"A Cute Couple" is my keystone; it's the one story that will always be most precious to me.
Stephanie helps Terry graduate university.
A CUTE COUPLE
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
Warning: Sweet & Sentimental.
Author’s Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
THE RUNT
Ever heard of the ‘Tangmere Trio’, the male triplets? Rex, Odin, and Zeus they were, and each lived up to his namesake. By the time they were 15 years old, each was six feet tall, 185 lbs, handsome beyond human comprehension, an athletic god, a scholastic genius, and a good character role model. Adulation and admiration were their shadows.
They were unlike Terry, the fourth of the triplets.
Yes, the Tangmere Trio were actually quadruplets, but most people forgot about Terry. Even his mother --- a distant soul with a room temperature heart (“Oh Terry, please call me ‘Mrs. Tangmere’!”) --- considered her sons as ‘those three, and that little one over there too’. Truth be told, after the Trio were delivered, she had been sensing some post-partum diarrhea only to see Terry finally ooze out of her womb.
From strangers, “He’s their brother?” was invariably heard. Terry at 15 was 5 foot zero, 115 pounds soaking wet, B average smart, intellectually lazy, and --- was there ever any doubt? --- a virgin. There was no visible similarity between the triplets and the runt.
That said, the Trio were always kind and considerate toward him. They knew Terry’s limitations and respected them; they loved him. There was never any brotherly betrayal and nastiness. Terry reciprocated; he loved them too.
Mrs. Tangmere watched her boys head off to school, their last day of Grade 10. Two more years then university; certainly, for the triplets, it was beyond doubt. University then high-flying work at her Tangmere International, a multi-million-dollar import/export company. Within ten years, she should be able to hand over the chair’ship of the Board to each of them on a rotating basis. Find them appropriate wives. Urge them to have two or three children each. Three perfect futures for three perfect sons.
What about Terry? She saw her Trio take leisurely strides down the road; Terry ran just to keep up to them. She sighed. He might do okay at some university taking some course toward some degree that might get him some job in some company somewhere. Whatever.
She turned to re-read the latest Margaret Atwood novel.
THE COMMITMENT
School had let out 20 minutes ago. Terry stood patiently near a bush by an edge of a path near a corner with a garbage can in a park close to two high schools. He was waiting to see her again.
Her. She. He didn’t know her name, age, address, phone number, email address, height, weight, blood type, or genetic sequence. Whatever her name, she personified Terry’s dream of a loving, beautiful woman. She was taller than his brothers, seemingly just as strong (at least just as fit), and incredibly stunningly beautiful. Ponytail. Long eyebrows. Green eyes. The sweetest mouth. She exuded confidence. Her mannerisms conveyed certainty. He adored her, alas, from afar.
Day after day, for a couple of years, at the exact same time and place, Terry sighed as she walked by (presumably) on her way home. Terry never stalked her; that would be so un-Tangmere’ish. He simply felt grateful for her inspiring presence, albeit brief, every day.
He had witnessed many boys from the other school pursue her over the years. Some seemed to have succeeded; most seemed to have failed. Today, he saw her turn and start swearing at an older boy, from the other school, who had been walking with her today. Her swearing worked; the other boy fled. She continued walking away.
Terry saw her drop something. She didn’t seem to notice. Terry dashed to the dropped object and picked it up. It was a gold choker with a big round sapphire. It was beautiful and plainly too valuable to lose.
Terry ran and ran after the girl. She was tall; her strides long. He was panting when he finally caught up to her, ten minutes later.
She turned around and glared at him. “You! You’re the little boy who spies on me every day, aren’t you?” Terry was so bedazzled that he could only nod yes. “What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but you dropped this back there. I couldn’t let you lose something so beautiful.” He held out his hand, the choker in his palm. She was in fact gorgeous.
She looked down at him. He was very cute, in a little boy way, she thought. He wasn’t like most young men and older boys who approached her. He seemed instead quite humble and modest (and meek, don’t forget meek). She took the choker from him. “This choker, little boy… Wait, what’s your name?” He answered.
She continued: “Terry, this choker may glitter to you, but, to me, it’s void of substance. The young man whom you saw flee, he gave it to me. I did not ask for it. I did not want it. And he meant nothing to me. Accordingly, it meant nothing to me and so I disposed of it. Do you understand what it is I might not consider to be substantive?”
Terry had no fucking idea what she meant but he nodded his agreement anyway. She seemed so smart. Deep sigh.
“Very well,” she continued, “if I mean something to you, then you shall wear this choker until we meet again. That may well be years from now if ever at all. I treasure deeds, not words. I value promises. I place inestimable weight upon proven commitment. So, teeny weeny tiny Terry, imbue this choker with some personal substance. Make it signify something to me, for me, by wearing it until that day, whenever it may be.”
She bent down and put the choker on him. He stared down her chest as she did so. She noticed and jiggled a little bit, saw his positive reaction, and then jiggled a little bit more. She grinned and looked at him again. He had puppy dog eyes.
She lifted his chin with her finger, slowly kissed him once on the lips, and then walked off into the sunset. “My name is Stephanie,” were her last words to him.
“Take care, Stephanie, and thank you,” were his last words to her.
Terry let the moment linger, and then went home. His brothers asked him where he got the necklace. “It’s a choker,” he corrected them, “and the most beautiful girl in the world gave it to me to wear until I see her again.” His eyes shone with joy. His brothers were happy for him; they reminisced with him about their first loves and conquests of four years ago.
His mother simply raised her eyebrows and went back to her computer.
TWO YEARS LATER: TERRY GOES TO UNIVERSITY
“Oh my god! Look at this weirdo,” Judy said to the other student union reps who were allocating dorm rooms. Zelda giggled at the picture on the application form and passed it to Simone who laughed and passed it to Billy who cried and passed it to Steve. “No one will want to room with him!” The entire room broke out in laughter.
The president of the State University’s student union strode into the room. She was entering year three of a five-year mixed law and MBA program, was brilliant, focused and single-minded, and was reputed to be a ruthless man-eater. Her official suite was a double in the residence building. She was glad to see her fellow residents in good morale. “What’s so funny?”
Someone passed the application form to the president. Applicant was age 18. Graduate of Pleasantville Secondary School. B average. No sports or hobbies save Dungeons and Dragons. Entering a first-year humanities program. No scholarship. Lots of student loans. The picture was remarkable for its subject’s youthfulness.
And because of the gold choker with a blue sapphire the subject wore in the photo.
“This one’s mine,” the president immediately said. The others gasped. “Seriously?” they asked. “Yes,” she answered with conviction.
-----000-----
“Enter!” the voice on the other side of the door growled. Terry cautiously opened the door to room 666. He had no idea how he had been selected to dorm with the president of the student union; he had been expecting to dorm in a room alone and about the size of a closet. Room 666 was dark, the sun barely coming through the closed blinds on the common room window. Might the president also be a troglodyte? “Don’t turn on the lights,” the voice snapped.
“Put down your bags and close the door.” He complied. “Step into the centre of the room and stand on the ‘X’ taped to the floor.” He complied. “Now close your eyes.” He complied.
He heard movement: the troglodyte drew closer. He felt breathing on his face. He smelled Eternity for Women. His choker was lifted slightly and gently let back down. The figure moved away, he heard a click, and the room brightened through his eyelids. He heard the blinds being raised; more light came in. Warm hands were placed on his cheeks and his face was tilted upward. “Open your eyes.” He complied.
“So, we meet again, Terry,” Stephanie’s voice was soothingly sweet. Terry stared up at her, awestruck.
“How long have you worn this?” she asked. “Every day for the past two-and-a-half years,” he replied.
“Why?” she asked. Terry remembered his brothers’ sage words of life advice: “dare yourself every now and then,” per Rex, “risk it: live a little,” per Odin, and, per Zeus, “you’ll regret never trying.” Terry took a deep breath and answered her:
“Because Stephanie, every minute of my life was sweeter with you in mind. As every flower enjoys the air it breathes, so I knew I would love you to the last and bear the memory of you to my grave. I could never take it off. And I never did.” Terry exhaled and looked up at her nervously.
Stephanie stared down at him. She saw sincerity in his boyish face and heard a modest confidence in his calm voice.
“Terry, please get me a chair so I may sit here,” she said pointing at the floor where they stood. He complied. She sat, finally face-to-face with him. “Take off the choker, Terry.” she flatly said. He gulped, feared the worst, and complied.
Stephanie held the choker up to the light and smiled at it. “Terry, this choker is now mine. It means something to me now. You have given it significance now. Do you not realize the implications of that?”
Once again, Terry had no fucking idea what she meant but nodded his agreement anyway.
“Yes, Terry, that’s right. You are now significant to me too.” As Stephanie spoke, she put the choker on herself, leaned forward, and kissed him once, softly, on his lips. She then grinned, spanked his butt hard, and told him to move all his belongings into the second bedroom.
FIRST YEAR UNIVERSITY
The two of them swiftly became a fixture on campus. Almost everyone already knew Stephanie; she was greeted warmly wherever she went. But they now started to see her living shadow, that small figure who occasionally carried her books. “Little Terry” as he became known, ate with her in the cafeteria, went to the library with her, and did laundry with her. But for their separate classes, they became inseparable.
“They’re a cute couple,” many said.
It struck many as more than just that. Stephanie’s reputed ruthlessness towards men did not seem to extend to Terry. She drew him into her circles of friends and into their conversations. She paid attention to him the few times he spoke, and then others did too. They liked him. He was genuine and humble, intelligent though not intellectually gifted. He avoided antagonizing others, was very kind and helpful, and proved to be a reliable friend and cheerful soul. Harmlessly witty and empathetically charming, he made her laugh.
Their living together was mutually satisfactory, Terry willingly helped organize and clean; he adjusted his lax humanities schedule to accommodate her busier law/MBA schedule. The few times they used the suite’s small kitchen, they cooked together. When she was a bit down, he brought her back up and always left her with a smile on her face. And, once she indicated to him that it would be permitted, there had been a bit of kissing too, mutually wanted, mutually enjoyed.
She knew he was truly special.
-----000-----
And then one night in mid-December, after exams were over…
“So, you’re not going home this Christmas, right?” she asked. He knew she wasn’t going home, and he was looking forward to spending time with her.
“Correct,” Terry said, “my brothers are staying at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, but I already sent them gifts. And I have no desire to go home to see my mother; I sent her a Discount Superstore gift card a few weeks ago. Therefore, here I am, here I stay, and here I relax a bit. With you?” He smiled at her hopefully.
“Really?” Stephanie said. The seductive tone of her voice energized Terry. He looked at her as she sat on the couch. “Come,” she said eagerly, pointing at a spot on the floor in front of her. He quickly went and stood on the spot.
“Take off your shirt, little man.” He complied, anxiously.
“Take off your pants, little boy.” He complied, nervously.
“Take off your underwear, little baby.” He paused. She raised her eyebrows at him, silently commanding him.
He complied, slowly, wondering whether this would be the day he finally lost his virginity. He adored Stephanie and looked forward to every kiss she gave him. This was the first time he was naked with a woman, let alone a beautiful one, let alone one he adored.
“Well, look at that. It’s Terry’s Tiny Tiger.” She held her right hand up to his four inch erection and began to stroke it. His body trembled with joy. “You like this?” she asked, caressing it. Terry was too far lost in the moment to answer. He simply moaned and nodded. She gently tugged it and pulled him over onto her lap, his stomach down. Using her left hand, she held his hands behind his back.
Suddenly, she stopped caressing him and dug her fingernails deep into his scrotum.
“You little worm! Your marks arrived. Six courses, four D’s and two C’s. Unacceptable!” She began to spank him with a wooden paddle that had seemingly magically appeared in her hand.
“I am a straight A student! I have been on the Dean’s Honors List every year I have been here! I work hard for my marks and I get them! I relentlessly pursue excellence and it shows!” The pace and intensity of the spanking increased as she spoke, more furiously by the minute.
“I refuse to be associated with academically challenged losers! I hate stupid people! Which of those are you? Your marks say both! You shall not humiliate me! Never!” Harder and harder she spanked him.
“I want a partner whom I can be proud of, a person of whom I need to say nothing because his achievements and accomplishments will stand on their own, without my intervention! I have zero desire to spend time with a pathetic, retarded, indolent failure, and right now, oh, mark my words, right now, I feel like dumping you into a garbage-strewn ravine frequented by rabid dogs and hungry polar bears!” Terry’s butt cheeks were turning crimson from her aggressive spanking. He began to cry.
“If you want to stay here with me,” she hissed, “then you will change! But you must make the effort to change! You must want it too! Let me change you!” She could tell his butt was getting to its spank limit. “Do you want me to change you?” She was almost screaming in his ear.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! I’m so sorry! Please change me!” Terry cried loudly. She instantly turned him over in her lap, pulled up her T-shirt, and exposed her braless breasts to him. He had never seen real breasts before. She quickly tapped the back of his head twice, drew it to her left breast, and pinned it there, suckling him, while she started to slowly jerk him off.
Switching to her softest, most soothing voice, she continued: “My Tiny Tiger. You will do what I say. If you obey, then you will be rewarded. Like this. If you do not, then you will be punished. At a minimum, like this.” She paused her hand movements.
“To be clear, the worst punishment will come if you ever, I mean EVER, get any mark less than an A minus in future. If you get straight A’s,” she started jerking him off again, “then I will give you pleasure beyond your comprehension and experience. Do you understand?” Tears falling, he nodded as he kept sucking her breast and as she kept stroking him.
“That’s my good little kitten. Straight A’s: get straight A’s for Ms. Stephanie. Now, cum on my hand, right now, sweetie, cum right now.” And he instantly complied.
“I love you, Terry,” she whispered, meaning it. They looked at each other with mutual affection. His eyes went wide, and he tried to say the same to her. But she gently tapped the back of his head twice to keep him at her breast. He sucked frantically and stared at her. She smiled back and started slowly jerking him off again.
CHANGING TERRY
Terry was a Dean’s List student for the first-year spring semester and in every semester after that. He never got less than an A ever again. His motivations have just been described. So now to the mechanisms of change: how did this happen?
-----000-----
First, Stephanie imposed a new daily routine upon Terry: no more languishing in bed or idling about the suite.
From the moment he woke at seven o’clock, he was busy. Shower. Dress (invariably the same: loafers, jeans, collared shirts, a fleece jacket, and a Gore-tex outer if needed). Clean his room. Clean their shared space (if Stephanie hadn’t, but she often did). Pack for class. Classes. Library. Lunch at the cafeteria. Library. Classes. Library. Last class.
Back to the dorm room. Put on his Sailor Moon uniform. Study at his desk facing a wall: no windows, no distractions. Prepare dinner or, if Stephanie had cooked (and she often did), clean up after dinner; alternatively, uniform off, eat at the cafeteria with Stephanie, back to the dorm, uniform on. Back to studying. At eight o’clock, change out of his Sailor Moon uniform. Socialize with Stephanie and their friends. At ten o’clock every Monday to Thursday night, Stephanie put him to bed. The weekend routine Stephanie had established was similarly stringent, with a much later bedtime being the norm.
This routine lasted the remainder of Terry’s first year and, loosened up a bit, into his second. Eventually, it was revised yet again when he got a part-time job at the school bookstore to help pay his mounting bills.
-----000-----
Second, Stephanie drugged him and hypnotized him every Monday to Thursday night. The drugs were mild, low dose soporifics; Stephanie had tenderly persuaded Terry to take them. The drugs simply facilitated his hypnosis.
And Terry had informedly consented to hypnosis. Stephanie acquired excellent headphones, a VR headset, an awesome laptop to control them, and several different video and audio series of humanities classes from various universities. By day in his class and by night in his bed, Terry was bombarded with humanities.
Well, to be honest, not just humanities. Once she knew Terry was asleep, Stephanie caused the laptop to briefly (for five minutes every half hour) interrupt the academic courses so as to play a different hypnosis tape. Terry had not consented to this tape for which Stephanie rationalized the consent issue as follows: fuck it.
His subconscious brain registered the many pictures of a very attractive Stephanie in all diverse poses and degrees of dressing.
It also registered her comforting, mellifluous voice repeatedly telling him that she loved him, that she cared for him, that she could make decisions for him out of love and compassion, that he could politely question and advise her, that he should ultimately accept and obey --- with respect and loyalty --- her final decisions, that they had to work as a team, and that, if all these things held true, then they would live together forever as the best possible loving partners.
Night after night, month after month, semester after semester. Terry was bombarded with humanities --- and Stephanie.
-----000-----
Third, Stephanie implemented a reasonable, graduated, and achievable reward system. Its foundation was a chastity device. The day after his first spanking, she caught him masturbating. “Unacceptable,” she said.
Soon thereafter, he had to lock himself up and put the key for the device on a chain around his neck. She in turn locked the chain on him and kept that second lock’s key. “I don’t have the key to your chastity device; you do,” she reminded him. “Focus on courses during the week, darling,” she said, “and remember it comes off every Friday after dinner cleanup until Monday breakfast,” she paused, “if you’re a good little boy of course.”
Regarding rewards, to begin, he was permitted to pet her. Only after he demonstrated sufficient skill were there weekend handjobs. Eventually, there was cunnilingus. Always, kisses and caresses. Constantly, Stephanie’s guidance, instructions, and encouragement. He got paddled severely once for having not shaved beforehand. He cried but never made the same mistake ever again.
Once he had cunnilingus licked, Stephanie allowed fellatio: “you’ve earned it,” she said. She pointed out that his little size made it easier for her mouth, and easier for her meant more enjoyable for her, and more enjoyable for her led to more often for him. Thus, she persuaded him that having a little cock could sometimes be for the best. And she mostly meant it too. “Small is beautiful,” she teased.
It was after his second-year fall semester marks arrived that he finally lost his virginity. After extensive foreplay, Stephanie moved him into the missionary position, tapped the back of his head twice, and kept him at her breasts as the Tiny Tiger wiggled around inside her. She really couldn’t feel the Tiny Tiger inside her. But she loved him, so that didn’t matter to her.
She reassured herself: she had taught him to be a tongue maestro and a deft, masterful wielder of various sex toys. She realized that, on the whole, he was a far better lover than any larger man she had ever known; his four inches packed true love. Oh, the difference to me, she thought happily.
“Cum for me, right now, baby, cum right now!” No, she never lessened control on when he could cum. She just couldn’t let that go.
COUPLING
There was a great deal more to this couple than just sex and a study routine.
Indeed, had they remained so static, Stephanie would have surely dumped him, naked, pummeled, beaten, in a muddy ditch during mosquito season, or would have undoubtedly left him to die, alone, starving, thirsty, in a deserted, derelict, rat-infested apartment building.
-----000-----
Consider a few moments that exemplified their deepening bonds and appreciation for one another:
There was that time when Stephanie went to hand-in her paper for her Aircraft Financing course. She’d been gone about 20 minutes when Terry saw the brown envelope with the paper on her desk. He raced with it in hand as fast as he could to meet her before the deadline passed. He got to the hand-in desk with one minute to spare. “You forgot this,” he wheezed. She kissed him and thanked him. He headed back to their room.
Her friends told her that their boyfriends would never have done that for them; they were too lazy. She didn’t have the heart to tell Terry that the paper in the envelope was her copy of the original she had just turned in.
There was also that time when Stephanie’s student union nemesis --- Zara Linscol, a ghastly woman, a profoundly stupid and immensely dumb woman --- tried to sabotage Stephanie’s efforts to get students to read for children at the on-campus daycare centre. Linscol discouraged participation by warning that the children were infested with lice. Terry dressed up as a baby, sat in the daycare centre, and let the university newspaper take pictures of him, including closeups of his clean hair, for their story. The counter campaign had its intended effect; Lincol's cynical efforts were ridiculed and ignored.
Stephanie had been surprised to read the story. When someone joked that Stephanie was a “mommy”, she swiftly and decisively and aggressively informed that person that she, Stephanie, was extremely proud to be the girlfriend of someone man enough to publicly wear a diaper for a noble, charitable cause.
Then there was that time when they went to the zoo. As Terry returned from the washroom, he saw a Japanese tourist, in a wheelchair, with an obvious neuro-muscular disorder, trying to take a selfie with elephants in the background. The tourist couldn’t. Without prompting, Terry offered to help, baited some of the beasts with his own peanuts to gather them for the background, and then lay on the ground for the perfect angle for the perfect shot. The tourist cried with joy at the spectacular pictures. Terry shook his thankful hand, declined payment, and scampered away, looking for Stephanie.
Stephanie had witnessed the entire episode while standing next to the lionesses’ cage. Terry never mentioned to her what he had done: “Sorry I’m late. There was a long line at the washrooms.”
Consider too the time when Stephanie hosted her informal club (“The Dirty Dozen Dommes”) at their residence dorm suite. She asked Terry to help serve dinner, drinks, and snacks and to clean as the night went along. Terry knew each of the dozen as a friend; they would not tease him. He wore, per Stephanie’s request, women’s glittery pink running shoes, white tights, a yellow tutu, an orange blaze halter top, and a black cat ears headband; cat whiskers were painted on his face. Of course, the Dozen wore black leather domme gear that night.
By the end of the evening, he was sitting on Stephanie’s lap, his arms around her neck, her arms around his waist, as the Dozen thanked him for an excellent meal and his great assistance in making their evening a complete success. Stephanie marveled at his quiet, unassuming character and the depth of his sincere love for her.
THE FUNERAL
The message from his mother, sorry, Mrs. Tangmere, came one Sunday afternoon during reading week of his third-year spring semester. The message was characteristically heartless and succinct:
“Terry, your brothers died 2 days ago base jumping at Troll Wall, Norway. The funeral is tomorrow. Wear a jacket and tie. Best wishes, Mrs. Tangmere.”
Terry was devastated and collapsed on the couch as soon as he read it. Stephanie saw him in pain and asked what the matter was. He showed her the message.
Stephanie had met the Tangmere Trio once, at Thanksgiving last year, when they visited their brother. She had witnessed first-hand their close relationship and genuine feelings for each other. The four of them were so heartwarming to watch, playing and joking together. She knew Terry was sad that they had not been able to reunite more often. And now the Trio were dead.
Stephanie comforted Terry as best she could and arranged for the both of them to attend the funeral.
It was a cliché dreary, damp, chilly, grey, overcast, windy, depressing day for a funeral. By the graveside, Terry stood next to Stephanie and watched his three brothers make their final descent into the hereafter. He cried and cried and cried. His mother scowled at him and hissed, “Tangmeres don’t cry. Toughen up!” Stephanie shot her a look and rubbed Terry’s back.
The bodies in their graves, Terry excused himself to go for a little walk alone. Stephanie turned to meet Mrs. Tangmere for the first time. After some brief and cursory introductions, Mrs. Tangmere went substantive:
“I understand that you have been instrumental in turning Terry into a gifted student. I would ask that you continue your efforts in that regard.” Mrs. Tangmere raised her eyebrows, commandingly.
“Terry,” Stephanie replied, “was always gifted. He simply needed to be unwrapped. I deserve little applause because he’s the one who made the effort. You may wish to learn that one of his academic papers has been accepted for publication in the ‘Journal of English Literature’. His article is called ‘Misandry, Misogyny, and Dystopian Outcomes in Transgender Fiction’ and has already won two literary awards. Shall I forward you a copy at your convenience?” Stephanie raised her eyebrows, defiantly.
