded. That’s why he wanted to change in the bathroom!
“Let me see,” I said thickly, already unbuttoning his blouse. I expected him to try to stop me, at least by saying something, but he just stood there, silent, docile, as I opened his blouse to reveal his silk white camisole and lace bra.
“Well, well,” I said, mockingly, “Don’t you look pretty.”
Again, he said nothing, just cringed under my gaze.
“What will Beth say when she sees what a pretty bra her boyfriend is wearing?” I said, half mocking half threatening.
Again, his reaction didn’t meet my expectations. I though he’d beg me not to tell her, perhaps ask for a blouse of thicker fabric. But again, his expression remained unchanged. Then it struck me.
“She knows, doesn’t she?” I asked.
Slowly, he nodded, then tears started trickling down his cheeks.
“She… she made me put them on,” he sobbed.
Suddenly I felt sorry for the poor guy. Bethany was a very bossy person. If she could get overly dominant even with me, then how must it have been for Oliver! Pretty bad, apparently, as he was forced to wear women’s underwear.
I hugged him and patted his back.
“There, there,” I said consolingly.
As sympathetic as I was with Oliver, I was also intrigued about Bethany’s methods. Before he even stopped sobbing, I unbuckled his pants. They slithered down his nylon-shod legs, exposing his panties, matching the rest of his outfit.
“Get your pants, shoes and sock off,” I said, taking off his blouse.
“I’ll find you something more suitable,” I added.

“Took you long enough,” Bethany said dryly when we hot back. Oliver was trailing behind me, obscured from her view.
“Perhaps,” I replied perkily, “Though I think you’ll find it was well worth the wait.”
“I though only his shirt got stained,” she said as she saw her boyfriend dressed in one of my floral sundresses, wearing makeup and high heels.
“It did,” I replied, “But with the poor dear so shy about his lingerie showing, none of my blouses would do. None that he wouldn’t be too hot in, anyway.”
“Whatever,” Bethany said, not trying do hide her disinterest, then turned to Oliver.
“I think it’s time you got back to the cooking, Olivia,” she said, “All this waiting for you made me hungry again.”
“Yes, dear,” he said obediently.
I helped him tie my flounced apron around him, then sat back and watched as he got behind the hot plate again.
“I have to hand it to you, Olivia,” I said, “Turns out that a barbecue is a much better idea than I thought.”


It was hard to say who was more embarrassed, my fiancé or his mother, as they made their way to my mother’s front door. Yet the both walked calmly, composed, heads up, maintaining their dignity to the end. Even though they would enter the house any second, I strained my neck out of the window to get a glimpse of what they were wearing. Because of the rose bushes between the street and my mother’s front lawn, I couldn’t get a full good look at them, but it was a warm evening and they only threw their coats over their shoulders on their way from the car so I could see enough to know my mother would be satisfied. My fiancé opened his coat a little and I could see his pleated silk skirt. When he lifted the material at the front with his index fingers and thumbs I could tell that he was wearing a floor length skirt.


Generally, I’d much rather go to the movies or simply do nothing at all than attend another one of my mother’s dinner parties, as she called them. Not that I had any choice in the matter, but this time I was quite eager to help her host it, by which of course I mean tidy up the house, cook the meal and set the table. This time it was much different. If all went how it should, not only I wouldn’t have to face the subsequent cleaning, laundry and ironing of the tablecloth alone, but by the next dinner party, I could join my mother in the leisurely task of the grand hostess while someone else did the work. I even gladly put on the clothes my mother provided for the occasion – the long dark blue velvet skirt and the grey silk blouse over a set light blue lingerie trimmed with jet black lace – full cut panties, full length slip, even a corset and stockings attached to its garters. I even volunteered to endure five inch heels for the evening, glad that for once, all eyes would be on someone else’s clothes.
It was hard to say who was more embarrassed, my fiancé or his mother, as they made their way to my mother’s front door. Yet the both walked calmly, composed, heads up, maintaining their dignity to the end. Even though they would enter the house any second, I strained my neck out of the window to get a glimpse of what they were wearing. I cursed at myself for arriving to the window too late. I missed the moment when they got out of the car, now they were already walking behind the rose bushes that would allow me to see only from their chest up all the way before they reached the front door. To further add to my frustration – in the dimming light of the evening I could hardly make out who was who, let alone their clothes. Gradually, however, my eyes got accustomed to the dark and the silhouettes transformed into clear shapes. It was no wonder I couldn’t tell Jack from his mother as not only they were of similar stature, they were both wearing a dark overcoat and even in an identical manner – thrown over the shoulders, held close by their hands. The only difference was that Jack’s was a hooded one and he was wearing the hood over his head. They were walking side by side and unfortunately, Jack was on the far side of the house, effectively screened by his mother.
A wind was blowing down the street that but even before I began anticipating Jack’s cloak being swept open, Stephanie turned towards her son and closed the top button of what now seemed as some sort of cape. I all but accepted the harsh reality that to see the rest of their attire I’d have to wait until they rang the bell – I shuddered even to think of my mother’s reaction had I run out to the street to greet them – when they reached the path to our front door. The rose bush still ran along it, hiding them, but now they were walking towards the house, not along it. I could see them both en face instead of their profile and moreover, Jack wasn’t obscured by his mother anymore. They only walked a couple of steps between turning towards the house and disappearing from my view but what little I could see made my heart flutter with joy. As Jack turned towards the house, I spotted a patch of bright color inside his cape. It took me a while to recognize it for his own hands, as I could only see them from wrist up. Not only they were bare at least a good length above his elbow, but the way he held them in front of him, bended slightly at the elbows, protruding from his cape was a dead ringer for a lady lifting the material of her floor length skirt.

