Hi everyone,
I'm posting a short-short I've recently written. Hope you like it (if you do, let me know ;)
Airtime
By Rosie
The opening credits roll by and my mother appears
on the screen. She’s wearing a shiny, lime green jacket.
“Is that satin?” I whisper to my father, not
wanting to drown the sound of the television.
The seams on it are very stiff, making it look
almost as if the shoulders are padded, and although the neckline is quite high,
her breast are accentuated by darts that run all the way down until they
disappear in a black patent leather waist. Below the waist, the jacket flares
out in an almost obscenely large peplum. The matching skirt, by contrast, is
almost boring. It simply runs down in a straight line until it ends just below
her knees.
The camera zooms in, accentuating the details
of the fabric.
“Yes, it’s definitely satin,” I say in
disbelief, and my father raises the volume. The camera also accentuates the
details of my mother’s face. Despite the masterful touch of the makeup artist,
the teeth of time have left their traces. The skin on her neck is no longer
taut, there are tiny wrinkles around her eyes, and the lines around her mouth
make her cheeks stand out like pouches. She looks strict and severe, even with
her blonde hair framing her face and ornamenting the shiny green shoulder. Yet
somehow, she radiates an air of warmth. And her outfit with the almost
embarrassingly effete peplum, and bright green shininess, does not so much
clash with the look of the dignified lady as much as adds to the warmness she
projects on the screen.
“It’s not satin,” my father whispers in
response, “Brushed cotton, more likely.”
For a split second, my eyes meet his. Then, we
turn back to the screen, shaking our heads in disbelief that so much
unwarranted kindness is radiated by the same woman who rules our lives with an
iron fist.
Ever since she has begun her broadcasting
career, my mother’s contracts have always specified that the clothes she wears
on camera become her private property. During her years as a newscaster, she’d
bring home the clothes that would get phased out of rotation every once in a
while. Ever since she started hosting her own show, she has brought home the
full outfit each time. In a way, that was to be expected. As a newscaster, the
majority of her clothes were mix and match items that could make up different
outfits. With her new show, her clothes soon became much more flamboyant, much
more noticeable, so that she simply couldn’t dress twice in the same clothes.
And while they had less use in the daytime than the inconspicuous business-like
clothes from her newscaster days, she certainly had no reason to leave them in
the network’s wardrobe. My mother has taken good care of her body, but still,
the time goes only forward, and she certainly didn’t want the same outfits worn
on camera, in different shows, by other, younger, sleeker, taller or bustier
women.
There is another reason why my mother insists
on bringing home her clothes, however, which is why my father and I are so
interested in them. It is because we know that one of us will be wearing them
tomorrow, when we attend the weekly tea party of her social club. Usually, that
honor used to be bestowed upon my father whose closet is where my mother’s
clothes have been ending up since her newscaster days, but since four months
ago, it is an even chance that I will have to put them on.
Ever since I can remember, my mother has been
making my father put on her clothes. While it was clear that he didn’t really
enjoy it, and that it caused him a great deal of embarrassment, he pretended
that he was going along with it on his own volition, rather than risking a
confrontation with my mother. From time to time, he did try to talk his way out
of it, but he always backed down before his pleads could develop in a serious
argument with my mother. Instead, he’d puff theatrically, “Oh, all right”, as
if to say the thing he puts up with for the woman he loves, and then he’d
emerge from their bedroom minutes later, dressed from the skin up in my
mother’s clothes. “Just a bit of fun,” he’d say, although there was probably
nothing fun about cleaning the house in a tight dress and high heeled shoes.
Looking back, I guess he was avoiding an open
confrontation with my mother because he knew that she’d have her way in the
end. Eventually, my mother managed to force him to rebel against her. The
breaking point came when my mother brought home a ball gown had worn at an
awards ceremony and told him to wear it for his birthday party. As outrageous
as her demand was, my father’s resistance was an even bigger surprise to
everybody. This had infuriated my mother so much that she staged an impromptu,
but nonetheless formal feat-of-strength, with both of my grandmothers as
referees. Not wanting to fight, my father hid in their bedroom. My mother was
adamant – when he came out she’d fight him whether he fought back or not. The
only way she’d leave him alone was if he came out wearing the gown. After a
brief intervention by my two grandmothers, my father put on the gown and formally
accepted that from then on, he would wear what my mother wanted, when she
wanted and where she wanted.