Mrs. Tangmere turned to face Stephanie directly. She liked what she saw. “Whatever you are doing this summer, drop it and come work with me as my Executive Assistant. I am always on the prowl for good executive material. And a mixed law and MBA candidate, female at that, would be appreciated. If it works out, then stay on beyond summer. I wish to see how high you can fly.” Mrs. Tangmere raised her eyebrows, teasingly.
Stephanie quickly decided. “I’ll tell daddy that I have changed my mind about working for him this summer. Perhaps you know him? Lester Dewey, of the law firm Dewey, Cheetem, and Howe?” Stephanie raised her eyebrows, a tad arrogantly.
Mrs. Tangmere nodded; that firm had done some M&A work for Tangmere International a few years back. “Let’s walk and talk,” said Mrs. Tangmere, taking Stephanie’s arm and smiling as only a CEO can smile when they want somebody to do something for them.
-----000-----
A few hours later, Terry and Stephanie were back at the dorm in their common room. Terry was drinking Grand Marnier and listening to some of the golden oldies that his brothers had loved so much, like the Smiths and like Siouxsie and the Banshees. Stephanie leaned back in her study chair and put her feet on the table.
She asked Terry why he paid his own way through school, amassing debt, working part-time jobs, when, instead, he could’ve eased his burdens by asking his mother to pay for school and residence.
“I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t need her. Maybe I need someone to help me get through life, but not her. Anyway, we have a long history. When it was time for me to apply to university, she asked me straight to my face, ‘why?’ as though it was pointless.” He chugged an ounce of his drink.
“And when I told her that I was interested in becoming a university professor and writing children’s books, she flatly stated that I would never amount to much doing that.” He chugged an ounce of his drink.
“I informed her that I attached importance and significance to somethings in life to which she might not. Such as a family: husband, wife, children, and so on. Such as a warm, cozy home: fireplace, comfy couches and chairs, not Versailles style ones, you understand? No mansions for me. I want blankets and cuddling.” He chugged an ounce of his drink.
“I’m a small, puny runt, but I’m gonna make my own way, without her. Using my brains, my hands, and my feet, I’m going to create a loving family, a caring home, and, with a wife whom I adore, three children who will grow up devoted to each other forever. I can do all that --- without her. I simply need a great wife to help me achieve this.” He chugged an ounce of his drink and looked at Stephanie with those puppy dog eyes that she found so adorable when she first met him. “I love you, Stephanie.”
“Don’t be so tough on your mom,” Stephanie offhandedly remarked.
Terry raised his eyebrows, in disbelief.
TERRY GRADUATES
Stephanie had it planned to the smallest detail. Friday, graduation day. She invited Terry’s mother who, after re-arranging her schedule and reminding Stephanie of the trouble, begrudgingly accepted the invitation. Her parents would attend too. The parents would meet; Stephanie was certain they would get along well.
All of them would come together at brunch to witness Stephanie propose to Terry. Immediately afterward, the graduation ceremony that would see Terry being the Valedictorian for the Faculty of Arts and Stephanie for the Faculty of Law.
She had the gold choker melted into a ring and the blue sapphire set into it. She would ask Terry to be her partner, after first jokingly asking him to become her wife. She took for granted that their partnership would forever be a bit tilted, her being the senior partner and him the junior. But that was the pattern of their life together. And she never wanted it to end. It began with that jewelry; it would continue with that jewelry, until death did them part.
-----000-----
Terry had it planned to the smallest detail. Thursday night, just before graduation day. He had been frugal and now felt confident spending his money on his future, their future. He reserved that special table at Restaurant 21, the finest in town. He scheduled a violinist to play Roberta Flack’s ‘Making Love’ and a soloist, a young teenage girl, to accompany it. He requested Stephanie’s favourite dishes for the dinner. Candles. A quiet corner. Romance.
The ring cost a pretty penny; its two small emeralds, two small rubies, and two small sapphires flanked a petite but distinguished flawless diamond. It was substantive, both literally as well as in the sense of common memory Terry and Stephanie shared; Terry was certain of that.
-----000-----
Thursday night. The delicious dinner eaten. The violinist and soloist just departed the table. The candles flickered.
Terry got on his knee. Others in the restaurant caught the move and started looking, smiling.
“Stephanie, I love you. I always have, and I always will. I am so tremendously grateful that you invited me into your life. You have comforted me through some of the darkest times of my life and been my biggest champion during the brightest. You are the best. I cannot imagine living without you.” He took a nervous breath and continued.
“I would be privileged were you to accept this ring as a symbol of my devotion to and adoration of you. And of my eternal commitment to you. I will give you everything I can give. Would you please marry me and be my wife?” His eyes said it all as he opened the ring box and held it before her.
He waited for her answer. He saw her smirk. Then she giggled. She then laughed.
“No, my little Tiny Tiger. No, no, no. I’m not going to be teeny weeny tiny Terry’s wife. Not a wife. I can’t do ‘wife’. I can be the husband; you can be the wife. I would probably make a better husband than you would.” She laughed and smiled at him. “Oh, the look on your face is priceless! Now sit back up and let’s have another glass of champagne! And let’s see what tomorrow brings!”
Astonished, Terry got up, put the ring on the table, and left.
-----000-----
Stephanie was starting to get concerned. It had rained heavily last night but Terry had never returned to their dorm. The parents would be arriving soonest. “I don’t know where he is,” she shortly explained to them. It was a muted brunch, but Mr. Dewey and Mrs. Tangmere got along quite well.
Stephanie’s mom pulled her aside and asked, “What happened?” Stephanie described the entire Thursday dinner in detail to her. Her mom gasped, speechless, stunned: “You stupid, stupid, stupid cunt.” She slapped Stephanie in the face and walked away.
Stephanie frantically tried to contact Terry on her phone. The automated reply stung: “We’re sorry. This number is no longer in service.”
The graduation ceremony was painful. Terry did not appear when the Dean summoned him to give his valedictorian speech. Nor did he appear to receive his diploma. Stephanie, crying, finally realizing the calamity she may have caused, stumbled through her speech (which Terry had printed out for her a few days before).
The ceremony over, they all went back to the dorm room to see whether Terry had shown up. He was not there. His two bags were gone, as were his clothing and his few beloved books. One could survey the room and conclude that he had never been there at all.
Stephanie’s mom left the room, crying, stating that she would be waiting in the car.
“We can deal with this tomorrow,” Stephanie’s dad said, “let’s start getting your belongings in the car Stephanie. Your new job awaits!” He smiled at Mrs. Tangmere.
“He’ll be okay,” Mrs. Tangmere said, “he’s used to getting by on his own. And, if he really loves you, then he’ll come back. Don’t worry about him.”
It then suddenly hit Stephanie; he was gone. She sobbed and clutched the beautiful ring Terry had so romantically offered her when he had proposed to her. It was the only thing of his that was left.
FIVE YEARS LATER
“Are you ready?” CEO Mrs. Tangmere walked down the shiny hallway toward the boardroom. Business power suit. Click-clack of power heels. Stylish reading glasses. Greying hair in a French bun. Minions in her tow.
“Yes. The litigation is going to cripple those shmucks, and then we can hit them with the July 50 calls. They’ll get de-listed. They’re dead meat,” said the similarly dressed and equally composed Senior Vice-President Stephanie Dewey, walking side-by-side with the CEO.
Tangmere International was thriving. The combination of Dewey, Cheetem, and Howe’s M&A acumen and Tangmere International’s ambitions and resources was a deadly one, specifically, to other companies, it was deadly.
Stephanie had risen through the senior executive ranks and had became Mrs. Tangmere’s most trusted advisor. Her father’s firm handled all significant corporate legal matters for the company too. And Mrs. Tangmere had tapped Stephanie to replace her upon retirement in two more years.
-----000-----
Nothing had been seen or heard of Terry since that fateful Thursday five years ago.
Mrs. Tangmere sauntered into Stephanie’s office, dropped the magazine on her desk, and sat down. Stephanie looked at her, puzzled. Mrs. Tangmere pointed to the cover. Stephanie looked at it.
The magazine was ‘Modern Writing’. On the cover was a picture of Terry surrounded by children in a children’s centre of some kind. He was laughing as though the children were tickling him (they had been when the picture was taken). On page 9 was the cover article: ‘Inside The Mind Of A Best Selling Children’s Writer’.
Stephanie cautiously turned the pages to the article. Her heart raced as it had not in years. She felt herself starting to sweat. She read the article.
-----000-----
A few extracts…
“Q: Why children’s writing? A: There are few things more rewarding than raising a child. If one can assist others in raising theirs, then one can take great satisfaction from that.” Stephanie recognized his sincerity.
“Q: Did that zoo story really happen? A: Yes, a friend of mine did a wonderful thing for that tourist. I thought her example of helping others would be inspirational to youngsters, so I put it in. It was long ago, and I forget her name.” Stephanie snorted at his typical modesty.
“Q: Where did you meet your wife? A: I was wandering down some streets many years ago, late at night, after a truly disappointing dinner, I may have been lost and I recall it was raining, and Aleida took pity upon me, I guess, offered me a cup of coffee, and we started talking. She’s a nurse at the local hospital.” Stephanie winced at the memory of that night.
“Q: Your triplets have very distinctive names. How did you arrive at them? A: Regina came out first so that seemed apt. Freya started slobbering all over my face, kisses as they may have been, so Freya for love it was. Lois, well, actually, it’s Achelois, and she was the first to laugh. Some of my favourite childhood memories concern playing with people named after gods; so I get to do it again as an adult!” Stephanie sniffled, remembering Terry’s love for his brothers, the Trio, and theirs for him.
“Q: Any muses? Past? Present? A: Just Aleida now. Any muses I had as a kid are dead. Any muses I had in university are… [ed: he paused for a minute]. Aleida now, just Aleida.” Stephanie’s heart sank reading that.
“Q: Worst bit of advice in literature? A: Milton. ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven’. It’s so false. I worship my wife and wouldn’t have it any other way [ed: Aleida added, ‘Neither would I’ and laughed].” Stephanie paused --- “wife” --- and looked out her window: her face was empty.
The picture accompanying the article showed a family of five entangled like weasels on a comfy bed, all of them wearing pajamas, a German Shepherd anxiously looking on from the foot of the bed. Smiles. Laughing. Love.
-----000-----
Mrs. Tangmere asked Stephanie, “Don’t they make a cute couple?”
Stephanie twirled her two rings around her ring finger.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
A FALLING APPLE
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
HER DOCTOR'S OFFICE
"I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. You need a tight genetic match and an appropriate blood group. Your daughter's body chemistry and genes are unique. We've examined the ABOs and HLAs and considered the full spectrum of immunosuppressant drugs. There is no escaping the facts; subject to compatibility testing, one of you two must donate a kidney to your daughter."
Alan Jones and Leanne Jones stared at each other. Their jaws dropped.
"If neither of you does," the doctor added, "then Marie's prospects are reduced to zero. I'm sorry, but there is no other way to say that. This condition," the doctor turned to look at Marie, "in all cases without a transplant, is fatal." The doctor was not enjoying this talk; she never did with any of her patients. Yet science was science and controlled the case here.
The shadow of death filled the room. Silence prevailed for a moment.
"When can I take the tests?" Leanne quickly asked.
"We can screen both of you tomorrow."
Leanne glanced at Alan, who started muttering to himself and scanning the ceiling for an escape route.
"What time tomorrow?" Leanne asked.
The doctor flipped through her calendar and typed something into the computer. "Is ten o'clock okay for you?" Leanne nodded. "And eleven for you?"
After a pause, Alan replied, "I can't."
"A different time?"
Forlorn, Alan looked at Leanne. Leanne's body sagged.
Marie noticed their reactions. "What's wrong, daddy?" asked Marie.
Leanne turned to her 16-year-old eldest daughter. "Marie, your father has raised you since you were a baby. He loves you more than life itself. However," she took a deep breath, "he is not your biological father." She exhaled.
Alan stared at the floor. The doctor stared at Leanne.
Marie stared at her mother, "Pardon?"
-----000-----
A week later, the three of them attended the doctor's office again. Despite Marie's best efforts, she had failed to persuade her parents to discuss her biological father with her. "Wait for the test results, dear," they patronized her.
The doctor's face was grim. "The results came back. In scientific terms, the HLA epitope-mismatch here will be, to quote a medical journal on the matter, 'associated with the development of anti-DQ donor-specific antibodies and adverse graft outcomes'."
Alan and Leanne quickly exchanged glances.
She sighed and compassionately looked at Marie. "In simple terms, your mother's results came back negative. This means that she cannot donate a kidney to you because her kidney will die inside you and cause fatal infections. You would die." Marie swiveled her head to face her mother.
Alan swore various obscenities under his breath. Leanne started to quietly sob.
Marie glanced at them, fearful now. What 16-year-old is ready to face the prospect of imminent death? What would she do? This was so unfair, she thought. My life! My entire fucking life!
"Mom, who and where is my biological father?" Marie's question sounded part accusation and part desperation. The past week's frustration boiled over; they hadn't told her anything --- but it was her life at stake!
Leanne hung her head. Her hands covered her face.
Alan got up, left the room, and slammed the door.
"Mom, where is he!!!???"
HER LAWYER'S OFFICE
"That was all neatly tidied up 15 years ago, Mrs. Jones." The lawyer shook her head. "To re-open the litigation now would not be looked upon favourably by any court. And, moreover, on what basis could we submit a petition?
"I see here," she perused two pieces of paper, "you were awarded all the assets of the marriage: the house, the investments, the bank accounts, the cars --- everything. It seems to me at first blush that you would face steep challenges to re-open any division of property.
"The records also inform me that," she turned a page, "you were awarded 100% custody and successfully denied him all visitation rights. The judge's order in particular states, 'In light of the foregoing, the respondent is determined to be an immoral and corrupting influence and, therefore, shall be denied all access and custody in respect of the child of the marriage, Marie Claire Hawthorne.
"Ah! And here it is: the restraining order. It's been a long time since I saw this one." The lawyer reviewed it and opined, "It is indeterminate and therefore likely still in effect." She put the various papers down on the table and looked at her former and now once again client.
Leanne and Alan sat across the fine birch table. The meeting room's walls were beige. The artwork on them was mass-produced faux-Impressionist. The carpet was slightly dated. The chairs were comfortable though.
The lawyer put the papers back in the file and flipped to a different coloured tab. She found several pages of yellow 8.5 x 14 legal paper: her notes from a decade and a half ago. She skimmed them.
She chuckled. "It's all coming back to me now. Gawd! Sorry, but in family law, not many cases are amusing. Yours was, and you had a great laugh about it! We took him to the cleaners." She beamed.
Alan and Leanne glanced nervously at each other.
The lawyer sensed their fragility. "What?"
Leanne slowly explained the problem.
-----000-----
The lawyer sank back in her chair. Her smirk had vanished. Her countenance was deathly white.
"After what you did to him," she began shedding responsibility, "what makes you think that he'd ever talk to you again, let alone help now?" She dropped her pencil on the table. "Does Marie know?"
Both Alan and Leanne shook their heads.
The lawyer stood and moved to the window. It was a bitterly cold winter's day. The snow raced horizontally across the sky. The clouds were the darkest grey. She cupped her mouth with both hands.
"What do you advise?" Leanne asked her. Her lawyer's face was reflected in the window. Leanne saw it was saturated in gloom. She waited. Alan stared at his hands.
The lawyer reflected. Actions have consequences. Fifteen years ago, she had been more aggressive, more pugnacious, more adversarial, more this, and more that. It had worked in the moment. Leanne (and Alan for that matter) had been thrilled at the results. Nearly every case composing her record had been built on the ruination of her clients' former partners: rarely female, most often male. Leanne's case and then husband were proof thereof. Her victories --- including Leanne's --- had been almost universally so crushing that there was no need for additional litigation.
Bingo! An escape hatch!
She turned to Alan and Leanne, smiled cleverly at them, and sat down.
"This," she began to protect herself, "is not a litigation matter. He, wherever he is, is entitled under our constitution to respect for and protection of his bodily integrity. The law," she waved her hands apologetically, "doesn't provide any means to compel him to donate a kidney." She put her fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her ears.
"This is a circumstance requiring moral suasion. Appeal to his sense of fairness. Show him how wonderful Marie has grown to be, how mature she is, and how bright her future can be --- if this medical problem is solved. Get him to say 'yes' and then rope him in through a contract."
She paused. She didn't want to say what she was about to say. However, she knew it would offer the best chance of success:
"Consider carefully the merits of apologizing to bring him onboard."
Alan snorted at that. Leanne rolled her eyes and groaned.
HER DETECTIVE'S OFFICE
"Money."
Hank Bullnose was not one to quibble or equivocate. He liked things fast and clear, black and white, left or right. Grey was not on his colour spectrum. Nor was penny-pinching from clients. These two blasé people had asked him to find one Jeremy Kelly Hawthorne using identification that was at least 15 years old. He had succeeded.
And now he wanted his money.
They passed him a personal check for $20,000 and smiled.
"Fuck that," he said throwing it back at them. "I told you quite clearly: a fucking e-transfer or fuck all. Get out. I'll call you after I get the money."
-----000-----
The next day, a chastened Alan and much humbler Leanne sat by Hank's desk. Hank opened a drawer, extracted a piece of paper, put it on the desk, and pushed it over toward them. They picked it up and read it.
"It's only got an address!" Alan complained.
Hank grumped and replied, "That's what you asked for."
Leanne urged Hank to describe her ex-husband and whatever else he had discovered about him.
"Another twenty K."
Alan tilted his head to examine the ceiling. Leanne sighed, exasperated; she wanted to cry.
-----000-----
The third day, the additional money deposited, they met again. Hank briefed them on his findings.
Leanne's ex and her ex's spouse were living at 1234 Pleasant Street in the next state. They had three children. Both worked, one in a grocery store and the other as a mechanic in an auto dealership: very working-class. Their house was too: a modest three-bedroom, 1300 square foot bungalow. They owned a seven-year old Toyota and an 11-year old mini-van. The kids went to public school. They had a Golden Retriever named Rambo.
"Do they look healthy?" Alan asked.
Hank looked at him askance. "Yep. And happy."
He didn't like his clients. He thought the two of them to be despicable. Now that he had their money, he could convey that to them:
"Now, get the fuck out of here."
HER FAVOURITE RESTAURANT
Alan and Leanne impatiently waited, he in his three-piece finest, and she in her best wrap. They looked like the wealthy and pretentious people they were.
They had bickered more regarding the preferable manner to contact her ex and raise the topic of Marie's kidney. They had bickered a bit back-andforth regarding the best location to meet her ex. Show up uninvited at her ex's house. Invite her ex to their house. And so on. Eventually, they settled on a phone call (it took three) and Café Henri Lourger; Alan and Leanne had so many fond memories there, and the food was second to none. It would impress her ex and spouse. Alan and Leanne had not bickered on what to wear; they knew what to wear there.
Henri the maître d' had sat them 20 minutes ago, 15 minutes before her ex and spouse were supposed to arrive. Her ex was 5 minutes late. "Typical," said Alan snidely.
"Stop it," Leanne retorted. "We need them. It's Marie's life at stake, not your ego or pride."
Henri came toward them from the entrance. He led a man and a woman. Alan and Leanne scrutinized them as they approached.
Alan assessed the man. He looked 40'ish. He wore a Carhartt jacket with dark stains in a few places, a blue button-down shirt, and Dockers. His shoes were cheap dress shoes, ones worn at weddings and funerals and never again. His wristwatch was as black as the rubber from which it was made. He was large sized. His hands were beefy and cut, scratched, hardened. So this is what manual labor looks like, Alan thought.
Leanne assessed the woman. She looked 40'ish. She wore a simple winter coat, a boring blouse, and low-end retail pants. Some low-grade nylon boots still partly covered in the remnants of snow were on her feet. Her makeup was unremarkable. Her features were pretty though, and her hair was done nicely in a French braid. So this is what my ex looks like, Leanne thought.
-----000-----
"Leanne."
"Jerri."
"It's 'Kelli' now, Leanne. Kelli Newsome."
"Oh."
-----000-----
"Wait a fucking second," Mark Newsome said in a low voice. "You want my Kelli to walk into a hospital, get cut up, and give away a kidney to someone---"
"His daughter," Alan interjected.
"---shut the fuck up, Al." Mark's tone was not conveying co-operation. "Give a kidney to some girl that she's never seen since the kid was six months old? You want my wife to lose a kidney for someone you said would never be in her life? Never be able to see? And you laughed about it all when you fucked her over? Get fucking real." Mark put his hands down on the table forcefully.
"It's not like that," Leanne urgently said.
"Yes, it is," Mark replied.
"No, it isn't," Alan countered. "Marie is a beautiful young girl. She's an honors student. She plays varsity soccer and volleyball." He leaned on the table. "She's got dreams just like any other girl her age. How could you not consider her misfortune here?"
Mark looked as shocked as he felt. "Her misfortune? Her misfortune?" He gripped his head with both his massive hands, incredulous. "Nice home; sorry; nice mansion. Nice school; sorry; nice private school. Nice clothes and all that. Nice cars and that fucking shit. What fucking misfortune?" he hissed across the table.
"Mark!" Kelli snapped. Both Alan and Mark sat back.
Leanne sensed her last chance slipping away.
"Alan, perhaps you and Mark might take some time and wander around the block for a few minutes. Or hours. Better yet, until I call you back."
Alan looked at his wife and hated that she'd just belittled him. Her tone was patronizing. He looked at Mark who glared at him. Mark did not look like a man prone to reason. It might be best to calm his obvious temper (by avoiding him).
"Fine, dear. A walk it is."
-----000-----
"Well, how's my parents' old house doing? Still enjoying it?" Kelli snipped as she sipped her Merlot.
"Kelli, it's still there." Leanne guiltily said, wanting to avoid such a discussion.
"And my investments? I see that the ones I got at $5.00 are now over $300. Did you sell them off to pay for a new Merc? Some fancy vacation? Mark and I and the kids went to Lake Placid State Campground last summer." Resentment flowed off her tongue.
"Kelli, please," Leanne begged.
She knew this was a discussion that she would lose. She knew that she had legally but immorally swindled Jeremy, Jerri, or Kelli today, out of his half of their marital property. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do. She sipped her Chardonnay. Today, with her daughter's life -- - their daughter's life --- at stake, she realized that legality is not always the best measurement.
Indeed, the law was useless to her case now.
"Kelli, I cannot undo the past. Marie is going to die. Soon. She is your flesh and blood."
"You took her away from me! You never let me into her life!" Kelli wept. "The only child I ever had. The only one I ever fathered, I'm sorry, could ever father because of you and that fucker. Yeah, she's my daughter; in blood only though."
Leanne remained silent. She felt that Kelli deserved to give at this this moment, and that she, Leanne, deserved to receive at this this moment.
Leanne saw Kelli gradually calm.
"I forgave you a long time ago, Leanne. I had to forgive you in order to move forward. I even almost forgot. Your phone call the other day made me remember. Everything."
Both women sipped their drinks.
"I'll think about your request and I'll---"
"It has to be soon, Jeremy!" Leanne interrupted, commandingly.
Kelli gasped at her ex in astonishment. She took another sip. She told Leanne that she'd be in contact within three days. Kelli signaled Henri, pointed at Leanne, and said to Henri, "One bill, please."
Kelli left.
HER LAWYER'S OFFICE --- AGAIN
"I remember this room," Kelli said. "It's where you gutted me."
"Please, Kelli, please," pleaded Leanne. "I've agreed to your preconditions."
Mark and Alan sat next to their respective spouses. Each had been invited to attend on the condition that each remain silent throughout the meeting. Alan fidgeted nervously. Mark smiled at his wife from time to time but otherwise alternated staring at Leanne across the table and her lawyer at the end of it.