I have no idea how I might have reacted in normal circumstances, if I had actually time to react. What would I say when my son, at Bethany’s command via her cellphone, finally came into my living room, dressed like a girl? Or, had he come in with her, rather than waited for her to explain how he was being punished for displeasing her mother, how would I have reacted when I’d see him in his petal pink short sleeved silk blouse, his pleated knee length skirt, nylon stockings and two inch high heels? Would I have recognized him at all, with his cheeks reddened, his lips painted coral pink, his eyes outlined with black pencil, his eyelids colored a deep green, his eyelashes heavily mascara’d and his long brown hair curled and clipped at the back, except for a few loose strands framing his face?
Would I have asked Bethany how she felt seeing her fiancé dressed as a girl? Would I have protested to her mother’s intrusion on my son’s life? Would I have asked just what the hell she was thinking of disciplining a twenty four year old man that way? Maybe I’d have asked Jack if he had no backbone at all, allowing himself to be dressed up like that? Then again, I just might have scolded him for displeasing Janice. Amanda Smith, Bethany’s mother was not someone to be taken lightly.
But, as I said, I had much more important things to focus on at that moment. Beside the vague explanation of why my son was wearing girls’ clothes, I also got some very explicit instructions that presented me with some last minute change of plans. Not only was he to accompany me to Amanda’s dinner party this very evening, but she had also specified very clearly how he should be dressed.
I thanked Bethany and sent her on her way, then went to my bedroom. Thanks to my latest purchases, I had no trouble assembling an outfit for Jack that was compliant with Amanda’s wishes. I found some lingerie, stockings and a pair of shoes to go with it, then went to fetch him from his room. He was still wearing the same clothes he had when he came in.
He explained that they were Bethany’s clothes as I helped him wash away his makeup and undress. I could see that he was uncomfortable wearing girls’ clothes in front of me, but he was even more shy about being naked, so when the time came to put on my own clothes, he glad he could cover his shame, even if it meant putting on another pair of panties, a bra and a corset. I probably could have laced it a little less tight, but the narrow waist did wonders for his figure and it even appeared as if he had a bust. With joined forces we rolled a pair of my black nylon stockings up his hairless legs and attached them to the suspender straps. As a final part of the lingerie set, I pulled a black knee length slip over his head, then helped him with the rest of the clothes. My long black silk skirt fit him perfectly in the waist. It was too long for him, of course, but with the added height of my three inch heeled pumps, the hem, though barely, finally did clear the floor. The sleeves of my diaphanous blouse might have been a tad too long for him but given their billowing cut, no one would notice.
Maybe it was the shock that kept him from complaining all up until I was done with his makeup, I don’t know. But when he finally started protesting, pleading, begging me even not to take him back to that house, I simply didn’t have any time left to deal with him. The hour of the dinner party was approaching fast and I was left in quite a fix. If anything, his swishing around me in my blouse and skirt only aggravated me. I was going to wear that outfit to the dinner but now thanks to his shenanigans, I had to come up with another ensemble from my rather limited wardrobe, I hissed to stop him complaining.
“Please, mummy,” he almost cried, “Don’t make me go to there again. I don’t want to get spanked by Amanda again.”
Well guess what, junior, neither do I.


Carrie - locked maid - not the one asking :) said...

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