On the screen, my mother walks across the
studio to welcome her first guest. From the side, the tailored jacket nicely
accentuates her slim figure. The same slim figure that has caused my father so
much grief. Unlike her, my father’s metabolism is much more prone to putting on
weight, and she does get more exercise than him. To make sure he continues to
fit in her clothes, she has him keep a very strict diet.
“Isn’t that great? I can eat just about
anything and not gain a single ounce,” she’d often tease him, wolfing down
steaks, potatoes and deserts while my father nibbled on a salad.
He keeps his hope alive that with age, she’ll
eventually start gaining weight which will allow him to eat a bit more as well,
but so far, she has managed to keep her figure.
She walks across the studio coquettishly, the
flared hem of her jacket dancing under the bright lights with her every step.
Is it my imagination, or does she does that on purpose? Is she taunting us with
the overly feminine detail of her outfit that tomorrow will serve to even
deepen the embarrassment of one of us?
Unlike my father, I was allowed to live as a boy,
and, except for the dresses I had to wear to frankly not very frequent formal
visits of my maternal grandmother, I was free to wear whatever I wanted. Yet I
never felt quite free and my father’s fate was a constant reminder that kept me
in line, well into my early adulthood. It wasn’t until college when I moved away
from home that I gained independence from my mother. Sadly, that only lasted
one semester.
When she learned about my failing grades, it
was decided that I’d stay home until she was convinced that I had the
determination to finish college. Three days later, I was having tea at my
mother’s club while the other members couldn’t agree which one of us was more
embarrassed – my father, who for the first time in years had to wear a dress
he’d worn before, or me, wearing my mother’s on-screen outfit that should be
rightfully belong to my father.
It is during the first commercial break that we
allow ourselves to take our eyes away from the screen. My father gets up and
paces nervously around the living room. He is wearing the dress my mother wore
last week, a knee length, straight skirted creation made of mocha-colored
sating, with a black lace overlay that just about covers his breasts, and
leaves the dress above them bare. He has pulled his hair in a tight bun at the
back of his head, just like my mother wore last week. His breasts, which I
can’t help but to admire how they push forward the bodice of his dress, are
part hormones, part implants. Mine are silicone breast forms that feel both
alien and disturbingly natural bouncing around in my bra.
I keep looking at my father and I simply can’t
help but to wonder how it must feel like, to have them under your skin, a part
of your body. How does it feel like when you don’t have to worry about
buttoning your blouse all the way up, or to wear a low-cut top. But then I look
down at my own and I can’t help but to admire the dance of the light,
reflecting from the bright red satin of my dress with every breath I take.
The commercials are over and the screen again
fills up with that sleek, shiny lime green fabric.
“Are you sure it’s not satin?” I ask my father,
but he just shushes me into silence.
“I sure hope it’s satin,” I mutter for the last
time until the end of the show.
6 comments:
Decently written, apart from that "teeth of time" line; now I can't help but visualize time literally nibbling away at the mother's face and neck.
This does feel like a fairly logical continuation of where a lot of stories within this genre leave off. Reading this, I couldn't help thinking of something I read on petticoatpunishmentart.com, which is "one basic rule of Petticoat Punishment stories is first kill the father."
I can see several reasons why that happens in forced feminization fiction to the point of it being an overused cliche. For one thing, as I generally look to this type of fiction for an erotic thrill, there's something really uncomfortable to me about the idea of a father and son sharing such an intimate form of discipline.
Also, maybe it's ageist, but any story where grandma is involved isn't sexy to me either.
So, if this story was supposed to be a turn on, it wasn't as far as I'm concerned, but if it's just an account of multi-generational forced feminization, then I guess it's kind of interesting, though still a bit disturbing from my perspective.
I loved the details about ther clothes. It lets me try to visualize what he / she looks like while being humiliated. Keep up the story line!
Hey, Rosie, I neglected to say in my earlier comment that I have enjoyed a great deal of your other writings in the past; it's just that this particular story was not a turn on for me. But I'm just very picky about what I like.
Hi rocketdave, thanks for the comments. I also enjoyed your artwork.
I guess we can say that not everything works for everyone. However, the father issue, while often steered clear of, is not altogether a neglected topic in TG/TV fiction. Even Bea has written at least two stories with the father in them (Like Father Like Son, Applied Logic), and if you want disturbing, try Tristmegistis' Looking for Love.
Personally, I found Bea's stories quite intriguing, to say the least.
I liked it hon, partially because well, I've often wanted to wear what the newscasters have on ;) thanks
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