"Are we all ready?" the lawyer asked. The meeting room was wired for audio and video; the meeting would be recorded and, the lawyer had undertaken, copies would be sent to both Leanne and Kelli. Leanne would pay the bill for both copies.
Leanne and Kelli nodded.
The lawyer picked up the phone and requested her paralegal to escort Marie Claire Jones (formerly Hawthorne) to the room and to sit her at the far end of the table, opposite the lawyer.
-----000-----
"Marie, before I introduce you to your father," Leanne began, "I must tell you the story of my life with him." She reached for her papers.
"Your father --- sorry; your biological father --- has reviewed the story. I wrote it. Your father approved it. As a condition for your father's assistance, I must tell you this story. Your father insists upon it. Your father wants you to know exactly what happened between us when you were a baby. Once you are fully informed of our marital history, and the early part of yours," Leanne wanted to run away, "we can discuss the possibility of screening and then a kidney transplant."
Marie stared at Mark who stared at the table.
Leanne began her confession:
-----000-----
"Twenty years ago, I met Jeremy at a pub. He was funny and made me laugh. His friends were friends of my friends. We started to go out together immediately. We fell in love and married two years later. He was a young, successful software writer. I worked in retail at the time, as a salesclerk, a part-time sales-clerk.
"His parents were well off. The house we live in today was theirs. Most of the money we have today was... he inherited it upon their deaths. He placed it into our joint bank accounts. He invested some of it in dot.coms and his investments grew.
"I attest that he loved me. I knew it and felt it. I loved him too, in the beginning." Leanne's eyes started to mist.
"He treated me kindly and lovingly. We had our fights as many young couples do, but we always seemed to recover and strengthen our ties. I had every reason to be grateful for our life. He was a nice man.
"One day, however, I discovered that he liked to dress up in women's clothing. He was a crossdresser."
Marie stared at Mark who stared at the table.
"I confess that this knowledge altered my love for him. I ceased to regard him as the man I had married; rather, I commenced to regard him as a pathetic, unmanly sort of male. Despite his protests of undying love for me, I fell out of love with him.
"I could not remove from my memory the picture of my husband in a dress. I began to treat him differently, harshly, disparagingly. I proceeded to take advantage of him.
"I destroyed his relationship with his friends by outing him without notice at a birthday party. I showed them pictures of him in various female attire. They heaped scorn on him. They extended their sympathy to me."
Leanne looked remorsefully at her daughter, "Some of his close friends extended more than sympathy. Alan, for instance, offered me respite from the humiliation."
Marie's jaw dropped as she looked at the only father she had ever known.
Leanne continued. In a whisper. With shame in her voice.
"Alan and I tricked your father into taking estrogen. We tricked him into cosmetic surgery. We tricked him into submission. Your father, I mean, your biological father and I have agreed not to give you too many details of my mistreatment of him. Suffice it to say, I spared no effort to humiliate him, to abuse him, and to emasculate him.
"Against his will, we had him castrated and undergo implant surgery. We also---"
Marie interrupted, "Mom, he looks completely manly now!"
Leanne sobbed. Alan twiddled his thumbs and stared at the table.
Mark looked up at Marie. He shook his head, put his arm around Kelli's shoulders, and gently said to Marie, "Your father. My wife. My beloved wife."
-----000-----
Kelli and Marie looked at each other.
"A tranny? My bio-dad's a fucking tranny? How the fuck could you do this to me?" Marie's screaming seized the room. "You want me to get a kidney from that thing? That fucking sick thing? Are you out of your fucking mind?"
All of the adults stared at Marie.
Leanne scrambled to save her daughter's life. Her desperation rang clear. "Marie! I was wrong! It was my mistake! I mistreated him! He did nothing wrong ever! I couldn't tolerate his hobby! I was younger and not ready for it! Don't blame him, Marie! Blame me!" Leanne's tears soaked the table in front of her.
Alan lowered his head. "No, no, no," was all he could muster.
Kelli was dumbfounded, stunned.
-----000-----
Mark's eyes narrowed and focused on Marie.
"This tranny," he started, "this 'fucking tranny', as you put it, is my wife. All female from head-to-toe. No one talks to her that way." The menace in his voice was mirrored in his eyes.
"She is the love of my life, the best loving mother to my three children, who needed a mother after theirs died in a car accident. Kelli never had the opportunity to be there for you because these two bastards fucked her over. They took everything she had and laughed about it.
"You were here too, weren't you, Miss Fucking Snotty Counsellor? Isn't this the room in which you made Kelli sign it all away? Did you give him the tranquilizers too?" The lawyer did not move.
Mark swiftly stood up, startling everyone at the table.
Alan cowered in his chair. "Coward," Mark ordained.
He turned to look at the lawyer, "Bitch."
Mark gave Leanne a quizzical look. "Where I come from," he said, "shit like this doesn't happen." He rubbed his chin. "I'll go along with whatever Kelli decides, but you are a fucking cunt. And a fucking thief."
"And as for you, little sweet Marie, I don't care whether you die or not," --- Leanne wailed as he uttered the words --- "because you're just like your fucking scumbag parents.
"Kelli, I'm with you. Whatever you decide, I'm with you."
-----000-----
And Kelli promptly walked out.
And Marie later died.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
A MANY YEARS LATER STORY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2022
Warning: If you don’t like reading fetish stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
OVERNIGHT FLIGHT
Stephanie lay in her pod. An overnight flight to the UK. Business class. Pampering.
This was the life! She inserted her ear plugs, drew up her blanket, turned on her side, and put on her face mask. She eagerly looked forward to several hours of sleep before landing. No jet lag --- and several bottles of airline wine. Well, she could use a dash of the finer life, she thought.
As she slowly made her way toward slumberland, she reflected on where she had been and where she was going.
Seventy-four and twice divorced and once widowed. Her first husband Trevor had left her for a younger woman; he had also left Stephanie with their two young children. Stephanie was still attractive at that time and reckoned she would find another man.
And she did. Paul charmed her (and the children) a few years later. But several years after that, and consistent with the story of her life, a foreign investment company acquired his company, downsized it, and raped its pension fund; the workers had penniless retirements. Paul drank himself in despair; never recovered and neither did their marriage.
At least then she still had some good looks left and the children, although they were now older and more independent.
Along came Steve. “Steve and Stephie!” their friends had greeted them. “The SS,” the children --- now in university --- joked. But yet another foreign firm intruded into their lives. Unemployed and ill-suited for an early retirement and deserving a mid-life crisis (he married Stephanie, remember), Steve took up several extreme sports and abandoned her to base-jump in Norway.
She hardly saw the children after that. Graduates now, they were recruited by international firms, signed to long-term contracts, went overseas, and settled in Singapore and Mumbai. Stephanie had seen her grandchildren once.
Her modest suburban house was now more than adequate but lifeless, modestly decorated but empty. Her modest car was on the cusp of rust. Her bank accounts were, yes, modest too.
Hers had been a good life but not a great one. Whenever things had started to look up, they began their slide down. Never too far down, but simply to a point of incessant economy and frugality, and then gradually up again.
But she had never soared. And her husbands’ common curse --- foreign acquisitions and downsizings --- had afflicted her as well. Money, or the lack thereof, had compelled her to work to 70. High school, university, and then 48 years of a miserable cycle of work, unemployment, work, unemployment, work, unemployment, and such. Retirement too seemed exhausting. Hers had been a long life.
Thus, Kim’s letter had invigorated her. Kim! An old friend from high school whom she had neither seen nor heard from since high school; Kim’s parents had shipped her off to a Swiss finishing school instead of the last two years of high school. She had disappeared from Stephanie’s life.
Thus, the thrill of Kim’s recent invitation! “Come to Battle! Explore 1066 and all that! Stay with me! We have little time left and so much to discuss!” The typed “Countess of Scarfolk” had been crossed out; in its place was “Kim”, written in a thick, bright green ink.
Kim, Cindy, Lorraine, Lori, Gwen, Brianna, Julie, and so many more: where were they all now? Many good times. So many good times.
Stephanie coasted into Slumberland.
AFTERNOON WITH NOBILITY
Her recently issued passport --- her second in her life --- was instantly recognized at customs. Stephanie was ignorant of the usual three-hour line-up. Hers had been the VIP treatment upon arrival: a breeze through customs; a valet greeting her to take her bags; a chauffeur driving her from Heathrow and into the country.
Cars on the left! Look at the cute village signs! The charming stone houses! Cobblestone! She hadn’t travelled much. Mexico once. Florida for a week several times. Never Europe.
The limousine made its way toward Battle.
As it rounded a narrow, bush-lined road (Two lanes? Impossible, she thought), it slowed by a stone gate and turned in. Along the long, tree-lined driveway, she saw spacious green fields. The sunlight kissed the wild flowers. Her window slightly cracked, she felt the fresh, warm air and listened to the soft cracking of the pebbles.
She began to feel a haunting tingling that she had not sensed for several years.
Had she been aware of English house styles, she would have identified the large house as being of the Stuart-style: splendid stonework, a dull brown metal roof, and a suitable setting for a country house mystery.
An old woman stood by the front door.
Kim!
Stephanie raced out of the limousine before it came to a complete halt. She raced up to Kim. The two women smiled at each other, breathless. Stephanie raced to embrace her old friend. Moments passed.
“It’s been so many years,” Kim said.
“Thank you so much for the invitation! Look at this!” she cried as she spun around and waved her hand at the magnificence of the estate. “You’ve done well! I’m happy for you!” She hugged Kim again.
“Come. Let’s have some tea,” Kim said, taking Stephanie by the arm, into the house. “Charles will take your bags to the First Guest bedroom.
Stephanie was gushing with enthusiasm. Travel! Adventure! Merry Olde England! And now Kim. A flood of happy, old memories. After all these years, Kim. Stephanie felt alive.
As she crossed the threshold, that old feeling grew stronger. It didn’t touch her mind, her heart, nor her soul. It awakened something she had almost completely forgotten because thought she had completely lost it, a few years ago, as all women like Stephanie eventually did: her witch gift.
And that barely extant gift sensed a ward --- several wards --- buffering her.
-----000-----
“Please sit, Stephanie,” Kim said gesturing toward a comfortable looking leather couch. Stephanie sat and glanced about the room. Oak paneling. Thick stone walls. Medieval tapestries. Stained glass. Slabs of old quarried stone. Open windows. Fresh air. A massive fireplace stood at the far end of the room.
“Mary? Two teas and some biscuits, please.”
Mary the maid left and returned. Kim jovially shooed her away.
The two old friends sat smiling at one another.
“So, what’s new?” Kim asked, taking her tea.
They laughed.
Kim put her hand on Stephanie’s forearm and encouraged her to talk. Stephanie did. She told Kim about university, her three marriages, the two divorces, Steve’s tragic death, the children, the grandchildren, life in Kingston, life in Portertown, life in Somerville, work, unemployment, the hiking club, golf--- “You play golf now?” Kim interrupted,” ---arthritis, the knee replacement operation, her rose garden, and such. “Now tell me about yours!” Stephanie exclaimed, her eyes wandering about the cozy room.
Kim sipped her tea.
“My parents, bless them, shipped me off to Madame Larouque’s Finishing School outside Bern. It was initially hell but turned out to for the better once I met William at a dance.”
Kim and William (the Earl of Scarfolk) had four children and ten grandchildren. William died two years ago: old age, peacefully. The four were, in birth order, a doctor, a lawyer, an investment banker, and another doctor. “Their favorite book was ‘The Little Boy Who Ran Away’ by Terry Tangmere; remember those books?”
Stephanie laughed and rolled her head back. It was wonderful to be able to engage with someone whose early years were so closely linked to hers. She too had read the Tangmere series when she was a kid.
“Enough about me now, Stephanie. Tell me about your family.”
This biscuit is delicious, Stephanie thought, before speaking.
“Mom and dad died 20 years ago. Together to the end. Mom got breast cancer and dad heart disease. Thankfully, it was swift for both of them. Mom first and dad two years later.” Stephanie paused. “They had a good run.” She sniffled. Kim fetched a tissue for her.
“You had a brother, didn’t you? Brian, yes?
Stephanie sighed and continued. “Brian, yes. He started university and then dropped out in third year. He and Cindy --- Do you remember her? Girl Scouts?” Kim nodded. “He and Cindy got married. She left him; he cheated on her. Last I heard, she’s doing well. No kids. Then he went got into non-tangibles; made a fortune, smug, lost a fortune, pout. Women but no more wives. One could just sense that from him. Every promising start ended in a dismal finish, women and business. Luck never swung his way.”
“Where is he now?” Kim asked, sipping her tea.
“Washington state, mining Mt. St. Helens, I think. Whatever it is, it won’t work out. It’s frustrating, you know,” Stephanie said twirling her hand above her head, “well, you might not, given all this.” She sipped her tea. “It’s frustrating. Working your entire life for a few years of retirement when you can’t do anything anymore.”
“I would not dare gloat. I was fortunate. Mummy and daddy, you may recall, were not unwealthy. William had the estate coming to him and his parents’ treasures. I had no brothers nor sisters in-law. We travelled extensively. Moonlight under the South African stars. Mornings in the frosty Himalayas. We travelled.”
Kim sipped her tea then put it down. “Please, let me show you around.”
Kim extended a hand to help Stephanie up.
-----000-----
“Only a country home?” Stephanie gasped.
Kim nodded, leading her through the kitchen. “We have, I mean, I have a place just outside Killarney, a Mayfair flat in London, and modest flat overlooking the Parthenon. I really should get rid of it. The market there’s lousy and I’ll take a loss, but I haven’t been there in five years. I’ll probably sell the Irish one too: Brexit.”
Stephanie’s gift tickled her as she toured the house. The Drawing Room. The Dressing Room. The Museum Room. The Dining Room. The Still Room. The house was big. She couldn’t explain the now constant tickle.
“And here’s your bedroom,” Kim said upstairs, opening the wooden door. A bright, magnificent bedroom with a monstrously large four poster bed was before her. Her bags were on the bed.
But her eye had caught the one closed door across the hallway and the brass plate centred on it: “Memories”, it said.
“Later,” Kim said, glancing at it.
AFTER DINNER
“Thank you, Mary. That will be all for tonight. Please thank Charles for me for his picking up Ms. Stephanie at the airport. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Mary left to go to her husband and cottage near the gate on the estate.
“Does your brother still play golf?” Kim asked.
“You remember! Sadly not. His golf scholarship fell through. He had to fight the university about it. They simply told him that the terms of the trust had been revoked. He would’ve gotten a lawyer to fight it but couldn’t afford one. That was one of the several reasons he dropped out. Why do you ask of him?” Stephanie looked slyly at Kim.
“Kim! Did you have a crush on my brother?” she asked playfully.
Kim looked at her glass of cognac and cagily smiled. “I liked him. I really liked him a lot.”
“You were no competition for Cindy though!” Stephanie merrily answered.
Kim’s face was saturnine. “As I said, I really liked him a lot. And then I was separated from him. I called your home from Bern once. I spoke to him. Amongst other things,” she said drily, “he smeared it in my face that he was dating Cindy. So, Brian was gone. That’s what I learnt during that one phone call: that I was forever separated from Brian.”
Kim glared at her cognac.
Stephanie felt uncomfortable. She wanted to change the topic. She did.
-----000-----
“How old is this house?” she asked quickly.
“I think 1627, I think. Rumour has it that it was built on the site of a brothel frequented by the abbey’s monks. If true, then that might explain the happy, ghostly feeling that I frequently encounter here. I haven’t seen one though.”
Stephanie held her glass of sherry up to the light. Beautiful colour. Refined taste.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Kim?”
Kim looked at her.
“Yes, I do to the extent that there are different forces and powers at work in the universe that we do not comprehend yet they exist, nonetheless. Why do you ask?”
Stephanie sipped her sherry. She leaned back in her chair.
“Honestly, ever since I arrived, I have sensed something different about your house. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that... Well, I sense something different.” She plunked her glass down on the table and reached to take the decanter.
“I’m surprised, Stephanie. How would you sense that?”
Why not? Why not tell Kim? She had lost her powers years ago. The other members of her old coven were dead or afflicted with dementia, a common occurrence amongst witches. She had never told a soul. Hers was a secret to be taken to the grave. But who believes in witches and magic? Sorcery? What could be the harm?
“I was a witch!” she gleefully answered.
“A witch?” Kim exclaimed.
“A witch,” Stephanie answered. She relaxed. Finally. Finally! She had told someone! She felt the relief of being unburdened sweep across her soul. Peace and calm. Tranquility. “Yes, I was a witch.”
Kim stared at her, expressionless.
“I suppose I could say that I never knew.”
“How could you? I never told anyone.
Kim scrunched her face.
“It must have been very difficult for you to keep within you and hidden from all others that you were a witch,” Kim said.
Stephanie looked down at her glass. “I wasn’t a bad witch, not like the Wicked Witch of the West. I dabbled, it would be fair to describe it.”
“What could you do?” Kim leaned forward, elbows on the table, asking the question.
Stephanie waved a hand dismissively. “Move things. Change colours on walls; that was handy whenever we moved. Boil water instantly. Minor things.” She suddenly felt that she had said too much. “But that was long ago. As we witches age, we gradually lose our power. The fairy tale stereotypical old haggard witch is just that: a fairy tale.”
She sighed.
“I can’t even lift a fork now.”
“Had I been a witch,” Kim began, “I don’t know whether I could have kept it a secret. What did you do with your powers? Get better marks at school?” Kim laughed.
Stephanie laughed too. “No. People knew me better than that. B minus to A plus? Unbelievable. So, no. I would do little things, like clean the house before mom and dad got home. That’s all. I’ve told you about my many successes when working. Plainly, my powers didn’t help me much there.
“But,” she said turning toward Kim, “even today, I suppose I still have some of my old charm. And, I swear, the God’s honest truth, Kim, I swear I feel something about this place.”
Kim smiled at her and brushed a crumb off her dress.
“I’m not a witch, Stephanie. Nor a sorcerer nor even a Harry Potter wizard. I’m just me.”
Stephanie’s faintly remaining gift failed to detect any similar gift in Kim. No, Kim was not and had never been a witch.
Kim tilted her head as she next spoke:
“But I do believe in witches.”
“Really?” Stephanie was surprised.
“Really. Indeed, to the conclusion that I would confirm your senses. There are magical wards all over this house and in some places on the estate.”
Stephanie laughed. “Kim! You never fail to amaze me. Look at you and this! This house. These clothes. This dinner. And that dessert! Yet you put magical wards around your house! This is hysterical! Why Earth would you do that?”
Kim paused and looked at her.
An eerie look, Stephanie thought. An unfriendly look.
Danger.
Kim broke into a smile and said, “Come! I’ll show you to that ‘Memories Room’ upstairs and, once you’ve seen enough of it, you can join me out back on the putting green. Don’t worry: you can’t but fail to see me there.”
MEMORIES
The stairs creaked as they went upstairs.
So did the second floor’s planks.
So did the door to the Memories Room as Kim opened it.
The room was quite dark. It seemed large given the faint shadows in its depths. A small desk lamp burned on an impressive desk in its centre. Evening was almost over. What few hints there were of a once blazing sunset barely shone into the room.
“I’ll be out back, in the yard, waiting for you,” Kim tersely said as she walked away and down the creaky stairs.
-----000-----
Stephanie slowly moved toward the desk. It was barren but for a single framed picture. She approached it and bent down to look at the picture.
Her parents’ headstone. Dunrobin Cemetery. Back home. She recoiled at the sight of it. Why would Kim have such a picture? Kim hadn’t been that close to them.
She hastened back toward the door and flung her hands at the wall looking for a light switch. She found one and turned it on. Bright lights.
She spun around to better view the room. It was indeed a spacious room. Oak floors. Oak wall panels. Oak ceiling panels. A dark Jacobean stain throughout. That impressive desk and its lamp. Her eyes caught the shiny reflections on the walls. Pictures. Scrolls. Letters. All framed. She approached the west wall. Nearing it, she began to discern the dozens of details in the innumerable frames.
A letter confirming Moonstone’s purchase of Demeter Enterprises. Stephanie had worked there! She squinted at the text: “...confirming the dissolution of the company...”
She shuffled a bit to the right to examine the next frame: a letter from a law firm confirming that Moonstone’s share of Gigametals’ dissolved pension fund was $316,863,872. Paul’s old company!
She moved to the right again. A picture of her brother Brian and Cindy; it looked like it was taken shortly after their wedding. Yet it was not an official wedding picture per se. It seemed to have been taken surreptitiously from a road.
And next to it was an equally sized picture of Brian and a young, flighty looking woman in a rancid bar. Yes, that was her; that was that other woman. A daring bodycon dress and stupendously high heels, all capped off with excessive shadowy makeup and monstrous implants.
And next to that was a similarly sized picture of that bimbo and Kim, say, in her early thirties. Both of them smiling.
Stephanie hastened to the north wall. More pictures. More letters. Corporate seals. Merger and acquisition documents. Moonstone took over Blanding’s Hardware chain; Steve had been a manager there until it shuttered!
A posed photo of Trevor and his mistress, another blonde bombshell bimbo. A Moonstone document confirming its intentions to amalgamate Everest Steel with its Chinese operations and ship all production overseas; Paul had loved working for Everest!
Further along the wall she noticed the copies of employment contracts. David’s was with Moonstone carrying on business as Tatoi Acumen in Mumbai. She read it carefully and read a clause stating, “...‘just cause’ includes travel outside India, other than to attend the funeral of a next of kin, as defined in paragraph 17(6) and as designated by the employee on Form 326-F...”
It didn’t take Stephanie long --- she was racing now --- to find a similar one for Gina and her employment in Singapore. Again, a “no travel” clause. Again Moonstone.
A law firm’s statement to State University insisting that its golf scholarship be cancelled immediately: Brian’s scholarship! Pictures of her and her husbands shortly before the ruin of their respective marriages to her.
Her heart pounded louder and harder than it had in years. And faster and sharper the conclusion formed in her mind. It couldn’t be!
Almost every single ‘down’ she and her family had suffered in life: evidence of every single one here in this room. And etched somewhere in every shred of evidence was one name:
Moonstone.
In one of the corners and away from any other frames and lined up in a column were two pictures and one document. Breathless and stunned, Stephanie walked toward them. This is what she saw:
A picture of her, probably about 15 years old, with Brian and Kim. She remembered that day at Lazy Pond. Swimming. Tanning. Laughing. The timer had worked after several tries. A warm day. A fun day.
A picture of her and her brother, his recently acquired but well-used and rusty Toyota behind them. This was taken just before his 40th birthday. That’s when he could finally buy that car! She looked a tired 39. He looked a worn out 40. The picture had been taken without their knowledge.
She raised her head to look at the highest frame.
A document dated 50 years ago. Letters patent organizing a UK corporation, a privately held corporation.
---Name: Moonstone Limited.
---Chair: Ms. Kim Jennings, Countess of Scarfolk.
---Managing Director: Ms. Kim Jennings, Countess of Scarfolk.
---Shareholders: Ms. Kim Jennings, Countess of Scarfolk.
PUTTING
Stephanie opened the backdoor and headed to the lit area in the distance. The grass under her feet held the evening dew. As she approached, she saw Kim bent over with a putter in her hand. It was a small practice green. Several balls were strewn around it.
Stephanie stood in the fringe. She waited for Kim to take her putt.
Ping. Clunk. She sunk it.
“Why?” Stephanie asked.
“Why not?” Kim replied, bending over to remove the ball from the hole. She threw it to the far side of the green.
“What did I ever do to you?”
Kim turned to face her. They stood about five metres apart.
“Whatever do you mean, my dearest Stephanie?”
“Moonstone. Every place I ever worked, where my husbands worked. Moonstone.”
Kim studied her next ball and accordingly lined herself up with the hole. She bent over to putt.
“Just desserts.”
Ping. Clunk. She sank the ball.
“My children?”
“Moonstone never harmed them, my dear. They’ve been and are well employed and well off.”
“Brian?”
Kim got her ball and lobbed it to the far side of the green. She strolled over to it and considered her next putt.
“Yes. You and Brian. Just desserts.”
“Why?”
Kim missed; the ball rolled slightly to the right of the hole. Her distance was good, however.
“Damn,” she said.
Stephanie felt exposed. In the dark. On a large estate. Surrounded by darkness but for the three bright lights daylighting the green. There was a chill in the air now, a dampness too.
“You’re a witch. Stephanie. Surely you can sense the reason why?”
“No. I can’t. As I told you, my powers faded. Your wards would have prevented me anyway.”
Kim stood and moved away from her next ball. She held the putter in both hands and drifted toward Stephanie.
“Did you ever tell anyone that you were a witch?”
“No.”
“Think again,” Kim said moving back to address her ball.
“Other witches.”
“No, not them. Anyone else?” Kim asked as she putted.
Ping. Clunk.
Stephanie racked her mind. Yes, she had told one other person. More specifically, she had confirmed that person’s accusation that she was a witch: Brian.
“Brian confronted me. He had seen me in the basement, naked, in a pentagram. I threatened to turn him into a squirrel if he ever told anyone.”
“No, you didn’t make that threat.”
Stephanie reeled at that. Then she thought about it some more. Kim was right; Stephanie hadn’t threatened her brother.
Ping. Clunk.
“And how did you gain his silence? I doubt that you’d have wanted such a credential widely known.”
Stephanie quickly remembered. Brian had wanted to get to know Cindy better and to understand why she would not date him. To that end and in exchange for his silence, Stephanie had transformed Brian into a copy of Kim. And, as a copy of Kim, Brian had hung around with Stephanie, Cindy, and others for a weekend. He had learnt a great deal. Once transformed back into Brian, he had moved swiftly and skillfully to date Cindy.
Obviously, Stephanie couldn’t tell that to the actual Kim right now.
“Brian was a jerk sometimes, but he was a pretty good brother. He promised to keep his silence. I believed him.”
Kim stood out of her next putt and stared at Stephanie.
“Liar,” she said flatly. “I know about witches, Stephanie. Can’t you feel the wards even here?”
Stephanie could. Even if she still had her powers, they would be useless here. Perhaps honesty would be the best course here.
“He wanted to know how to date Cindy. I changed him into a girl, stored his body in a photograph, and let him hang with us one weekend. Then I changed him back.”
“Whom?”
“Whom what?”
Kim sighed in exasperation.
“You changed him into whom?”
Tired, weakened by the sherry, and frankly on the cusp of realizing that a lifespan has a limit and that hers was creeping towards her faster than ever before, Stephanie told the truth:
“I changed him into a copy of you,” she weakly muttered.
Kim stood motionless.
“It was only for the weekend. I’m sorry.” She sniffled. “I didn’t think that he did anything to ruin your life. It strikes me that your life turned out pretty good.”
Kim slowly nodded. She turned back to her putter, her ball, and her hole.
“How do you get along with him these days?”
Ping. Clunk.
“Not great. We were fairly close before. Once he discovered how to get into Cindy’s panties, we were never as close. Boys. Then he entered his vagabond phase. I hardly see him anymore. I wish him well. I take comfort knowing that I gave him a better understanding of women. I am saddened knowing that he apparently forgot the benefits of that experience.”
Kim laughed uproariously.
“I’m not lying!”
“Yes, you are. I told you that I called your house once after I got to Bern. I spoke to your brother,” she said that last word with a hiss, “and he told me what the two of you had done.”
“But you were away! Nothing bad happened to you or your name! And why would he tell you? I never would have let him do anything bad to you! You were my friend!”
“Friends don’t fuck over friends,” Kim sharply replied and turned to her next ball.
“And sisters don’t fuck over their brothers,” she acidly added.
Ping. Clunk.
Stephanie objected. “I didn’t fuck him over, as you put it.” Defiance coloured her voice.
Kim stepped over her putting line and walked toward Stephanie.
“You most certainly did. Tell me, my dearest Stephanie, as a teenager, what did you give him for a Christmas gift? Any Christmas? Name one gift.”
“A Ping putter. He was on the school team. He had said that---”
Kim interrupted her. “How old was he?”
“I don’t know. Thirteen. Fourteen.”
“Before you changed him?”
Stephanie nodded.
“That Christmas, he gave you your first iPhone, a used one. He knew how much you wanted one.”
The certainty in Kim’s voice shook Stephanie who fondly remembered that iPhone.
“Kim, why do you remember that?”
Ping. Clunk.
Silence.
-----000-----
“Kim, did you have a crush on my brother? Did you somehow think that I used spells to take him away from you? I never knew that you wanted him, let alone even liked him.”
Kim stared at Stephanie. A few moments passed. The North Star blinked through the clouds. She pursed her lips before speaking.
“I really liked Brian. He was a nice guy. Friends. Sports. A promising golf future at university and beyond. He liked living at home. He loved his family, even you. He was a bit cautious around you because he knew you were a witch. And the one time --- the one and only time --- he asked you to use your witchcraft to aid him so indirectly in pursuing a girl that he liked, you fucked him over.”
Stephanie was at a loss for words.
“I don’t understand. You created Moonstone to screw me and my family for decades because of some thwarted teenage crush of yours? You’ve messed with my life and other peoples’ lives because of something that never harmed you? What sort of lunacy is this?” She spoke these words with increasing venom.
Kim gracefully stormed as best nobility could toward Stephanie and drew to within one foot of her. She stared her in the face. Anger was her mood and twisted was her face.
She shouted at Stephanie:
“You never changed me back!!!”
Stunned, Stephanie mustered the only reply she could: “Kim, I never changed you.”
Kim snarled at her. “Listen to me, you duplicitous witch! You never changed me back! I got knocked out in a bathroom stall that night we went out and got picked up by the police in an alley. Kim’s parents the next day shipped me off to Switzerland! I tried to phone and phone to get a hold of you, to beg you to switch me back!
“But your fucking fake brother Kim told me that the two of you had plotted this! You wanted to have your friend Kim as your brother. You wanted me, your own pain in the ass jerk brother, gone, out of the way!
“Did you ever clue in that he wasn’t me anymore? Did you even think to see if my behaviour had changed, that your sorcery had any unexpected lasting effects? Did you do anything that would indicate the ever-slightest amount of responsibility for your power?
“NO!!! You NEVER did!!!” Kim shrieked.
Stephanie’s jaw dropped. She could not have made such a mistake. She never would have done that to Brian. He had been an okay brother, never really mean to her. In fact, he had been polite and unobtrusive around her. She wouldn’t have hurt him. She couldn’t have hurt him.
But she had.
And now she knew she had.
And now she knew why Moonstone had been in her life --- and in “Brian’s” life.
And now she knew that she was powerless to correct her unknown mistake.
SLUMBERLAND
Stephanie sat on her bed in the First Guest bedroom. She had unpacked her clothes and arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. The drapes were drawn. The bed was ready.
How much of her life had been altered by her mistake? How many people had to live with the consequences of her negligence of decades ago?
Her witchcraft had dazzled her for most of her life; it had surprised a few others, not knowing why a tablecloth would change colour or a television would change channels unexpectedly. These had been little games. They had been innocently funny, amusing to her.
Yet this one little game that she had long ago played with Brian --- the real Brian, her true brother --- had ended disastrously, though she knew it not at the time.
She mulled her options as her conscience ripped her apart.
-----000-----
“I’m sorry, Brian,” she had said to him on the green.
“I’ll never believe you, and as my life draws to a close, I wanted you to know that I would never forgive you. And that’s why you’re here,” he had replied, shoving his TaylorMade putter in his bag, along with the balls.
“And now, Stephanie, my former sister, there’s no reason for you to be here.”
With those words, her true brother walked away and faded into the darkness of the estate.
-----000-----
Stephanie rose to open the drapes. The moonlight cast its silver into the ancient room.
Yes, here, near the old battlefield, whereupon so many had once died.
Yes, here, where it was likely expected by her host that it would occur.
She glanced at her vial of sleeping pills on her nightstand. Her mind wandered. Her parents. Trevor. Paul. Steve. All waiting for her on the other side.
She decided that she should join them now.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2022
A WASP LISTENS TO HIS WIFE AT DINNER
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
THE RESTAURANT
Randolph Cartier the Third drove his black S-Class Mercedes up to the sweeping entrance of Café Henri Lourger. The valet opened the driver's door for him.
Randolph got out. He looked great --- for his age. He was tall and fit and, greying, had a standard male haircut. He straightened the lapels of his double-breasted dark grey Armani suit, glanced at the magnificent lilac bush to the right of the door, inhaled, smiled, and entered the restaurant. He checked his Day-Date 36 yellow gold Rolex: 6:27 p.m.
Henri, the short, balding maître d'hotel, greeted him warmly. "Monsieur Cartier, encore. C'est un grand plaisir." Henri beckoned him inside and led him toward one of the restaurant's more intimate, secluded, quiet corner booths; privacy was assured.
Dark oak paneling. Soft orange lighting. Lots of shadows. A deep blue carpet. Barely audible piano music. Hushed tones. Well-dressed couples leaning in to talk to each other across the other tables. Consistently dressed staff. Immaculate cleanliness. It was 'that sort' of restaurant for "our kind of people," Randolph would often say.
"Madam awaits you, sir." Henri deferentially waved his hand toward Isabella and left.
Isabella glanced at her Bestiaire Evol D'un Phoenix Dark Purple Mother of Pearl with Diamonds Feather Dial ladies' watch. Without her reading glasses, she couldn't read the dial clearly; the watch was stunningly beautiful but otherwise quite useless. Nonetheless, she said remarked, "You're late, my dear husband," and she rose to greet her husband.
"Oh, my darling beloved bride. My tardiness makes me miss you even more." He took her hand, stood back, and looked at her.
She was tall and lean, the form fitting gunmetal Armani Privé dress complemented her figure. Her greying hair was in a chignon bun. Her face was regal and exuded confidence. In some ways (more than a 'couple', probably 'several', but certainly not 'many' and definitely not 'all'), he remained as smitten by her today as he was when they first met.
And here they were, still together, decades later. "Oh, my enchantress and jewel of my eye, I adore you." He went to kiss her hand.
She pulled it away. "Please sit down, my dear husband. I wish to discuss something with you." She sneered at him as she sat herself. Surprised and puzzled, he sat down too. "We're doing the twelve-course dinner," she said.
"Excellent choice, my dear," he warmly said and smiled at her. Oh no, he inwardly groaned, this is going to be one of 'those' dinners.
#1: HORS D'OEUVRES
Louise silently served the first course. Each tiny goat cheese crostini with fig-olive tapenade was delicious. The white Bacchus from Sussex complemented it perfectly.
Isabella began: "My dear husband, there comes a point in almost every married woman's life at which she wonders whether it worth staying with her husband anymore. I am at that point. And I have arrived at certain conclusions in respect of the possible ways in which I wish to live the remainder of my life." She paused and nibbled.
Randolph continued to eat and looked at her affectionately, patiently. Fuck: here we go again, he thought. He blinked his eyes to indicate that he was listening attentively.
"I have not come to these conclusions easily. I have brought to bear my considerable faculties and acumen. I have weighed the merits and demerits of various options. I have happily settled on a few with which I am extremely comfortable." She looked at him with a hint of disdain. "My dear husband, I have asked you here for dinner tonight so that I might share with you my vision regarding my future with you, or without you, as the case may be." She put her napkin down.
Randolph finished his bite, folded his napkin, and placed it next to his plate. He smiled at Isabella.
"Randolph, I am prepared to divorce you immediately."
She was happy! There, she had said it! She was proud of herself. She had waited years and years to utter those words to him. Tonight, she finally felt confident enough to do so. That condescending bastard, she thought, he'll get his due tonight: that fucker's not going to be smiling soon. She smiled back at him.
Randolph patiently continued to smile at her. He sighed: her using his proper first name confirmed to him that this was going to be a long dinner.
Nina silently cleared the table.
#2: AMUSE-BOUCHE
Jules silently served the second course. Each small caprese bite with basil vinaigrette was delicious. The Lagrein rosé from Alto Adige complemented it perfectly.
"Randolph, have you any sense or sensibility regarding the reasons underpinning my conclusions? Is there any degree of reflection, self-awareness, introspection that might possibly enable you to hypothesize the scope and nature of the underpinnings?" She stared at him and licked her fork.
He smiled at her and imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. His body language suggested that he hadn't a clue. In fact, he didn't have a clue. Frankly, he often thought she was somewhat wacko.
"Randolph, we are having a conversation. You need to participate. Please answer my questions when they are posed to you." She said these words with force.
"My darling Isabella," he replied calmly, "you know everything about me. Our parents were best friends with one another. You and I grew up together; we shared diapers and nursemaids. We went to the same school, attended the same classes, and played the same sports. We lost our virginities, together, with one another. We dated throughout our teenage years. At university, we lived together. We married. We raised three wonderful children, all of whom are professionals today.
"You have seen me --- us! --- create a company from scratch and, by hook or by crook, turn it into a mega-conglomerate worth dozens of millions of dollars. You have sat at the head table for each board meeting alongside me. You have attended all the significant shareholder meetings. Through my --- our! --- majority ownership, we have molded a workforce of thousands into manufacturing widgets and other products for our phenomenal profit and we have overcome any obstacle or challenge our competitors, both on the board and outside the company, have tried to place in our formidable path."
Simone silently cleared the table.
#3: SOUP
Louise silently served the third course. Each small bowl of the creamy Tuscan white bean and roasted garlic soup was delicious. The Verdicchio from the Marche complemented it perfectly.
"You have been with me, my dearest Isabella, through thick and thin. I believe you know everything about me already. So, I confess that I am at a loss to identify what may have provoked you into concluding that it is necessary to divorce me at the present juncture."
He dabbed his napkin on his lips --- and smiled at her.
Isabella smirked. "Randolph, I have indeed been by your side through the years. I have indeed been with you through thick and thin as you put it. But I have also indeed witnessed many acts or neglects committed by you which, had I been any other woman, would have been acted upon for they constituted immediate grounds for divorce. Do not engage in any flippancy here tonight."
Randolph smiled seriously and nodded his head; she's fucking nuts again, he thought.
That condescending piece of shit, Isabella thought, is going down.
"I would have you consider one example of misconduct by you upon which action could have been taken to divorce you. You surely remember that sunny, blue sky day when we were just starting out? Highway 666? A blurry, grey'ish object on the road? 'It's a big plastic bag. It'll blow away,' you said. You kept your foot on the gas. You damaged daddy's car running that lowly soul over. And what did you say? 'Just some homeless guy,' you said. 'I hope your old man doesn't bug me too much about the fender,' you said.
"Now, obviously, your callous remarks about the fender were not what made me divorce-ably mad. Rather, it was your approaching me, requesting that I not report your delinquency to the police. You made me an accomplice to your driving which advanced some doomed bum's inevitably grisly death. You corrupted me." Isabella was indignant.
"Oh, my darling beloved bride. We went over this example the last time and the time before that and the last time before that last, last time." Randolph's voice hinted at the ennui of hearing repeated, over and over and over again, some complaint about him.
"First, I never actually prevented you from reporting anything to the police. So it seems mildly insulting that I the driver bear the blame for your inaction as a passenger. If you feel guilty for not reporting my socalled crime, then you should expect to be judged for your failure." He waved his hand philosophically.
Randolph took another sip of the soup and then continued. "Second, I did not corrupt you nor could I have done so. You willingly walked through that door, into the life in which you now live. Your choice, one which, by the way, has paid for this dinner, your beautiful dress --- I'm sorry, my darling, I ought to have complimented you on it previously. I apologize --- your BMW, our cottages, the Normandy villa, our homes, and all sorts of the many other things that compose parts of our enriched, deserved, and entitled daily lives.
"Your corruption, as you call it, my dearest, sweetest Isabella, has served you well." Randolph glanced to the side and stopped speaking.
Nina silently cleared the table.
#4: APPETIZER
Jules silently served the fourth course. Each of the button mushrooms stuffed with pecorino romano, garlic, and breadcrumbs was delicious. The Champagne from Épernay complemented it perfectly.
"How dare you throw my corruption in my face! My corruption," Isabella said, "has served you well too, Randolph. Remember Julie, that innocent young girl back in high school? She was not a wanton slut. You almost raped --- don't quibble with me now, Randolph --- you almost raped that girl. Had we been married at the time, I could have divorced you for that slip-up.
"But who ensured that her previously pristine reputation was obliterated so that the police would close the investigation with the conclusion that 'she deserved it' or something like that? Yes, me. So, please do not discount your benefit, Randolph, in my being corrupt as well."
Isabella continued: "In any event, I hardly see how one can compare, on the one hand, my failure to report a hit-and-run and the slandering of a stupid, virginal girl's reputation, to, on the other hand, your egregious, monstrous, loathsome depravity that has led us to this dinner tonight.
Randolph felt a piece of garlic stuck between his two uppermost molars on the left side of his mouth. He pursed his lips to stretch his left cheek and rubbed his cheek and upper gumline with his left thumb. The garlic dislodged. He swallowed it. He smiled at his wife.
"To be perfectly clear, Randolph, I am not presently dwelling on your past shortcomings, depravities from days of yore, such as, for example, your pillaging your mother's estate.
"You knew damn well that your two siblings were each entitled to their respective third shares under Paige's will instructions. Yet you grossedup the estate management fees, forged a few signatures on key probate papers, and threatened the accountant with bodily harm unless he depreciated the asset allowance estimates. Thus, you received 90% of her estate. It was an extraordinary betrayal of the trust your mother reposed in you as her estate administrator.
"Your brother and sister are not starving, true, but they were entitled to their entitlements. And your actions were especially galling once you took their gifts and invested them in one of your dog-vomit companies for the purpose of inflating your shares' value. You sold high but left your siblings high and dry. For them, the ensuing litigation was worse than Jarndyce v. Jarndyce. No wonder they don't talk to you anymore."
Isabella saw someone approach their table. She put her cutlery down and looked at Randolph blankly.
Simone silently cleared the table.
#5: SALAD
Louise silently served the fifth course. Each little asparagus, pecorino and red onion salad was delicious. The Pinot Gris from Burgundy complemented it perfectly.
Isabella continued: "And who could forget the spinal cystic-fibrosis charity money that you raised and proceeded to spend on a Floridian dream home. You ---"
"Your architectural design specifications, Isabella. You love that home as much as I do," Randolph matter-of-factly interjected. "And you also love the proceeds from mother's estate." His eyes darted to the side. "Hardly divorce-worthy conduct." He gently placed his napkin down and stopped talking.
"Yes, Randolph, I do in fact adore that home and I do appreciate the societal need for someone of my stature to be affluent, to be an example," she said. "Yet I am not overly concerned about it nor other historical matters.
"That you had, for instance, successive affairs with Andrea, then Brianna, and then Chantelle at our office in your first year as CEO would have destroyed any other marriage once the rumours were confirmed to be true. And to knowingly launch groundless sexual harassment suits against them? The chutzpah! They backed off, so you won! To be clear, I am not concerned about that episode." She used her napkin.
"Nor am I concerned about the 27 and a half other affairs you have had. Yes, I knew about that puny Uzbek midget." Isabella dabbed her lips again with her napkin. She sensed something on her lips, some crumb or speck of something. She glanced at the napkin: nothing.
She continued: "A famous actress --- Randolph, hush, I forget her name and it's not important anyway --- once said something like this, if I can paraphrase her accurately: 'The most important attributes a wife must have are one blind eye and one deaf ear'. Words of wisdom, Randolph, words of wisdom. And I lived them for you, Randolph. I never initiated a divorce proceeding for those delicts of yours. Nor the many abortions.
"And those creepy comments about Holly our eldest? You asked my father whether he agreed that Holly was hot. You told a boardroom full of middle-aged men just like yourself that, were Holly not your daughter, then you would 'tap her'. You described her to her prom date as 'a piece of juicy tail', and 'completely do-able'.
"You even bragged at church once about how you kiss Holly 'every chance I get'. I still hear your sober voice booming at a summer picnic: 'Grab her by the pussy!'. None of the signs of an Electra complex but all of the signs of an incestuous predator." She hissed the last two words.
Randolph delicately, gently, and tenderly hurled his napkin onto the table. "Oh, my darling beloved bride. Both you and I know that such behaviour does not engender a divorce." His words were uttered with the humblest arrogance possible. "To the contrary, such behaviour is entirely presidential and unimpeachable. Just as acceptable in our circles as our creative tax deductions." He smiled smugly at his wife.
Nina silently cleared the table.
#6: FISH
Jules silently served the sixth course. Each thin sliver of the crispy trout with a parsley-caper vinaigrette was delicious. The Sauvignon Blanc from Nelson complemented it perfectly.
Isabella hated that he was right and reluctantly nodded in agreement. "I suppose all of it could have been tested in court had I divorced you. But I didn't divorce you for them, Randolph. As I previously said, such historical examples are not of my immediate concern. What is on my mind is... Wait, please." She wrinkled her face. "Excuse me, please, one moment, dear."
Before she could taste the fish, Isabella turned her head toward the wall and twitched her mouth; she knew she had something stuck between her maxillary central incisors. It was probably a bit of an asparagus tip. She flicked her tongue around. She covered her lips with her right hand. She searched for a toothpick on the table.
But there would never be any toothpicks on the tables at Café Henri Lourger; it wasn't that sort of restaurant.
She expertly used the fingernail of her right forefinger to dislodge the stuck asparagus. She saw Randolph look at her disapprovingly. She blushed with embarrassment.
Isabella sighed. "Randolph, if we were to dwell upon the past, then we would never leave this restaurant for a week. Case in point: you sponsored several questionable drug research reports and peddled them to a medical association that then advised its membership to more frequently prescribe opioids, specifically, those opioids manufactured by a drug company in which you had invested. I could have notified the authorities of your pump-and-dump scheme; but I did not.
"You whispered reports to journalists that our erstwhile friend John was having an affair with Zara Linscol, that ghastly woman, profoundly stupid and immensely dumb as she is. He was a strong believer in family values and abstinence. His career got ruined. Your whispering campaign worked but was built on falsehoods; John never touched that ugly thing, and you knew it.
"All that to free up a membership spot at the Mount Jerome Golf & Country Club for your political crony Marco. And what of that despicable man? Sexting and dick pics with a 14-year-old girl? Your friendships and associations through the years have been damnable, divorce-able."
Randolph found a small bone in the fish and stared at it. He then dropped it on the floor, surreptitiously he thought. Isabella stared disapprovingly at him.
She continued: "You even lied under oath when Marco got indicted for structuring bank withdrawals in order to conceal his sexual misconduct against young men that he coached on his wrestling team in university."
Simone silently cleared the table.
#7: FIRST MAIN COURSE
Louise silently served the seventh course. The roasted duck with its orange-ginger glaze was delicious. The Gamay from the Loire Valley complemented it perfectly.
"Randolph, you fired --- fine, fine, fine: 'terminated'; now stop quibbling please, Randolph --- you terminated every person who was not white, Christian, or heterosexual from each of our companies. When these terminations were contested, you compelled or blackmailed or I don't know what Henry Yagoda and Nick Yezhov from the accounting department to come out as gay and transgender respectively, even though both were straight and married. This was to just to stave off the Employment Equity Commission's investigations. How much did you pay them?
"Do you realize the laughter you unleashed in making our staff look at Nikki, I think as she or he or she calls...herself now, in a Dirndl dress? He weighed 98 kg; remember the day he wore that body-con dress? It was worse than Halloween. That distraction adversely affected our office's productivity!
"And Henry is still in conversion therapy and his wife and three spoilt brats are still in counselling. You did it! You did that to them!" Isabella clanged her knife and fork onto the plate.
"You are mean, nasty, boastful, dishonest, cringe-worthy, despicable, awful, horrible, arrogant, pompous, tedious, cruel, narrow-minded, horrific, impulsive, deceitful, boring, aggressive, bossy, harsh, careless, cowardly, selfish, fussy, grumpy, unhappy, impatient, jealous, greedy, untrustworthy, moody, and overcritical."
Randolph smiled at her. That incessantly nattering woman, he thought: wouldn't it be easier sometimes to be deaf?
"And rude," she finished with venom, "don't forget rude."
"My darling Isabella," he warmly began, "I always appreciate your sharing with me your candid views about my several and various accomplishments and qualities."
He cut into the duck. He nibbled a small portion: delicious. He sliced another small piece: scrumptious. This is what life is about: satiating indulgence.
He continued: "I am hardly at all concerned about any of these matters from yesterday or the day before or the day before that. You understand my bearing and disposition. These trifles have not, do not, and shall not burden me. Nor that cute conscience of mine that you not irregularly remind me I lack."
His knife could not effectively cut a piece of thigh still attached to cartilage. He quickly glanced left and right, lowered his head toward the table and over the plate, picked up the thigh with his fingers, and chewed the piece off the thigh: delicious. Isabella looked at him with disgust. Embarrassed, he put the thigh down, licked his fingers, and used the napkin.
"In any event, my pride and joy, our peers would have little reason to be critical. There is no risk of ostracization. None of excommunication. Ejection, eviction, expulsion? Our kind of people would not consider such options in such circumstances. We are just like our friends, or more accurately, those within our social circles: WASPs. For me specifically, I am a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant cisgender, heterosexual, heteronormative male --- with lots of money. All of this compels---"
Isabella slapped her left hand on the table and leaned into Randolph's space; it interrupted him. She stared at him with bursting joy. She spoke slowly: "Oh, Randolph! This duck is in fact the best!" His reply was instantaneous and equally admiring: "Oh, I know! It is indeed!"
Each smacked their own lips and briefly caught the other's eye. A pleasant shared memory of long ago, of a roadside dinner, of eating chicken wings, flashed across the table. It then vanished. Isabella turned away from the distant moment first.
Randolph sighed and continued: "Anyway, all of these sterling qualities are possessed by me --- us! yes, you too, of course darling --- all of our business partners, our colleagues, our home school alumni, our evangelical prayer group members, our virginity ball co-graduates, our closed & gated community neighbours. Not a single socialist among them either, I am especially pleased to remind you. Anyway, everyone who matters is not unlike us generally and me, the quintessential WASP male, specifically."
He finished the duck and leaned back. Scrumptious. Exquisite. Why couldn't he have duck everyday?
Nina silently cleared the table.
#8: PALATE CLEANSER
Jules silently served the eighth course. The lemon sorbet was delicious. The prosecco superiore from Friuli Venezia Giulia complemented it perfectly.
"So, as I reflect upon the meandering passage of our present dinner discussion, I fail to discern what it may pray be that could instigate the madness and insanity you now mention, to wit, a divorce." Randolph dropped his napkin on his plate. His fatigue of annoyance at his darling Isabella was kept in check.
Isabella smiled proudly. No: she beamed. No: better yet, hers was the biggest, hugest, massivest, colossalest, ginormousest smile in the Milky Way at that precise moment in galactic time. She leaned across the table and hissed to him:
"I discovered your dirty little secret, you fucking perverted, sick, cock-sucking, sissy faggot!"
She leaned back and gloated. Years of resentment energized her, years of anger electrified her. She was confident that she could now ruin him. Her time had come!
Randolph tilted his head, scrunched his face quizzically, and looked at her.
He had no fucking idea what she was talking about.
Simone silently cleared the table.
#9: SECOND MAIN COURSE
Louise silently served the ninth course. Each herb-crusted venison medallion was delicious. The shiraz from south Australia complemented it perfectly.
Isabella smiled mischievously at Randolph. I will toy with him for awhile, she thought, and then put the schmendrick in the gutter!
"You left so many clues, my dearest, soon-to-be, ex-husband. How clever of you to try to hide them in plain view! I saw through that deception! You must think that I am an idiot! Putting passwords on a notepad immediately next to your keyboard! Never clearing your history nor your cookies! Leaving Word documents open! Website links right on your bookmark bar!"
She glowered at him. He looked back at her, somewhat clueless.
She rolled her eyes and continued: "Really? Even now? Denial? Asking me how a bra feels? Whether corsets work or not? Techniques to go up and down stairs in heels? Nylon or silk? My views on how different lingerie feels? My thoughts on what constitutes the ultimate expression of femininity? The sensation of a swollen nipple while being sucked? Randolph, why did you ask me?" She sipped her drink, put the glass down, and teasingly asked again: "Why?" Hers was now a sly smile.
Randolph looked at her blankly. WTF? he wondered.
Isabella was relishing the moment. "Randolph! Put your cutlery down! Listen to me! Remember this moment for the rest of your pathetic, unenviable, humiliating life!" It was with spite and fury that these foul words spewed out of Isabella's mouth.
Randolph put his cutlery down, took a sip of the shiraz --- oh, he thought, the wine was to die for: the hue was opaque, a magnificent rubypurple; the ripe tannins saturated his tongue; and the bold, distinctive blackberry and blueberry jammy aroma and flavour was singularly spectacular! --- held the glass up to the light, put the glass down, sighed, lowered his head, looked at his wife, and put on a puzzled expression.
"I know your twisted, deviant secrets, Randolph."
He looked at her blankly.
"Your most perverted fantasies, Randolph."
He looked at her blankly.
"Your sick, disgusting desires, Randolph."
He looked at her blankly.
Isabella was getting frustrated. Her soon-to-be ex-husband wasn't reacting as she had thought he might. Was he toying with her? Was this yet another flagrant example of his disrespect toward her? How dare he?
He still looked at her blankly.
Shocked at his reluctance to even slightly react to her accusations (if that's what they were, because, frankly, she had been rather vague), Isabella, with great force and determination, chewed thoroughly her last medallion. Before she swallowed the last fine morsel, she spoke to Randolph with a generous amount of food in her mouth:
"Your deviant, perverted desires! You want to be a French maid! You want to be my sissy slave! You want me to cuckhold you endlessly and shove my sexual degradation of you right in your forcibly feminist face! Castration! Estrogen! Corsets! A wardrobe that a supermodel would dream of! Humiliation in public and in private! Twenty inch heels! Implants! Drug you and operate on you against your will! Triple F breasts! Pansies for Randy!" She chewed the morsel some more.
"You've been reading and writing these revolting and nauseating stories on SissyFictionWild! That website is for flaming faggots and meth addicted internet trolls!" She finally swallowed the morsel.
She unexpectedly gave a little belch. It would have been a cute belch from a toddler, or even a puppy, but not from a guest in this exclusive, luxurious restaurant. Randolph shook his head reproachfully.
She continued: "And those hopes and dreams of yours will irrevocably, irreversibly, socially destroy you, my little secret sissy-loving husband. Or should I say, 'my little sissy wife'? Everyone is going to know. Everyone is going to read your thoughts, your desires, your submissive fantasies! And soon, everyone is going to treat you as the ridiculous, contemptible, ersatz woman --- a sissy! --- that you so deeply crave to be!"
She laughed diabolically, well, as diabolically as a woman can when she is the female lead in a femdom fetish story.
He still looked at her blankly.
Nina silently cleared the table.
#10: CHEESE COURSE
Jules silently served the tenth course. Each cheese, especially the White Stilton Gold, was delicious. The Sauternes from the Sauternais complemented it perfectly.
Randolph remained silent. He pecked away at the cheese. He drank his drink.
Isabella stared at him, pondered him. He must be drowning in embarrassment, she thought. Look at him: so placid on the outside, yet so turmoiled on the inside. Embarrassment, yes! Humiliation, even better!
He must know that she sees him as less than a man now. His hero façade has crumbled, never to be rebuilt in her eyes. Randolph to Randy to Pansy to Prissy the Sissy; he'll never make another decision of any consequence in this soon-to-be terminated marriage.
How would his fellow golf club members view him? Would they want to be even near him in the locker room? Maybe some of them might perceive him to be a sexual opportunity; her randy husband getting fucked in the shower at the club! No, they'd blackball him at the next membership meeting. Ha!
His fellow corporate leaders were nearly all testosterone-laden men, psychopaths them all, who exuded masculinity and had succeeded in reaching the highest rungs of the corporate world. They would despise him! A dress-loving pansy going to Davos? Never!
Expulsion from the church was a foregone conclusion. Prayers to keep him at bay and to ensure his damnation were preordained. Lay pastor? Impossible: "you should be in Sunday school, you sissy!".
Isabella could hear the cries, the laughter, the derision. She grinned. Her mighty, haughty husband was about to be brought down to his deserved new lowly station in life.
Randolph still remained silent. He still pecked away at the cheese. He still drank his drink.
Simone silently cleared the table.
#11: DESSERT
Louise silently served the eleventh course. Each slice of the rich, flourless chocolate cake was delicious. The ruby port wine from the Douro Valley complemented it perfectly.
Randolph eventually harrumphed and put his fork down.
Life, he reflected, was an exercise in discretion. Left or right. Up or down. Advance or retreat. He knew he had a choice to make here, now. He raised his head, pushed his plate aside, folded his well cared for hands in front of him on table, and began to speak to his wife in a casual manner that he had not employed toward her in years:
"Are you fucking stupid? They are just stories. Remember 'Fiction' in SissyFictionWild? I make this shit up. I have zero interest in wearing high heels and none in strolling about like a hooker. If anyone wants to put a penis gag in my mouth, then they are welcome to try; I still bench over 185 lbs everyday. The fight would make a better movie than some dog-trot video of a criminal attempt to fucking sissify me.
"Furthermore, I wasn't hiding anything in plain view, you confused harridan, because I wasn't hiding anything at all."
Isabella interrupted him. "They're already out there, you idiot. Your pseudonyms. I know them all! Sleazyblondenomad. Sissy Princess Patticakes. All of your stories are lurid! Vile! Blackmail is not in my vocabulary, Randolph, but I can squeeze you like one of those evil wives does in a Victor Turn story!"
"Vickie Tern, my dear, is that author's name. Please be reassured," he said quite tenderly to mask the insult, "you are unworthy to be compared to any of the wives Tern created."
"Even now you have the gall to deny! Randolph, you're a sissy. Given that baby resort story you wrote set in the Scottish highlands, I perhaps should ask our dear maître d'hôtel if he has any diapers and a change room? Does babykins want her little pacifier?" Isabella smirked. "Maybe instead you want me to hypnotize you with forced feminism tapes each night, to reprogram you!"
"Sorry to interrupt you, my dearest wife, but it's 'forced feminization', not feminism. We're not socialists, remember. Now, just get on with it, whatever the hell it is."
"Thank you, Randolph. You get the point. I will just give you a short little French maid dress. You simply want to get under a table and blow guests during dinner. Many men's fantasies involve bondage and restraint; perhaps you prefer to be tied on the table? Or in a dog cage? I read that story too. I will attend to your leashing shortly." She smirked again.
Randolph shook his head in frustration; she couldn't be that dumb, could she?
"Izzie, think about it for a sec. Do the geometry and spatial dynamics. How the fuck can someone under our dinner table fellate another who is sitting at it? Maybe if they were both dwarves. It's a preposterous scene in preposterous stories. Fiction stories."
He drummed his fingers. "Izzie, how many stories have you read that involve a French maid?"
"All of them have a French maid, I think. Except the ones by Badwoman. Did you write that too? Couldn't you simply have those twins just kill each other off instead of bickering all the time?"
Randolph replied: "Not mine and that's beside the fucking point. Look, no one we know has a slutty maid, let alone a French one. If the stories were grounded in reality, then all the fucking maids would be Latinas! And they don't put out unless they're married. Catholics! Jeez!" He golf-clapped his hands against the table.
He leaned toward her and whispered, "Do you really think, for instance, that there's some well organized Sisterhood of dominatrixes out there controlling men, laughing in their faces, ridiculing them for having puny penises, and making them feel like emasculated sheep? Turning them into mindless bimbo slaves? Do you?"
He quickly glanced to the side and then raised his hand to keep Nina away.
Isabella frowned and merely replied, "There's several real patriarchal ones. Like marriage. There could similarly be some gynocratic ones." Her reply was weak and she knew it. "Do you know how I might be placed in contact with one, Randolph?"
Exasperated, he said, "No, I don't because the entire concept is stupid. Made up. Make believe." He slicked his hair back. "Fiction, woman, fiction."
He realized that she might never understand the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, between fantasy and reality, between hobby-ish escapist fun writing and actual planning and designing. He decided to change tack.
"Try it a different way. There are no sissies! A sissy is a McGuffin, a Maltese Falcon, a fucking plot device to tell a fucking story! That's it! They don't exist otherwise! There are no sissies! Every single shit story I ever wrote could have instead starred a fucking Loch Ness monster, or a Yeti, or a flea-ridden Sasquatch!"
"Randolph!" Isabella slammed her hand against the table. She saw other guests look nervously at them. "Yes, you could have written a series of beautiful tales called 'The Saga of the Red Fox' or something. You could have written about sunshine, unicorns and rainbows. But you did neither.
"No, you preferred rampant sissification themes and escapades as you pranced around our mansion I suppose wearing a little girl's summer dress and Mary Janes, pounding out these puerile verses on some pink iPad you secret away and use to contact all of your equally perverted sissy friends."
Randolph tilted his head, gazed far away, and smiled. He said with pride, "Yes! I can already imagine a great one involving a unicorn, a dildo named Danny Boy, and a Shetland pony. It would start off in a factory that produces Burdizzos and then---"
"Stop it!" Isabella demanded. She beckoned the service.
Nina silently cleared the table.
#12: MIGNARDISE
Jules silently served the last course. Each miniature butter madeleine biscuit was delicious. The Saint Helena coffee complemented it perfectly.
"Divorce, Randolph, divorce." Isabella used her napkin. "Knowledge of this will spread. Your reputation will be destroyed. Your friends shall desert you. Women will avoid you; we detest sissies. Your businesses will fail. Your wealth, evaporate. Randolph Cartier the Third: tabloid fodder."
Isabella drew her breath. She believed her husband, rather, her sissy husband, would collapse when he heard her request: "I want more than half in exchange for my silence."
Randolph looked at his wife carefully. Divorce? Over this? Really? His mind played it out. After due consideration, he forged ahead with his new relationship with his wife:
"Yes, my dear, tell everyone: ruin half of your business. Yes, my dear, the many millions in our --- sorry, my --- bank accounts will simply evaporate because banks evaporate all the time: sarcasm. Yes, my dear, some women will avoid me; but other women will not because I will still have money. Yes, my dear, my friends will dash to desert me and will gladly forego the 90% discounted membership fees I facilitate at the golf club. Let's watch all that happen."
Isabella no longer smiled. She sensed her moment slipping; indeed, it was 'soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance'.
"It's like this, Izzie. See George over there with Midge? He's an appellate court judge. He writes under the pseudonym 'Missy Sissy Prissy Krissy'. His avatar is a Cabbage Patch doll. That story about the seventeen wicked step-mothers, the massive inheritance, and the scrawny 18 year old boy with zits and a mini-dick who gets the inheritance only if he's married by 25? George's.
"And over there. Stu the surgeon. He's renowned for his bad boy to good girl stories. Tammy, his wife, strictly babyfication themes. Frankly, if I were Stu, I wouldn't sleep soundly at night for fear of waking up in a diaper!
"SissyFictionWild stories aren't written by 400-pound welfare parasites seating in dank and mouldy basements; those uneducated galoots just watch PornHub. Who writes for SissyFictionWild? Lawyers, doctors, judges, dentists, venture capitalists, police chiefs, generals. Those sorts of people. Our kind of people.
"People like me, Isabella," he lovingly said, "I write SissyFictionWild stories. Me the WASP. Just for fun." He took her hands and kissed them. "People like us." He kissed them again. "No divorce, alright?"
Isabella recognized her defeat but remained completely oblivious that she was in fact unworthy of comparison to a Tern wife. She nodded her surrender.
Randolph still loved Isabella, deeply actually, but also simply differently now than he once had. He did not wish to see her despondent. She is still wacko in so many tiring ways, he thought, but she can still spark my mind. He was confident about himself.
And he possessed a vivid imagination.
"Izzie, in consolation for not obtaining the divorce you so mistakenly believed you wanted, I will grant you the honour of being the first to peg me with a strap-on dildo." He smiled.
She glared at him. "You're joking!" He grinned mischievously at her; he hadn't in years. She liked it. She sighed; he still had 'it'. But he is also a fucking jerk. One day, yes, one day, I'll finally get him.
"Okay. You're joking. But my dear husband, should you ever write a story in which the male protagonist asks his wife to do him with a strap-on, then I will assume everything you have written and everything you write is in fact a repressed, sexually perverted, kinky request to be dominated and abused as described."
Randolph raised his eyebrows at her in that exceedingly arrogant WASP way, smiled as brazenly as a self-centred asshole and elitist can, and waved his hand, beckoning Henri and the bill.
Simone silently cleared the table.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
HERE'S A SURPRISE ENDING SUGGESTED BY VICKIE TERN!!!
Isabella smiled. With each course he'd swallowed yet another pill unawares. These days she could easily make out his new breasts bobbling under his shirt -- he'd soon need an even larger bra. And as Henri had promised her, all the rest too. Maybe eventually he would accept pegging by one of her boy friends!
AFTERMATH ('THE SLUT')
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
WARNING: CONTAINS REFERENCES TO SUICIDE & RAPE.
Author's Note: One of the saddest stories on FictionMania is Janice's 'The Slut': "Three teenage girls exact revenge on the older brother of one of them, who is obnoxious to them, with dire results." Six minutes ago, I posted it here on BCTS as 'The Slut (By Janice)'. It's a short but powerful story, cutting 'close to the bone' of reality. Many of its reviewers demanded a sequel. 'Aftermath' is an unauthorized tribute to Janice's gut-wrenching realism. Please do not associate any shortcomings in my work with her thoughtful gem. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to her.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
HOME SWEET HOME --- SUNDAY
It was a beautiful, late Sunday summer afternoon: warm, clear skies, brilliant sun.
Janet and Jim drove back home. They had been together since college and married for 24 years. She was 45 years old, a successful industrial machinery sales rep. He was 46, a mid-level manager in government. They were happily married and had two children.
Until this weekend, they had never taken any vacations without their kids. Nancy, the eldest, was 17 years old and a bright student, well liked by her friends and peers. Paul, their son, was 15 and, well, he was a rambunctious teenage boy. Not evil, not criminal, but undeniably a hellion, especially toward his older sister. She considered him a pest, and he considered her a soft target.
Janet and Jim had finally concluded, after much discussion, that they could leave their two children alone for a weekend. They wanted quiet intimacy (impossible with youngsters). They made a reservation at an adult resort in the countryside. They instructed their children to contact them if anything went wrong and left Nancy in charge.
Janet and Jim drove back home happy.
-----000-----
As they approached their home, they saw a large police van in the driveway and a police car on the street. They grew nervous. They parked and hurried to the front door. A uniformed officer sat on an Adirondack chair on the stoop and stood up as they approached.
"Excuse me. Please go back," the officer said officiously.
"This is our house!" They were worried now.
"Oh! Sorry. Please wait a minute," the officer said, and then muttered something into her patrol mic. The front door opened. A man and a woman in business suits came out.
"What's going on?" Janet asked.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sanders?" the woman asked.
"Yes. What's going on?" Jim replied.
The two detectives exchanged looks. The woman said, "I am Detective Smith, and this is Detective Jones. Would you please come with us to the backyard?"
-----000-----
They sat at the patio table. The backyard was shaded and sheltered from the other houses. The two detectives' faces were flat and expressionless. They sat formally in the chairs. Janet and Jim were anxious and leaned forward on the table.
The female detective was painfully aware that these two parents would remember this moment for the rest of their lives. She solemnly began:
"I have some bad news to tell you. Your son, Paul, committed suicide early this morning or late last night, in the kitchen." Janet started to whimper. Jim's jaw dropped. They grabbed each others' hands.
"This is what we know for certain at this time. First, Paul cut his wrists and bled to death. Second, he was wearing women's clothing at the time of his death. Third, your daughter and two of her friends were asleep in the house when it happened." She paused to let that basic information sink in. "I'm very sorry this happened."
Janet started grasping: "Women's clothing? In the kitchen? He doesn't... Why? Why? What do you mean? I don't understand." She trembled. The tears fell.
"Where is he?" Jim whispered, red-eyed.
"His body is at the coroner's office for examination."
Jim and Janet were visibly devastated. Both detectives hated this part of their job.
"We want to see him. And where's Nancy?"
The two detectives exchanged looks. "Your daughter is safe. We'll take you to the coroner's office first and then to your daughter."
THE CORONER'S OFFICE --- SUNDAY
The diener drew the sheet off the body.
Paul's naked corpse lay on the autopsy table. It had not yet been prepared for examination. Janet wept as it was uncovered. Jim held her.
His hair was in a ponytail. It was obvious that he had been wearing makeup; some had been removed and some more had been added. His lightly tanned skin was but a deathly pallor; it matched the room's walls. Both of his wrists were sliced, one plainly more deeply than the other.
Paul's body was dressed in a peignoir. Janet recognized it as one of hers. She touched it. "Please don't touch anything," the diener compassionately asked. Janet let it go.
Jim nodded his head at the detectives: the body was Paul's.
Janet leaned over and kissed him. She caressed his cheek. Her tears fell on the table.
Jim's body shook and shook. He kissed his son farewell and helped his wife out of the room.
The diener drew the sheet over the body.
-----000-----
That corpse on that table in that room was their last image of him.
And they would never be able to forget it.
THE POLICE STATION --- SUNDAY
The two parents and two detectives sat in a comfortable, decorated interview room. The latter had informed the former that their conversation would be recorded to accurately record their "conversation". Janet had sobbed when she had been told that the investigation was ongoing and that she was not a suspect. Jim nodded his understanding and kept his arm around Janet's shoulder.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, your daughter is being detained as a suspect in your son's death." Detective Jones knew no other way to inform them of that stark fact.
"Suspect?" Jim asked, astonished.
"Yes, she and two other young women. Do you know a Thelma Albertson and Shelley Burns?" Detective Jones spoke in a measured, flat voice.
"They're Nancy's friends!" Janet rushed to answer. "They were having a sleepover this weekend! How are they involved? Are they suspects? What did they do?" Her voice expressed her agitation.
"I want to talk to my daughter now!" Jim raised his voice.
Detective Smith motioned calm with her hands and flatly answered: "Your daughter is a minor. In accordance with the law, we have limited our questioning of her. You are now here. You may speak with her. Once you have done so, we may be resuming our questioning."
The detective was pragmatic and not insensitive. "It may be advisable for her to consult a lawyer before we interview her. We will caution her to do so as well. You are entitled to be present when we caution her."
-----000-----
Jim and Janet sat in a stark, neutral interview room. They had been informed that they would have exactly 15 minutes alone with their daughter, that they would be under visual observation all the time for safety reasons, and that the police would not make any recordings of any kind. Nor would the police be able to listen to what was said.
Two uniformed female officers brought Nancy into the room. She wore jailhouse orange overalls and was handcuffed. Janet gasped when she saw her. Jim and Janet waited, as instructed, for the officers to remove her handcuffs and leave. They then rushed to her and hugged her.
Nancy sobbed. Janet sobbed. Jim sobbed.
"Are you okay?" Janet asked. Nancy tried to nod in reply and sniffled.
The remaining Sanders family members sat together on the cheap chairs, bringing the three of them close together. They held hands.
"Nancy, what happened to Paul?" Jim's voice conveyed his shock.
Nancy could not answer him. She had suggested the plan to her friends. She had left him on the park bench. And she had discovered her brother's body on the kitchen floor. She silently stared at her father ashamedly, glanced at her mother guiltily, hyperventilated loudly, and collapsed suddenly. The police intervened to provide first aid.
Twenty minutes later, an ambulance took her to the mental health unit at the local hospital, and she was placed under constant observation to prevent her harming herself.
THE CORONER'S OFFICE --- SUNDAY
As the Sanders were returning home, Dr. Pascale Tremblay sat back in her chair, put her feet on her desk, and began to review the detailed photographs and preliminary lab reports. The dictation equipment in the examination room had thankfully worked; it often didn't.
-----000-----
The external examination revealed the following. There were two medial forearm lacerations, the left one longer than the right. There was significant bruising all over the body. It was present around the wrists and on the back of the neck. After the head was shaved, further bruising on the scalp was noted. There was additional bruising and minor lacerations on his knees.
Once the peignoir was removed, several bruises in his abdominal area were seen. The victim's genitals were significantly bruised. One testicle appeared disrupted. There was significant trauma around the victim's anus. There was localised evidence of bleeding and the secretion of other liquid substances.
The internal examination was remarkable. The oral cavity evidenced trauma; there were scratches on the insides of the cheeks that were not inconsistent with fingernails. In the abdomen, there was positive fluid and solid organ injury. In the rectum, there were numerous lacerations and abrasions. The anal canal was severely traumatised. The mucosa of the rectum was atypical. There were several fluids collected from the oral cavity, gastrointestinal system, and the rectum; the fluids were not inconsistent with human semen.
The expedient toxicology report indicated the presence of a benzodiazepine. A more detailed analysis would come later.
-----000-----
The good doctor began drafting her preliminary report. It would be distributed to the police and the prosecutor's office.
Provisionally, the manner of death was suicide, and the cause of death was the cutting of the wrists. She was reluctant to move beyond those impressions at this juncture.
She hypothesized that the victim had been drugged, abused, assaulted. Where and precisely when were not presently determinable. The suicide came later; he probably cut his right arm first so that he could make the deeper, more deadly cut with it, his stronger arm. Some of the bruising was consistent with falling off a table. Much of the bruising, however, was consistent with being forcibly held, punched, and kicked.
She hit 'send', and off the preliminary report went.
-----000-----
The good doctor arrived home just before midnight. Her beloved wife greeted her: "The kids missed you. I told them you'd give them a great story tomorrow night." She kissed Pascale and went back to bed.
The good doctor sat in the darkened living room in her deathly quiet home.
She sipped her vodka; it tasted necessary.
She stared at the TV; it wasn't on.
She tried to recall the boy's face; she did.
She tried to recall the boy's name; she did.
His were like the hundreds of other tragic faces and names: she never forgot them.
She sipped her vodka.
THE POLICE STATION --- MONDAY
Jim and Janet arrived from the hotel. They had not been permitted into the crime scene. After their brief visit with Nancy, they had spent many hours on the phone in their hotel suite sadly informing their brothers, sisters, and other family members that Paul had committed suicide.
The toughest call had been with Jim's dad, after whom Paul had been named.
Detective Smith and another detective took Janet into one interview room. Detective Jones and another detective took Jim into a different one. Both interviews were similar. The police asked them of Paul's life, his friends, his interests.
"How was Paul around his girlfriends or girls who were his friends?" He had flirted and dreamt, Jim answered, but no, no girlfriend yet.
"How might he have come to wear women's clothing?" Janet strenuously replied that he had never expressed any interest in any female clothing or accessories or makeup.
"How did Paul get along with his sister and her various friends?" Both Jim and Janet independently offered that he had been a bit of a terror. His teasing was marked by rank immaturity, partially rooted in male adolescence and insecurity. Assessed through an adult lens, his teasing had not been spawned by hatred of his sister.
"Who did you leave in charge this weekend?"
"In what ways had Nancy demonstrated her ability to look after him?"
"How did Nancy feel about Paul?"
And so on, until...
-----000-----
In Janet's room:
"This will be difficult for you to hear. The early results from the coroner's office have been received. It appears that Paul was sexually assaulted by at least three different males. There are signs on his body that these acts were committed against him with force."
Janet shuddered. "He was raped?" she whispered. The detective nodded. Janet fainted.
-----000-----
In Jim's room:
"Mr. Sanders, can you think of any reason why Paul might have engaged in homosexual activity?"
Jim instantly sat up. "No. None." He was in shock. He recalled lecturing his son about internet porn on his computer after having discovered Paul had been visiting well-known websites. At the time, Jim had not seen any thing to suggest Paul was interested in anything other than heterosexual activity; he told the police that now.
"Mr. Sanders, the autopsy discovered semen from three males in Paul's body. Your son was sexually assaulted before he died."
"Give me a minute, please," Jim asked.
He stared at the far wall. He kept his thoughts to himself.
"Who?" he asked the police.
"We're investigating," they replied.
THE POLICE STATION --- FRIDAY
Thelma Albertson's parents sat next to her. Her lawyer sat across the table from her.
"In a few minutes," the lawyer began, "the police are going to come in to question you. Neither of you," he gestured to her parents, "will be permitted to be here. I will be here."
Thelma's parents nodded.
It had been a long week for Don Albertson. The police had searched his home and his pharmacy business. They had questioned him. They had informed him that their investigation of him would be brought to the attention of the Registered Pharmacists Regulatory and Review Board; it could review and revoke his licence. He had informed his business lawyer and his insurer. He also took the initiative to report the foregoing to the Board.
Since last Sunday, Vickie Albertson had said nothing to her daughter. She had remembered Thelma's requesting to have a sleepover with Nancy and Shelley a few weeks ago; she told the police about the request. She had remembered Thelma's joking about "getting back" at Paul; she told the police about the joke.
And she had remembered Paul.
She had not known him well. She had known of his reputation for taunting and pestering the girls. She had thought his actions were those of a silly teenage jackass. She had never contemplated her daughter's participating in any crazy scheme to drug him, to cross-dress him, and to leave him alone in a city park at night.
Mother and daughter looked at each other.
A single look can predict a lifetime: Thelma suddenly realized that her mother, her best friend, her best supporter in the world had deserted her forever.
-----000-----
Shelley Burns' interview was about to end. She was terrified.
Yes, she had a lawyer sitting next to her. Yes, he seemed like a nice, caring guy who really wanted to help her. Yes, he had advised her to say nothing, much as he had advised for the bail hearing a few days ago. Yes, he had explained to her how aiding and abetting another's crime implicates one in that crime. Yes, he had objected every now and then to the questions the two detectives had asked her.
But they had known so much! It was as though they had investigated everything and, toying with her, just asked her questions of which they already knew the answers.
She had tried to equivocate. She had tried to be economical. She had tried and tried and tried this and that. Yet there had come a moment during their questioning at which she shuddered and recognized that there was no path of escape in front of her.
"We did it," she confessed, and proceeded to tell the detectives everything without reservation. Once she began, her lawyer reminded her that she did not have to say anything. Yet her detailed confession continued.
She felt that she had completely expurgated her guilt.
She forgot that actions have consequences.
"Shelley Burns, I am placing you under arrest for the following offences: 1) criminal negligence causing death; 2) assault causing bodily harm; 3) administering a noxious substance; 4) possession of a controlled substance; 5) possession of stolen goods; 6) failure to report child abuse while caring for a minor; 7) kidnapping..." There were over 15 charges when the detective finished. Thelma and Nancy had been similarly charged.
Shelley looked baffled. "I told you everything! Can't I go home now?" she begged.
Two uniformed female officers took Shelley away.
THE CEMETARY --- EXACTLY FIVE YEARS TO THE DAY
It was a beautiful, late Sunday summer afternoon: warm, clear skies, brilliant sun.
Jim parked the car and got out. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door for Nancy. He bent over and undid her seatbelt for her. She looked up at him oddly. "Thank you, daddy." He assisted her turning and getting out of the car. She held his arm. He closed the door.
They walked toward the section called 'Garden of Peace' in which was Lot 24, Space 7.
This was the first time Jim walked with a registered sex offender. He had never thought that they looked like his daughter.
Nancy had been released from prison a few hours ago. Her time in 'the system' had not been kind to her. It had a hierarchy; she had been far from its apex.
Juvenile detention and later prison had aged her; she looked 35, not 21. She was lifeless. The only colour on her pale skin was that of her few visible prison tattoos. Her index and middle fingers on her left hand were unnaturally bent; she had been prey.
Years ago, the judge had ordered her to undergo a pre-trial evaluation. It had been determined that she: a) had not been suffering any mental defect; and b) had been capable of appreciating the nature and quality of her actions and knew that they had been wrong.
Following her conviction, she had been confined in 'the system' that was inadequately designed to treat offenders like her. She had required access to mental health personnel and services. Few people who so calamitously contributed to their brother's doom would not. But there were almost no resources in 'the system' to treat her.
The enormity of her mistake had crippled her soul for the past five years, much as it would for the remainder of her ruined life.
Nancy embraced her mother for the first time in years at Paul's grave. Janet caressed her cheek. Both women were overcome by tears. Both women sniffled.
"How are you dear?" Janet softly asked.
Nancy mindlessly nodded her head. Jim gently took Janet's arm and slowly led her away from the grave. Nancy would have the alone time --- here --- that she had requested of them.
Nancy knelt in front of the headstone. She traced each letter on it. A lonely dog barked in the distance.
"I'm sorry, little brother." She put her hands on the top of the headstone and kissed it. "Please forgive me."
Nancy cried for she knew she would never hear his answer.
THE POLICE STATION --- THIRTEEN YEARS LATER
"Fred, I have good news and bad news. The good news," a grey-haired, lined-face Senior Detective Smith said, "is that your DNA doesn't match the DNA found on the security guard's body. Therefore, we won't be pressing any charges against you in respect of the sexual assault at the warehouse last month. You still have three charges of theft under $10,000 and possession. Maybe that's a good thing for you." Her voice trailed off.
Fred smirked. He hadn't raped the young female security guard. He had been too busy stealing stuff from the racks. His cohorts, however, had raped her. The police knew nothing of his cohorts because he had remained silent. And the DNA from the sperm in her body could not temporally link him to the rape.
"So, we can go? You're going to release him under conditions because it wasn't a violent crime, right?" It was a defence lawyer's textbook request from the public defender who, a few months ago, had still been studying those textbooks in law school.
The experienced detective ignored the quaint puppy and smiled back at Fred.
"I did mention bad news, didn't I?" Her eyes twinkled at Fred. His narrowed.
"My dear Fred, your DNA matched some other DNA collected 13 years ago," she said.
Fred said nothing. His face said nothing.
"Paul Sanders." She said his name. Fred flinched.
She pulled out two pictures from a folder.
"What's this about?" the lawyer asked diffidently.
She placed the two pictures on the desk.
The first picture was of Paul. On the autopsy table. Skin white. Eyes lifeless. Mouth open. Makeup. Peignoir. Ponytail. Dead.
-----000-----
The second picture was of something that had ceased to exist long ago.
Janet sitting on a chair in the centre of the picture. Jim standing behind her, his arms around the shoulders of Nancy on his left and Paul on his right, each of whom had put a hand on their mom's shoulders.
Together. Happy. Family.
Jim's face beamed with pride, Janet's burst with love, and Nancy's with hope.
And Paul smiled.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
ALEX
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender-related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
TEMPTATION
The suburbs. Summer. Friday afternoon, 12:20 p.m. to be precise. A hot day. Quiet streets. Air conditioners.
Alice felt free. There would be no one else in the house this weekend. Her parents were away at her grandmother's for two weeks. Her two older brothers (twins, 18 years old) had just left on a camping trip with their friends; they'd be gone until Sunday night.
To everyone on the planet, Alice was a darling girly-girl. Pretty. Smart. Dresses. Straight A student. Ponytails. Chaste. Heels. Loves kittens. Her life was sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, especially unicorns. Perfect.
But she had a deep, dark secret fantasy: she wanted to be a boy!
Alice was 16 years old, and the prospect of womanhood was less appealing to her than that of manhood. She had never spoken of her fantasy to anyone. She had been looking forward to this weekend ever since her brothers had first told her five days ago that they might sneak off for a party when their parents were away. Alice had instantly perceived the possibility of exploring their wardrobes at a leisurely pace all weekend. No more darting in while they were at football or rugby or martial arts for two or three hours.
She had fondly waved her brothers farewell not more than 20 minutes ago.
-----000-----
She skipped into their room.
She trembled as her fingers slowly moved from one flannel shirt to another, plaid to plaid, from Carhartts to Levis to Wranglers, from one sweaty baseball cap to another. Her nostrils flared as she smelt the Old Spice and Irish Spring on the several shirts that her brothers had worn but had re-hung without washing. The old socks by the side of the bed and not in the hamper: how wonderful it would be to wear the same clothes day after day without washing them, how cool that would be.
She couldn't resist any longer. She stripped off her boyfriend jeans and her Steelers jersey. Jewelry: off. Cotton boy-shorts: off. Drab sports bra: off. She opened Simon's dresser. Sports Performance Boxer Briefs: on. A pair of thin, wool, work-boot socks: on. Her elasto bandage: on. She rolled on his Irish Spring deodorant.
Then she got into the serious stuff.
In David's closet, she found her favourite pair of his old, now far too small work pants; thankfully, he had never thrown them out. They were heavy-duty, thick, tough, and denim. She slid them on. The tough trousers scratched her soft, pale skin. They were a bit too long on her legs, a bit too tight at her hips, and a bit too loose at her waist. Curl the cuffs, live with the tightness, and tighten the belt. Problems solved.
There it was --- again: that loose, empty, glaring void, that spare clothing, between her legs. Damn: she had again forgotten 'Awesome Alex'. She was forever grateful to her older cousin Janet for that secret gift last Christmas. So, she took off the pants and underwear, picked up and strapped on her six-inch silicone Nasty Toy (the smallest size sold), and put the underwear and pants back on.
She took her Sharpies and wrote on the inside of her left forearm, "Stay Strong & Fight Tough" (she drew the ampersand very nicely). On the inside of the right, she drew an axe and a knife dripping blood. She succeeded with barbed wire around most of her biceps but miserably failed at the Celtic Cross above her left breast. She sprayed herself with Steel Hammer, the latest uber-macho body spray for men that all the guys wore now.
She put on Simon's medium-sized, black, cotton/poly t-shirt that said, 'Arsenic is Both Natural and Organic'. He hadn't worn it in years but hadn't thrown it out even though it was way too small for him; the same could be said of his old "FML" hoodie which she put on and flicked the hood forward over her head. Flicking the hoodie back, she slicked her long hair back and up, and placed the tired, worn-out Ravens baseball cap on her head.
She turned on Simon's sound box, hit some Finnish death metal tunes, and shrugged her shoulders aggressively, looking at herself in the mirror.
"Hey, you TALKING to me?" She didn't like it that way. Shrug the shoulders again. "HEY, you talking TO me?" Awful. Deeper voice. Shoulder shrug. "Hey, YOU talking to me?" Just wrong. She paused and thought, then tried again.
Shoulder shrug. Slowly, disinterestedly, subtly, and perfectly:
"Hey, you talking to Me?"
CAUGHT
The lights in the room were suddenly on!
"Yeah, we're talking to You, 'Alex'."
Shocked, she turned and froze. Simon and David were standing in the doorway. David whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and took some pictures of Alex dressed.
"Look at little Alex," Simon continued and then laughed. "Our little brother has been going through our closets again when we're out." Simon slowly moved toward Alex as he spoke. He began to circle her. Alex looked like a picture of fear.
David circled her in the other direction. "Yep, Alex is in shit now. He doesn't know how to respect his older brothers' property. How many years have you been doing this?" He glanced up and down at Alex and snorted. "Fucking little dude doesn't know shit about clothes either." He lightly smacked the back of Alex's head. "Fucking tool."
Alex sniffled.
"Boo-hoo-hoo, is our little baby brother a crying sissy?" Simon mocked her. "Mom and dad are gone for the weekend. Your ass is ours. Time to man up."
"Did you two see me naked?" Alex nervously asked.
Simon accurately jabbed a finger precisely in the centre of Alex's chest and answered that Alex should consider three points. First, all of them (Simon, David, and Alex) were guys, so there was nothing to hide.
Second, assuming without accepting that Alex was a girl, then she should know that they (David and Simon) were healthy, hetero, horny, sexually active 18-year old teenage boys who had already seen more "tits and ass" then their little sister could ever imagine (if they had a little sister, which was not accepted but merely assumed).
Third, "So what, dumbass? We saw you naked. What the fuck are you going to do about it?" Alex had no answer to that.
David asked her what the name of her dick was. Alex shook her head, not understanding the question. David explained: "Every guy gives his dick a name because, for his entire life, a guy's dick will always be there for him as a best friend. In good times and bad. The rollercoaster of life. Wanna feel really good? Your best friend is there for you. Can't get laid that night? Your best friend is there for you. Face it, logically, as a matter of respect, you would want your best friend to have a name, wouldn't you?"
Alex conceded that David's logic was impeccable.
David urged her to name her dick: "Mine is 'Bushmaster' and Simon's is 'Womb Raider' and yours is ...?"
"Awesome Alex," she murmured. She began to wonder what she had gotten herself into.
BARBERSHOP
"You're speeding," Alex said sternly as David's Camaro raced through the suburban streets. "I'll tell mommy and daddy." Simon looked at his little brother and laughed: she really had no idea what she was getting into. He grinned. She slunk further back into her seat.
They arrived at a barbershop. "Get out," Simon said. Alex had long fantasized about getting a man's haircut. Now, however, the prospect of actually getting one started to unsettle her. That said, she knew that her brothers had no time to make an appointment for her, so she should be safe.
The barber greeted Simon by name and told David there was a free chair. "Sit down," Simon told Alex. She was astonished: how could one just walk in and get a haircut without an appointment? David turned and asked, "Alex, what sort of haircut have you long dreamed about?"
She immediately answered, "A number two, high and tight, please."
Truly surprised, David moved closer to his little brother and pointed to a haircut poster: "Alex, do you know what that is? That's a high and tight, a four or five. See how short that is? Millimetres. Marines get these. Do you understand that you'll have almost no hair on your head for about six months? And it will take you years to grow your hair back to as long as it is now? Are you sure you want this? Have you thought this through?" His voice was slow, clear, and honest, his eyes penetrating.
Alex definitely somewhat knew she probably thought she could be sufficiently confident enough to in some way consider concluding she might possibly be able to perhaps do it. Maybe. She gulped and answered with brazen bravado:
"Yes, I want it."
"No, you don't," David replied. Firmly. Instantly.
He was plainly irritated; Simon stood next to him and looked equally irritated. Alex looked confused. David quietly snapped at her: "Get an SMH, a Standard Male Haircut. Do you understand me? An SMH. Ask him for it. Now." His tone was uncompromising and commanding.
Alex bit her bottom lip and said to the barber, "A Standard Male Haircut please, sir."
The barber gave Alex an issue of 'Chicks Over 40' to read: "You look old enough for it, young man." She took it and started to read an article about Norwegian wombats. Simon took it, turned the pages to the MILF centerfold, and gave it back to her to look at.
The carnage was over in 15 minutes. At least a decade of Alice's hair fell to the floor. Her brothers captured the event on their smart phones.
The result was, at best, a token SMH (it was hardly one at all actually). From a man's perspective, Alex had a nice tomboy haircut. From a woman's perspective, Alex now sported a professional-looking, edgy, messy, shaggy, long bangs pixie cut.
Alex did not see Simon nod his thanks to the barber and slip him a twenty.
Alex looked in the mirror and was happily stunned: she had man-hair! Hundreds of thousands of brush strokes: gone. Many of her hair tools, pins, bands, sprays, guck, etc.: useless. She could see her ears and the back of her neck. Her head felt lighter and immediately cooler; long hair was hot and heavy. Her skin around her hairline was now two-tone: the fish-belly-white contrast against her otherwise light tan was shocking. She ran her hand over her head. She thought how easy this would be to wash and dry, an hour each morning freed. Although Alex felt a part of her had died, she also felt someone new had been born. Cool!
Simon took pictures. "For Instagram," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Alex, move it along," David snapped at her.
Alex got up and went to pay. She realized that she had no purse nor wallet, no money. Simon moved up to her, rolled his eyes, and gave her a twenty (another twenty!). "Fucking cheapskate," he said. Alex paid the barber the eighteen dollars owing and kept the two dollars change. David smirked at that. Simon shook his head in dismay.
Simon told Alex to put her "fucking lid" on. The baseball cap went on. She took it off to re-adjust and shorten the band size. Then it went back on. She snuck a lollipop into her pocket on the way out.
AT THE BIG BOX STORE
"You need clothes that fit you, little dude," Simon roared at her, as the car raced through the streets with all the windows down. David deftly navigated the Camaro through the parking lot filled with campers and trailers. Simon led them to the store's blue front doors and then to the tiny men's clothing section.
Alex surveyed the selections in men's clothing. Drab colours. Black. Grey. Blue. Grey-blue. Blue-black. Forest green. Oxygenated blood red. Mustard yellow. More black. More grey. An exciting mix of forest green and grey-black. There were no pinks, fuchsias, mauves, lilacs, ecrus, pastels, nor florals. Just bland colours. And harsh materials. Everything was denim, cotton, heavy nylon, or dense, heavy poly. Everything had the texture of the underside of a rug. There was not a speck of satin or other soft material to be seen.
She was astonished: "I never knew this section was so small and so dull. This explains so much."
"You need a complete outfit, shithead," Simon said. He threw Alex some jeans, some T-shirts, a cheap jacket, two grey hoodies, and green baseball hat with a skull on it. Alex took the clothes and headed to the change room. "Whoa!" said Simon. He told her that she, Alex, had no need to use the change room. Guys just pick out their sizes and buy stuff. Changes rooms are for girls. Alex stared at her brothers with disbelief.
A few minutes later, Alex also had in the cart some brown steel-toed men's work boots and some dark brown, chunky sandals with ginormous Velcro straps. With her new haircut and carrying some brown footwear, she felt a wee bit empowered and tough. She pushed the cart with a slight sneer on her face and a bit of a swagger in her step.
-----000-----
Her brothers directed her to the health and pharmacy section.
Simon took Alex to the family planning aisle. "Awesome Alex, eh? That's a small Nasty Toy you got. Size matters, you wimp," he said. "Anyway, get this box of midget condoms," he said, passing her a box of Super Statues (Average). "Here's your lube. Chicks love slurping this strawberry stuff," passing her another box. Alex did not know what to say about that.
David came back with some jars in hand. "Here's your creatine monohydrate, caffeine, and BCAAs. Once we get the Red Bull, you're gonna be so jacked up to squat and press more than you ever have, bro." He slapped Alex on the back then instantly looked concerned.
"You need better lats and traps. Pump more, bud," he said worriedly, "or shoot some juice."
-----000-----
In the rod and gun section, they asked her whether she wanted a Remington 770 or a Sig 226. Alex asked what the difference was. David said, "The Remington is an okay intro hunting rifle. A starter definitely." Simon said, "The Sig is great for home defence and standing your ground." Alex's mouth was wide open and sort of conveyed a 'what-the-fuck-have-Idone -to-myself-now' look. Simon added: "If you get the Sig, then you get 1000 rounds of 9 mil free."
David pretended to whip out a pistol from a pretend hip holster and pointed it at Alex. "That's a good deal on ammo. Wanna shoot some steel?" Alex didn't know what to say.
Alex gruffly asked if she could purchase a pocketknife generally, a Swiss Army Signature Lite specifically. Her brothers howled with laughter. Loud, roaring, reverberating laughter.
A clerk hurriedly approached with an AED and asked who was in distress and needed CPR. David and Simon explained that Alex wanted a Swiss Army Signature Lite pocketknife. The clerk joined in their laughter.
Other staff hurriedly came with more AEDs to treat the apparent mass casualty incident. They were told what was occurring. They too then laughed and pointed at Alex.
One of the clerks took the public address system microphone and made a public announcement. "A young man in the rod and gun section is looking for a Swiss Army Signature Lite. If anyone can help him, then please meet him soonest in the ... in the ... women's panty section!" The clerk rolled on the floor in laughter.
His manager stormed over to him and berated him. The clerk, chastened, took the microphone again and humbly made a corrective, second announcement in accordance with his manager's instructions:
"Sorry shoppers. The previous announcement was wrong, and I deeply apologize for it. Here is the correct message. There is a young man named Alex in the rod and gun section and he wants to buy a Swiss Army Signature Lite knife. If you think he should not, if you think like I do that he should buy a more manly knife, then please, on the count of three, please yell out 'Manly' in the store. One. Two. Three!"
The building rocked with cries of 'Manly! Manly! Manly!'.
A little baby boy being pushed in a shopping cart yelled out, "Sissy!" and, with a look of disgust on his babyface, threw a box of Graham animal crackers at Alex. Alex sullenly looked at the floor.
She felt ashamed that everyone in the store was staring at her and sneering at her unmanly desire to have the Signature Lite, whose best features were the ball point pen, small flashlight, and nail file. Oh, and it had a tiny, teeny-weenie, small blade too. Couldn't they understand?
Simon was astounded: "A Signature Lite? What are you going to attack with it? A wounded teddy bear? A kitten trapped in a bathtub? A customs form at the border? Your nails?" David joined him, and they laughed and laughed and laughed. Alex cringed under the jeering taunts; she knew she had made another mistake. David roared, "That's not a man knife." Simon said, "You're a complete sissy if you get that one."
They pointed to the Ka-Bar Becker BK22: "Now that's a good knife," they said reverently. Alex put a BK22 in her cart and proceeded to the checkout.
-----000-----
The checkout girl was in fact a huge, muscular guy who could never, ever, ever (not even in the worst, third-rate, flea-ridden online fiction story ever written, (like this one)) be confused for a female no matter how much women's clothing, makeup, etc. he wore. And so, all 7 feet and 289 pounds of Max Steel stared down at all 5 feet and 110 pounds of Alex and asked in his deep voice, "What are you doing, little girl? Why aren't you buying nice dresses and pretty stuff?"
Maybe it was Alex's new haircut. Maybe it was her new brown footwear. Maybe it was the intoxicating feel of the heavy-duty cotton denim rubbing against her thighs. Maybe it was the sense of raw power she got walking around the store with all six inches of Awesome Alex strapped on and ready to launch.
Alex replied. Slowly, disinterestedly, subtly, and perfectly:
"Hey, you talking to Me?"
Max Steel was surprised. He then bent down toward her, gave her an evil eye, and murmured, "Don't give me any lip, kid. I can fuck up your checkout in a heartbeat and keep you here for price checks up the ying-yang. What if I think you've been shoplifting, eh? I can fuck up your day. Call the cops. Say I saw you putting those condoms in your pocket. How embarrassed you gonna be when they pat you down, eh, and check out your junk? Is that a cucumber down your pants? You get my drift? Are you gonna be a good little princess now?"
Alex paused and looked up, way up, at Max. She then reverted to her timetested, proven ways, and flashed Max her 'everyday-is-just-wonderful!' girlie smile and batted her eyelashes. With her chip-cheery BFF voice, she said, "I would like to purchase these items, sir. No bags please, I brought a shopping bag with me so we can save the oceans from plastics." Max briefly looked at her with astonishment, and then laughed and asked for $74.66.
Alex gasped for two reasons: 1) she had again forgotten that she had no money on her; and 2) so little money got so much men's clothing and stuff: there was no tampon tax here! Simon moved up to her, stared at her, and gave her some bills. "You fucking skinflint," he said. "You owe me." He gently slapped the back of her head. "Time to get ready to party, bro!" Alex had no idea what he meant.
FRIDAY EVENING DRINKS
The Camaro roared into the bar's parking lot. David and Simon got out as quickly as possible and raced into the dive. It was a greasy spoon of a kitchen, a sorry excuse for a bar, a lousy place to hang out in, but it drew the chicks from afar.
And it had great chicken wings.
The two older brothers strolled in, looked at the waitress who gave them a quick look over and a knowing nod, and headed to a large table. It could seat 12; no one else was there. David and Simon sat down.
"Where's Alex?" the two brothers asked each other. They looked around. They saw her.
Alex was standing before the washroom doors, wondering which one to enter. She had to go pee and change her tampon; these needs pulled her heart toward the woman's door. But then a matronly woman exited that washroom, briskly walked past her, and looked at her suspiciously. Perhaps she thought Alex was some sort of pervert. Alex was wearing men's clothing.
A man exited the men's can and briefly held the door for her. "I can do this," she thought to herself. She decided. She acted. She went into the men's washroom. A man brushed by her to get into a stall. Two men brushed past her to leave. Three men in line waited patiently for a free urinal. After 20 seconds, there was a free one. Ten seconds later, another. No standing in a lineup; this was worth it, she thought.
She walked into one of several empty stalls. The lid and seat were up. The white ring was speckled with spots of yellow piss. There were no brown streaks in the bowl. There were hardly any scraps of toilet paper on the floor. There was a small puddle of some clear'ish looking liquid near the base of the toilet. A toilet brush lay on its side on the floor. The stall's walls were grey metal, dented here and there, and had some graffiti on them. "School sucks," said one. "So does your wife," said another below it. Yet another said, "Arsenic is all natural and all organic." Just below that was scrawled, "So are blowjobs."
She had thought a men's washroom would be filthier; but this one was immaculate compared to most women's washrooms, in her experience.
-----000-----
She returned to the table. David and Simon had ordered two pitchers of beer. Each had a large glass. A small glass had been surreptitiously poured for her. Did they expect her to drink this? They grinned at her and raised their glasses. She hesitated and raised hers.
"Cheers," Simon shouted, "to haircuts and new work boots!" David added, "No, to properly sized condoms," Simon said. "Fuck, I almost had a heart attack when that guy made that announcement." David laughed. "No worries! You had all the AEDs in the store next to you!" They laughed and drank.
Alex only drank. She sat quietly. She put her right hand on her hip; the BK22 was still in its sheath on her belt. She wanted to brush her hair and check her makeup. She stopped herself. Short hair today. No makeup today. She adjusted Awesome Alex. Stay calm. The weekend wasn't unfolding like she had thought it might. The beer tasted kinda okay. She burped. She poured herself another one.
-----000-----
A few minutes later, a casual acquaintance from high school, Edmund, showed up, said "hi", and went to hit the can. Alex's brothers' friends Steve and Gerry also showed up, poured themselves a beer each, and sat down, Steve next to Alex and Gerry at the end of the table.
Steve looked at Alex curiously; after a pause, he blandly asked "Who are you?" She looked at him; smart, lean, and athletic Steve; deep sigh. Before she could answer, Simon said, "Steve, that's my little brother, Alex."
Steve looked slyly and more closely at Alex. "Sports?" Steve asked Alex, who shook her head 'no'. "Madden?" No. "Shoot steel?" Alex dropped her jaw and looked at David, who laughed. "Girlfriend?" Alex vigorously shook her head 'no'. "Boyfriend?" Steve mischievously asked Alex, who blushed, slowly shook her head 'no', and looked away.
Gerry interrupted: "Awesome! We're gonna get you a babe and get you laid tonight, brother!" He reached for his phone, stood up, walked away, and started talking to someone on the phone. Alex was taken aback.
Steve punched Alex in the arm: "It'll be cool, little dude. Tap whatever you can while you can, eh?" Alex winced at the punch but smiled at him, nodded with him, put her hand on his bicep, and briefly rubbed it. Steve brushed her hand away and said, "That's kinda gay, buddy." He glanced at Alex and sipped his beer. Edmund returned and grabbed a beer.
"Is that a BK22?" Steve asked her. Alex replied that it was and recounted her shopping experience. She omitted all of the embarrassing parts. Steve laughed and accused Alex of being too economical. Alex asked him what that meant. Steve replied that Simon and David had live-streamed much of their adventures with their little brother for their private social media circle. Alex wilted under Steve's smirk.
Gerry came back elated: "Stephanie's gonna come over and she's bringing a date for Alex!" Simon, David, Edmund, and Steve laughed. Alex's face was blank.
-----000-----
Oh, my fucking God, Alex thought: they've set me up with Zara Linscol; that bitch is profoundly stupid and immensely dumb.
Stephanie, Sara, Grace, Wanda, Suzy, and Mary had come to the flea-ridden dive and joined the guys. The beer flowed.
Stephanie never strayed far from her boyfriend Gerry. Zara sat next to Alex. Grace and Suzy flung themselves onto Simon and David. Wanda and Edmund seemed to be getting along fine at one end of the table. And Mary was checking out her iPhone, not wanting to bother with Steve whom she had once dated but now had no interest in and who was sitting at the other end of the table.
Zara sipped some of Alex's beer. She slowly crawled her fingers up Alex's arm and encircled Alex's neck. She moved in and whispered in Alex's ear: "I really go for the silent, broodingly freakish, compassionate, poet type. Can you be that for me? Can you my Byron, my Shelley, my Wilmot, or my Swinburne?" She kissed Alex's ear.
Some of the others drifted toward a pool table.
Alex was paralyzed. Zara's other hand crept up Alex's leg, from her knee to her mid-thigh toward her Awesome Alex. A knee squeeze. A thigh squeeze. A groin squeeze. Zara's other hand softly caressed Alex's far cheek. Nibble kisses in her ear. Gentle warm breaths on her face. A hint of perfume.
"I know you like me. I can feel that you like me," she cooed in Alex's ear as she began to caress Awesome Alex through Alex's pants. "Aren't you a little priapic today, honey!"
Alex started to sweat. She couldn't breathe. She felt herself becoming aroused by ... by this woman ... by this profoundly stupid and immensely dumb woman ... by Zara Linscol! Alex started to hate herself and felt cheap.
"Buzz off," she shakily said to Zara. "I've got a girl back home and I don't cheat on her. Now please go away." She pushed Zara's hand away from Awesome Alex and shrugged her shoulders to make Zara retract her other hand.
More of the others drifted toward a pool table.
Zara, slightly drunk, laughed and swore at her: "Aren't you a little sissy virgin, afraid of a real woman. You're a bottom if I ever met one." She got up and walked over to where Suzy and Grace were; the three young women exchanged some words, glanced over at Alex, and laughed. Alex stewed, not comprehending exactly what had just happened (nor what 'bottom' meant).
Steve came out from nowhere, gave Alex another small glass of beer, and disappeared back into nowhere.
Alex saw her brothers and most of the girls at a couple of the pool tables. Only Edmund and Wanda remained at the table.
-----000-----
Alex sipped her beer, her third beer. She decided that it might be best to sit back, watch, and absorb the sights and sounds. Be cool. Chill.
Edmund was talking to Wanda. He laughed. She chuckled. He talked some more. She looked at her beer. He put his hands to his chest as though defending himself. He laughed; she laughed.
Alex could not hear them. The classic oldies from the 2000s played in the background. Shouts of victories and triumphs echoed from the pool tables and dart boards. The clang of glasses and tableware rang out from the bar and kitchen. People talked.
Wanda said something to Edmund. He straightened up and glared at her. He said something. She responded by wagging a finger in his face. He turned his head away from her. She tilted her head toward his face, as though telling him to look at her. He turned his head again; they were face to face.
She said something to him and smiled. He winced and said something to her. Her nostrils flared. Then he said something, and she got teary-eyed. He wagged his finger in her face. He leaned forward toward her and put his other hand on her shoulder. His finger moved emphatically back-andforth in her face.
She leaned back, away from him. Her mouth was closed. Her eyes betrayed her fear. Her hands gripped the sides of her chair. Her knuckles were white. He kept talking and talking, louder and louder.
Alex could now hear snippets. From him: "...what were you fucking thinking...", "...your own fault again...", and so on. And from her: "...I'm so sorry...", "...I won't, I promise...", "...I didn't mean to...", and so on. Snippets. And this went on in that vein for several minutes.
And Alex just sipped her beer, just heard the odd wisp of conversation, and just watched the Edmund and Wanda show.
Wanda started to cry. Edmund spoke faster and faster. His finger morphed into a fist that was waved in Wanda's face. His other hand started to rock Wanda's shoulder. Her head looked down at the floor. Tears spotted the floor. Her hands clasped her cheeks and the sobbing began in earnest.
"...don't argue..." Edmund said with venom. Wanda, sobbing, nodded her agreement. "What do you say?" he asked her. Her sobs muffled her answer.
Alex was fascinated with the genuine human drama unfolding before her eyes. This beat television and movies. She sipped her beer, adjusted Awesome Alex, grabbed some chips out of the common bowl, and continued to watch the live entertainment at the end of the table.
Edmund grabbed both of Wanda's shoulders. His face was inches from hers. He was whispering something to her. She just kept nodding and nodding in response. Her face showed defeat. Her tears glistened in the bar's bad light. Her body was shaking.
Alex was rivetted.
Edmund's mouth was moving at light speed. The words spewed forth relentlessly: "...I'll show you...", "...never in a million years...", and so on. His head tilted back and forth, always imposing upon her space, always leaning in, always staring, gloating. And Wanda's head merely rocked back and forth, as though under the constant splash of bullets. Edmund's voice got sporadically louder: "...is no other way! Now you're gonna! And don't you ever...", and so on.
Alex wondered how this would end. She had never seen anything like it. She leaned back in her chair, sipped her beer, ate a couple of peanuts, and just watched and just watched and just watched.
She was mesmerized by the spectacle of emotions right in front of her.
TERMINATED
Suddenly and unexpectedly, her two older brothers strolled over to where she was, easily picked her up under her arms, lazily carried her out to their car, and gently dumped her in the backseat.
As they picked her up, she saw Gerry and Steve hustle Edmund away from Wanda and toward a bouncer; she also saw the other young women (except Zara Linscol) surround and start to comfort Wanda.
As she put her seat belt on, Alex said, "What the fuck, assholes?"
Simon flicked her nose with his middle finger and snarled, "Shut the fuck up." Alex shut up. She sat silently as they drove home. She watched the familiar streets pass by. The silence was awkward. Her brothers looked rather grim. She wondered why they were going home so suddenly.
At home, David and Simon sat her down, alone, on the love seat in the living room. They sat side-by-side opposite her on the larger couch. She looked at them. Neither Simon nor David seemed overly wrought or stressed; they just sat there staring at her severely.
"Alice," David started flatly, and she noted his use of her actual name, "we are not playing this game with you anymore. You're gonna have to go back to your room and get changed. Dress-up time is over. You can give it a try some other weekend."
"Fuck that," Alex replied. "What gives, bro?" Her tone was snarky, arrogant, dismissive. The haircut and steel-toed workboats had that effect on her. And the knife too; don't forget the knife. Maybe the three little beers did as well; Alex was, after all, only 16.
The twins simultaneously hammered their fists on the oak coffee table and shouted in unison:
"ALICE! SHUT UP!"
-----000-----
Alice flinched in actual fear! The sound of the fists hitting the table blasted through her and sobered her! Never had she seen them so mad so close to her! Their voices scared her! Their rage was focused, primal, and directed toward her! She tried to shrink into nothingness in the love seat! How to get away? How to escape? Don't breathe!
Long ago, Alice had known --- on a theoretical level --- that her brothers could hurt her if they wanted to. They never had nor had they ever threatened her; indeed, they had often protected her. She had been, in this respect, globally speaking, a very fortunate young woman. As she had grown up, because the theoretical had seemed so remote, Alice had attached scant attention to it and, what should not have been forgotten, became forgotten.
Now, Alice instantly remembered it. Her brothers could physically destroy her --- obliterate her, annihilate her, kill her --- in seconds. This irreducible truth raced through her. And it terrified her.
She stilled herself to prevent an assault.
She steeled herself to suffer an assault.
-----000-----
Both Simon and David saw her tense and flinch, and, not wanting that, they quickly sat back on the couch and visibly relaxed.
Simon nodded toward David who began caringly: "Alice, relax. We love you. We always have and we always will. Today was for you. It would have been all weekend, but you made a mistake, it was a big one, and we think you need to reset your idea about being a boy. Give it another go after some more research and reflection, okay?"
Cautiously, quietly, Alice started to breathe again. Do not, she thought, make any sudden moves. Not yet.
"Alice," Simon said patiently, "you were there. You saw Edmund pick on Wanda. You saw someone getting bullied. You wouldn't want to be treated the way Edmund treated Wanda, correct?"
Alice slowly nodded her agreement.
"Alice," David said gently, "let's be clear then. You were in a position to shout out; you did nothing. You could have stepped in between them, granted, at some physical risk to yourself; but you did nothing. You could have even gotten someone else to come and intervene, us for instance, Gerry and Steve, the bouncers. All of we were nearby; but you did nothing."
Simon spoke: caring was etched across his sympathetic face. "Doing nothing was your big mistake. Huge mistake." He ran his fingers through his hair. That everyday action by him, one that she had witnessed him do so many times, reassured Alice that Simon would not harm her.
David's eyes shone lovingly at her: "It doesn't matter whether you wear a dress or a pair of pants or whatever. What matters is what you do when others who need help --- the weak, the poor, the vulnerable --- are within your reach and your ability to assist. That's why Simon and I did not go camping this weekend. We figured Alex would show up and would need some friendly, fun mentoring. We wanted to be here for you this weekend." He grinned, reached across the table, and affectionately petted her knee; that one familiar act reassured her that David would not harm her.
Alice deeply loved, respected, and admired both of her older brothers, today more than most. They always had this uncanny ability to pierce through everything she pretended to be and to strike her true essence, her soul. And to get her to listen. She sniffled.
-----000-----
David glanced at Simon, who nodded his endorsement of the devastation they were about unleash upon their beloved younger sister.
Simon said seriously, "You've had some silly man fun today, like buying a knife."
David said seriously, "But to be a good man, a real man, or even a good woman, you know, you first have to be a good person."
Simon said seriously, "You did nothing when a weak person needed help today. Nothing."
David said seriously, "So, you didn't just fail as a man today; no, much worse, you failed as a person."
Alice's lips quivered. David and Simon looked at each other and then at Alice and then in unison sadly said, with complete sincerity:
"You really disappointed us."
That single sentence slayed her. Alice started to cry, sob, and wail. Her brothers came over to hug her.
SATURDAY MORNING
Ten o'clock. Alice was still in bed, still in her satin top and shorts pajama set, and still reflecting on Friday's events.
Her fantasy weekend lay in tatters.
Yes, she had been too superficial in her secret desires. There was more to being a man than carpenter pants and chewing tobacco. There were certainly far more subtle rules and protocols than she had ever first imagined. Her ignorance had led to her public humiliation.
Yes, she should have done something to stop Edmund. She had made a big mistake of omission. Yes, she had let down Wanda. Wanda had needed help and Alice had failed to provide it. Alice could have easily been in Wanda's position. One day, she might be and might need someone to help her. But she had failed here. Above all, her brothers were disappointed in her: that really hurt. She had let them down, in front of their friends too.
Alice kicked herself hard. She recognized her biggest mistake and realized its enormity. She could have --- should have --- done better and had not. She felt wretchedly miserable.
-----000-----
Alice's phone rang: unknown name, unknown number. She picked up anyway.
"Hi, is Alex there?" She didn't immediately recognize the man's voice.
"Hello, I'm sorry but you have the wrong number. There's no Alex here." She sniffled a bit. There was a pause on the phone.
"Is that Alice? It's Steve." Alice's heart skipped a beat. "I went out with your brothers yesterday and, uh, met their, uh, little brother, Alex. I just got off the phone with Simon a few minutes ago. He told me that I could, uh, definitely reach Alex at this number. Sorry, but I don't want to talk to you. I want to talk to Alex."
Alice sniffled a bit more. She was embarrassed. "I'm sorry but Alex isn't here anymore. He didn't fit in around here." There was another pause on the phone.
"Well, Alice, that's too bad. You see, I found Alex to be kinda fun and interesting, for a sissy kinda guy, you know. I'm not, uh, gay or like that, but, if I were, then Alex just might be the, uh, cute guy that I'd like to hang with. That tomboy haircut of his, that attractive elfish face, the kinda-effeminate way he carried himself. And that spunky personality trying to be manly. And he made me laugh! I had a great time with him. Honestly, I've had adorable little sissy Alex on my mind ever since I met him."
Alice stopped breathing.
"So, I had been wondering whether he would have wanted to come over --- anytime today --- to hang by the pool or watch a game on TV or play Madden. Or maybe catch a movie and stuff. You know, chill together, spend quality time together. I thought he was pretty...awesome."
Alice stared at the phone: Super Steve was asking Alex to "spend quality time together".
"But. If. You're. Saying. He's. Gone..." Steve's slow, teasing voice faded into a soft chuckle.
Alice held her phone in a death grip.
"Steve, if I hurry, I can still catch Alex before he's goes. I'll pass on your message and tell him to get to your place in 30 minutes. He'll be there! I promise!" She hung up. She started stripping off her clothes to change into Alex's. Half-dressed, half naked, Alice raced through the house to beg her older brothers to "please, please, pretty please" give Alex a ride to Steve's house.
And they did.
Because they loved their little brother just as much as they loved their little sister.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
AN AMUSING DICHOTOMY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
GROUP #1
The sophisticated and mannerly elder began: "Well then, it's my turn. Let me tell you what I did." The others leaned in closer to listen.
"I secretly put my spouse on super-growth hormones to make better and bigger curves. The effect on the chest was amazing. The mini skirt was designed solely to humiliate and so was the bandeau. The salon went over the top on the hair, makeup, waxing, and lip injections. What a riot! And those towering stilettos! Hah! They were impossible to walk in.
"Just when my spouse thought it couldn't get any worse, bang! Off to a glorious night at a dingy, dumpy gloryhole. And then having to pull the train with twenty customers! So stupid yet so compliant and submissive. A perfect little sub.
"Oh my. Those were wonderful times." The elder sighed. "They're over now."
The elder looked at her friends and asked whether they would like some more tea or sherry before they went back to their respective mansions.
GROUP #2
The sophisticated and mannerly elder began: "Well then, it's my turn. Let me tell you what I did." The others leaned in closer to listen.
"I secretly put my spouse on super-growth hormones to make better and bigger curves. The effect on the chest was amazing. The mini skirt was designed just to humiliate and so was the bandeau. The salon went over the top on the hair, makeup, waxing, and lip injections. What a riot! And those towering stilettos! Hah! They were impossible to walk in.
"Just when my spouse thought it couldn't get any worse, bang! Off to a glorious night at a dingy, dumpy gloryhole. And then having to pull the train with twenty customers! So stupid yet so compliant and submissive. A perfect little sub.
"Oh my. Those were wonderful times." The elder sighed. "They're over now."
The elder looked at his friends and asked whether they would like some more bread or water before they went back to their respective prison cells.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
BLIND
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender-related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
MOVING
A change is as good as a holiday. Or is it 'a rest'? Regardless, it was time for change; I was swapping the country for the city.
Forty years ago, Kevin and I had met at university; both of us were 20 and immediately attracted to the other. Study, study together, study then hang together, then screw studying and just hang together, etc.: it's a very common university pattern. We loved each other. We married, got jobs in the city, bought the quintessential suburban home, had children, and lived the quintessential suburban life. There were challenges, I might say, along the way.
Regardless, we became empty nesters and then, three years ago, I became a widow: an early onset of dementia and an unfortunate traffic accident. I would visit Kevin one last time and once again forgive him for not being himself during the last two years of his life. He had always liked pink roses; they always sat nicely by his headstone.
I didn't feel too guilty about moving. The house needed an extensive reno that I was not prepared to both pay for and endure. Many of our old neighbours --- friends, actually --- had aged and moved. Our remaining ones were considering moving too. Traffic in the city was increasingly chaotic. People were increasingly rushed. Busy, busy, busy; I hated the city now.
And I hated the house. My home. If walls could talk.
As a widow, I acutely felt the loneliness. The bed in which our children had been conceived? Still there and still cold now, even in the summer. Every time I walked down the main hallway, I could still see his slipshod drywall repair: "I can do it during halftime; don't worry." I had worried and then for seven years after I was reminded of that spot by the spot. Ghosts like that haunt a house.
Other ghosts do too. There were fond ones. The twins at 6 trying to build a soccer pitch in the backyard. The twins at 12 laughing at the dinner table as they joked and relentlessly teased. The twins at 18 coming in the front door at two o'clock in the morning, swearing on their granny's grave that they hadn't been drinking with their boyfriends.
There were some other ghosts as well. The twins' chasing their younger brother down that same defective hallway. The twins' explaining their obvious innocence and commendably accusing their younger brother of general and specific unruliness. The twins' understandable fixation on revenging themselves upon him for his several transgressions.
And there was one dark ghost, found in the silence of... of that empty bedroom.
I wanted to put all this history behind me and move beyond my current walls.
Far away.
-----000-----
I settled on a 2-acre lot in the Town of Pleasantville. The little town was safe, clean, and hospitable. Nestled in-between some hills by the shores of our state's biggest lake, it offered outdoor adventures, fresh air, and a quieter pace. Because of its distance from the bigger cities, commuting was not practicable and therefore housing prices remained low.
Kev and I had paid off our mortgage years ago. We had also saved; it did us well. The twins didn't have to work while at university (they did in the summer). We always had two cars. Kev never wanted for a power tool that he didn't already have. My nails and hair were ever immaculate. Between the equity and profit from the home in the city and our savings and investments, I could live comfortably for the rest of my life, with nary a want nor a care.
It was not likely that my daughters would disturb that tranquility.
In retrospect, I suppose one might charitably say that Kev had spoilt them; uncharitably, one might say I had. I am not and never have been persuaded by the latter argument. I certainly had encouraged them to be forthright and assertive. The young women of today have so many more opportunities than I had decades ago. I envied my daughters. I agree that I pushed them into modernity. I admit not having expected them to run so far away into it that they left me behind.
They and their husbands and their children lived in Europe now. It was communicated to me that I should feel privileged to enjoy even one week per year with each of them. It was of great disconcertment that my daughters never made me feel truly welcome. Me! Their mother! Each time I departed Emily's Tuscany villa or Fiona's Normandy manoir, I sensed belittlement and condescension.
I didn't like that feeling. It was the sense that I was unwanted and undesirable. Silent contempt. Hushed disdain. Each time my daughters told me that they loved me, I saw in their eyes their asking me to get out of their and their respective families' lives.
I drove the car along the country road toward Pleasantville. I lowered the windows and enjoyed the bright, sunny day. Farmers' fields: the smell of cow shit hung in the air.
No, neither Emily nor Fiona would ever visit me here.
-----000-----
I paused at the stop sign, as one should I suppose. The sign said, 'Church Street'. I turned left onto it. I hadn't been here in three months. I knew what my new house looked like but could not place it within the sequence of houses on the street. Sigh: numbers then. Why do so many houses now have such small address numbers on them? There it was! Number 77.
I parked on the street across from it. I stood by my car and took in my new home. It was a 900 square foot bungalow. Stucco exterior: white. A black, metal roof. Baskets hanging from the many windows. A neat front lawn. A mature silver maple. Driveway and garage to the left. White picket fences flanking the property. Charm.
The street was tree-lined and shady, refreshingly so on a hot summer's day. The houses adjacent to mine were similar in vintage and design: quaint and cozy. So were the houses behind me, across the street from mine. On the sidewalks, I could see the faint traces of hopscotch courses. Some feral children left their bikes on someone's front lawn. Further down the road, I could see (presumably) two young mothers on a blanket on the lawn tending to their toddlers.
A lawn had been mown recently; the smell of freshly cut grass lingered.
I closed my eyes, leaned against my car, and waited for my real estate agent to arrive and deliver my keys.
I smiled to myself. I wanted this.
THE FIRST WEEK OF MY NEW LIFE
The movers showed on time and unpacked most of my belongings. I sat on the couch in my new living room and listened to the distant cries of kids playing and moms warning.
The doorbell rang. I opened it. I was greeted by a hearty "Hi! I'm Norma, your new neighbour!". The matronly woman walked toward me and offered her hand. She looked an energetic 40-something, maybe late 30-something. I was 60 and normally felt it. But her attitude jolted me in a good way. I couldn't help but smile at her.
We sat in the living room. I offered coffee or tea. She offered freshly baked cookies.
Norma and Greg had moved here twenty years ago. They had come from an even more remote part of the country and considered this bucolic town to be a big city. She chuckled as she said it. They had three teenagers, a dog, a cat, and a basement that was perpetually being redone. Yet another husband's dream project; I sympathized. We bonded.
Norma was a delight! She lived directly across the street from me and knew everybody's business.
The couple to my left were the Barnes, Warren and Dorothy. A retired couple, he had worked in finance and she in nursing. Now she ran the banking and he nursed her: she had gout.
The family to my right, Joanne and Ted Kilby, were owners of a used car dealership, parents of three large teenage boys who were playing football in high school, and devoted Pentecostals. Personally, I confess to never having understood that experiential branch of Christianity. I was proudly Lutheran. Ted was apparently a skirt-chaser: cliché for a used car salesman, I thought.
Norma knew them all. Big Ben, the veteran and ardent Packers fan lived next to her on one side while on her other side were Tammy and Jack Pendergast. It seemed that Ben and Jack would regularly chit chat on Norma's front lawn, Greg would come out ("Get them off the lawn!" Norma would instruct him), and an hour or two later Norma would open her front door, shoo her neighbours away, and scold Greg for not completing whatever part of his basement reno he was working on that day.
We chatted freely for at least two hours. She offered dinner. I feigned off, citing a long day (it had been) and a desire (a real one) for some quiet and contemplation. Norma left.
I stared at the ceiling as I drifted off to sleep. I needed this new home. I was glad to have left the old one.
I felt alive.
-----000-----
Saturday. My first weekend in bliss. I took my morning stroll, waved to various neighbours tending their lawns and gardens, and then showered and dressed for Norma's open house.
She had invited all the neighbours and various friends of hers to her backyard for a no-reason-for-it social. She whispered to me conspiratorially that I would soon be able to put faces to the gossip she had begun to tattle to me! I looked forward to meeting everyone.
I crossed the street carrying a tray of apple crumble crisps and a bucket of ice cream. I found Norma in the kitchen --- "Oh! Hi, Greg!" I added -- - and got to work helping her lay the buffet table and place various snacks. Greg was in charge of drinks; I caught Norma's disapproving glances as he tested each drink.
To be honest, both Norma and I tested some of the sangria as well.
The guests began to arrive at two. Some of them I had met during the past few days. The Moons and Wilkinsons arrived with a bottle of Tattinger in hand. The Bloomers, Fitzs, and Hardys arrived, each with a more conventional bottle. All of them brought boundless smiles on their faces.
Sarah Collins, a ghastly woman, so profoundly stupid and immensely dumb, arrived with an air; she seemed to have been expecting heralds and a red carpet. I've met her twice now, for a total of ten minutes. I don't like her. Norma admitted that she would prefer to have nothing to do with the harridan. I readily understood.
As a single woman, a widow at that, living in a small town and on a street with a varied demographic, I did not expect to be impressed (or smitten!) by many --- or any. My expectations were simpler: meet good people who can enjoy a good meal and share a good wine. Does life have to be more complex than that?
I saw him come through the back gate. He was tall, handsome, and fit. His broad smile at once conveyed happiness and mischief. He looked 40 or so. He wore a golf shirt and shorts; it ought to have been a muscle shirt. If I were younger, then I would be interested. I could and did sigh.
But I had had my time decades ago, and he seemed to be accompanied by an exceptionally attractive woman. Thirtyish. She wore a designer summer dress and expensive low heel sandals. Her jewelry was impeccable. And that was definitely not a knock-off Rolex. I recognized that Everose colour instantly. I immediately envied her; she had my dream watch.
Norma led them to me. "This is Mark from --- how many is it again? --- seven houses down? He's the leading lawyer in town and a wonderful scratch golfer. And this," she nudged the woman forward, "is his darling wife, Jessica."
Mark extended his hand and warmly greeted me. He small-chatted right from the start. He was good at it: marketing his skills compelled him to do so, I suppose. Jessica nodded her head at me. She said nothing except a distant "hi". I reciprocated with a blasé "pleasure". One would think a lawyer's wife would know how to welcome strangers!
Far more amicable and warmer were Heather and Alana Ronaldo, the former a tiny red head who worked at the Town Hall and the latter a senior manager at the nearby Walmart who was, given her roots, not a natural blonde. They knew how to laugh and demonstrated their skill loudly and often. Everyone knew them and loved them. So did I.
I was also tremendously impressed by Charles Dillon and his wife, Christine. They ran a real estate company. I apologized for not having known them earlier. They kindly took the joke for what it was. We bantered back and forth about the local market, my experience, the embarrassing things vendors leave out on display, and the many hidden disasters that unfortunately all too often surprised buyers after the sale went through. These were nice people.
-----000-----
A roseal sunset informed us that Norma's social would wind down. I was so thrilled that she had extended this opportunity to me. I stood next to Norma as she bade the guests farewell.
From Joanne Kilby, I received an invitation to a bridge club. From Tammy and Jack, I received an invitation to dinner next Thursday. Heather and Christine were members of a wine tasting club. I giggled when they informed me of their strict membership requirements: "No Shiraz!" We laughed together.
Mark shook my hand and gave me a compellingly magnetic grip and grin as he said goodbye. In complete contrast was his wife's face; was that contempt? Without trying to be too haughty, I extended my gracious hand and offered a pleasant, "It was such a pleasure to have met you."
She looked down at my hand, kept her two hands on her Louis Vuitton purse, and flatly replied: "Yes. Indeed." She spun around and left me.
What a rude bitch.
SETTLING IN
I never regretted leaving the city to live here.
Pleasantville turned out to be the exact sort of community I had yearned for. How can I summarize my experiences during my first few years?
There were the clubs. I hiked with the Ladies Hiking Club. The primary criteria to determine which trail we used was its proximity at its end to a tea house or other establishment. Gayle, Linda, Maureen, and Bernice were the leading members of this club. They assisted my choices of hiking gear and were stellar trail companions. We became close friends. And their husbands were innocuous.
I've already mentioned the bridge club. It happened that the club was less about bridge --- to be clear, we did play it --- and more about gossip and Chardonnay. I am more inclined toward Pinot Grigio. Joanne ran the show. Allison, Helen, Eve, Tony, Jim, and Oscar (Kerry's husband: I think they're going to get divorced soon) rounded out the eight.
There were also the more frequent, informal activities that transform acquaintanceships into reliable friendships. Norma and I were much like sisters now. There were some other widows in the neighbourhood, and we often shopped or grabbed a tea and biscuit together. These are the sorts of little ties that glue one into a life, into a warm gathering of kindhearted people and a fulsome life.
Frankly, Sarah had tried her best but, despite the frequency of our exchanges, I still found her bothersome and loathsome. I politely treated her as neutrally I could. In fairness, she put on the very best Halloween parties and could be relied upon to dress as a convincing witch. I found no end of irony in that.
I would be remiss were I not to mention that the twins did regularly send me birthday flowers and 'expressions of love', one might call the socalled gifts, at Christmas time. I knew not what my grandchildren looked like anymore. I had over the years slowly felt their apathy.
When you know that someone dislikes you, you feel it, physiologically, not just psychologically.
-----000-----
I unpacked several long-unopened boxes to decorate for my first Christmas in Pleasantville. After the twins had left home and more so after Kevin had died, I had increasingly scaled down holiday decorations. It was reversal time; let's enjoy Christmas again! It wasn't difficult to find the small artificial tree I had purchased several years ago. I placed it on a table centred under the living room window. The lights still worked! What else was in the box?
My stocking. And Kevin's. Mr. and Mrs. Claus. I held them in my hands and cried. It seemed so final; I now had only memories of the silly stocking stuffers he had incessantly gifted to me. How useless so many of them were! Now, how I so deeply wished I could just once get one more of them...
The twins' stockings twisted my stomach. Should I send them to them? Would they care? I doubt they would ever visit me here --- except to confirm that some future ailment was indeed fatal and that they would inherit everything. I resolved to retain Mark for the purpose of drafting a new Will and Powers of Attorney.
And then I saw the fifth stocking. Buried under wrapping paper that I had reclaimed from some old gift. I held it up to the light.
Suddenly, I was no longer in Pleasantville. I was back 'home', in the city. Christmas morning. Kevin was still in bed (sobering up). The twins and I sat gleefully on the couch. Their faces betrayed their mischievous nature. Mine likely expressed my inclination to tease. We watched the gift get opened. We giggled at the shock, the astonishment! We riotously laughed at the shame, the humiliation, the embarrassment!
No!!! I forced myself back to the present. No, no, no!!!
It's a Pleasantville Christmas! I hastily buried the fifth stocking back under the wrapping paper, put all the other stockings back in the box, and closed it.
-----000-----
It was several months later that I wandered along Main Street, heading to Mark's office.
A phone call with Emily had reminded me to substantially reduce her benefits --- and her family's --- under my Will. The ingratitude of that girl. All that I had done to ensure that she enjoyed the best benefits of youth: ignored and forgotten.
Mind you, the virtual visit I had recently had (or suffered, perhaps?) with Fiona and her smarmy husband had not been much better. The condescension: "You should really see the Abbey of Saint-Étienne someday, mom." The disregard: "We might get to Pleasantville next year." The distance: "Best wishes, mother."
Maybe I had taught my daughters too well.
Regardless, I was ushered into Mark's office. He greeted me with a warm, dry handshake. "How might I help you?" Such a nice smile. I explained. His face was now a professional one, his Montblanc scribbled furiously across the yellow, heavyweight bond paper, legal sized pad. "Please fill out this form; it's a client intake form. And this other one please; it's our standard one for Wills and Powers of Attorney."
I examined the form, pursed my lips, and started writing. Names. Addresses. Family members. Their addresses. Investments. Debts. Liabilities. And so on. I suppose it was all necessary background information in order that he and his staff might compose a strong, comprehensive Will. I gave it to him.
"If you'll excuse me a minute, I will just do a quick check of our records to see whether we have any conflict in advising you on this. Shouldn't be a problem. I'll be just a minute."
I waited, staring at the reproduction of Hogarth's 'The Shrimp Girl'.
Mark returned with a grim face. "I'm sorry, but I cannot be your lawyer. There is a conflict of interest that cannot be overcome. Not only on this but on anything. I'm sorry."
I was flabbergasted. Why? I've not been sued here! I have zero ongoing or historical legal matters in this town except my purchase of my house! I asked him. He declined to answer. I pressed the point. He dug in.
"At least give me a hint! Mark, we've shared a good glass of wine together! Please, give me something." He said nothing. He looked at me, passed me the two forms that I had completed, and told me that he was about to lead me out.
At the door, I asked him one last time. He glanced at one of the forms and flicked a finger at it. He smiled as though to say sorry. He said, "Truth will out." He closed the door.
I stood on the street. What the hell just happened?
-----000-----
Norma's hand was warm on mine. Maybe it was the tea mug. Maybe she's just naturally warm. Anyway, her caring touch helped calm me.
"I've not wanted to tell you this," she began, "but it might be worth knowing. Jessica is said to not speak well of you." Norma sipped her tea. "Nothing horrific nor insulting. But she does convey that she does not enjoy your company and will decline if invited to attend something to which you too are invited. Anything. Dinner, Tea. A club meeting. Girls night out. Anything." She sipped her tea.
"When was the last time you saw her?" she asked me.
I had to think. Christmas caroling? Yes, that was it. We were raising money for the earthquake orphans. We sang together. I admit not recalling whether she and I spoke. I don't think we did. Come to think of it, I can't recall having spoken to her at all since Norma's welcoming social last summer.
The coincidences were too coincidental to be coincidences. She's cold to me when we first meet. Mark welcomes my business. I complete two forms. Mark shuns my business. And she's been running me down behind my back. It's not me; it's her.
That bitch.
STEWING
I made inquiries amongst my friends. I had to proceed delicately of course; Jessica was well known and well regarded. Accordingly, between the sunrises and sunsets of several weeks, I blandly nibbled at my various friends' knowledge:
"Oh, how old are those darling children?" (Five, four, and three. Adopted).
"Such a cute couple. When did they marry?" (Seven or eight years ago).
"How long has he been practicing law?" (Fifteen years or so, right after law school).
"Is she from around here?" (No. No one knew exactly whence she came).
"How did they meet?" (At an investment conference in Capital City).
"What does she do?" (Part-time investment advisor, housewife, and community leader).
And on and on my softball questions continued. But each accrued snippet added to my understanding of her. With understanding comes knowledge and with that comes power. I prepared myself.
-----000-----
Norma was kind enough to offer her patio as a neutral site. Her crumpets and tea were renowned and always something to look forward to. I was in the backyard when the doorbell rang. Norma went to get it: Jessica. I heard them greet each other kindly.
I stood as Jessica approached. Norma took her seat and poured Jessica some tea.
"It's a pleasure, Jessica," I said, offering my hand as I spoke.
Jessica almost snickered and replied, "Sure. Please sit." She ignored my hand.
Norma raised her eyebrows and encouraged me to sit. The high road would be best, I suppose. Norma started our conversation, explaining that she liked both of us and had thought she might offer a peaceful venue and chance to get to know each other better. I appreciated her deft tongue. Jessica smiled brightly at her.
"Jessica," I began, "I am afraid that I troubled Mark some months ago. And I've regretted it ever since. I wish there were a way for me to apologize to him." I sipped my tea. I had given much thought to initially assuming a position of blame.
Her chuckle hung in the air. "He declined to advise you?" She ran her fingers through her long blonde hair. Straight nose. Dazzling green eyes. Immaculate makeup. She was stunning.
"Do you know why?" she asked me. I shook my head; I truly didn't.
"Did you bring those forms, Norma mentioned?" I nodded and passed them to her. She read them. She raised her eyebrows once. She put them down. She looked at me. She pursed her lips before speaking again. It struck me that she was putting a great deal of thought into her choice of words.
"Are these forms accurate?" she quizzed me, harshly. I nodded: yes.
"I'll tell you what," she said, "you tell me your entire life story, warts and all, and I will determine whether your oral candor is to be rewarded."
"Rewarded?" I asked, miffed.
"Rewarded, indeed, rewarded. The reward I offer is perspicacity. The cost is truth. Proceed." She was taunting me.
Norma stiffened; she had not expected such tension.
I inhaled and slowly began to tell Jessica the story of my life.
-----000-----
"And then I moved here," I finished.
Jessica stared at me. Her eyes held no emotion. There was neither smile nor sneer.
"That's it?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered.
She studied her fingernails for a moment. Both hands. She pursued her lips as she did so.
"So, I want to make sure I understand this. Your husband, Kevin, he died almost four years ago. Your twins, Emily and Fiona, they left home after university, about 17 years ago, yes?" I nodded that she was correct.
"And that's it, right?" She glared at me.
"Yes." I tried to glare back but something caused me to avert my eyes after a second.
She dropped the forms on the table, leaned back in her chair, and asked Norma whether she could pour her another drink. Norma did. Jessica sipped then chugged it. She smacked her lips, pushed her chair out from the table, stood, and stared at me, much as a winner looks down upon an uncompetitive loser.
The moment held. What was she thinking?
"Norma," she began, "please never invite me to anything involving this woman ever again. I shall, watch me, I shall tell my better friends on this street that I wish to have nothing, zero, to do with her. Ever."
Norma's face dropped: mine too. I felt social death had just kissed my cheeks.
Jessica turned to go. She slowly scanned the sky from one horizon to another, as though she was remembering something endearing about this house, this street, this neighbourhood, this Pleasantville. She glanced back at me and spoke:
"It would not be in your best interest to continue to ask my friends questions about me." She dropped her napkin on the table and left.
In the weeks and months that followed, Pleasantville became, for me, somewhat unpleasant. A cold shoulder here. A limp handshake there. A wave and a 'hi' instead of a hug and a chat. Even Norma went straight to her car from her front door, or vice versa as the case may be, when I would come out to greet her.
I thought of moving again.
THE ACCIDENT
But I couldn't.
In late July, almost a year since moving to Pleasantville, I suffered an accident. I was seriously injured. I awoke in the hospital. Norma was by my side. Greg hovered in the corridor.
"Rest easy," she said, holding my hand.
"How? When?" I asked her, confused as I was.
"It's been three weeks. Little Billy Hardy dashed out to get a ball. You swerved to not hit him. Your car hit the Hardy's tree. You've been in a coma since."
I faded out again.
-----000-----
A doctor I presume, leaned over me, and flashed a light in my eyes. "There you are. Welcome back!" His smile was infectious. I started to feel better --- momentarily. I couldn't move myself. He placed his hand on my shoulders.
"We need to talk," he stated grimly.
By the time he was finished, part of me wished that I had died in that accident.
No, I was not paralyzed in anyway. However, my left knee was smashed, and the breakage of my femur and tibia precluded, the doctor said, any hope of knee replacement. My back was shot; I would need extensive physio before standing up straight again. Any hope I ever had of writing with my right hand ever again was gone; my thumb and index finger had been severed in the crash. And my left elbow was shattered.
Of more concern were his descriptions of my cranial injuries. I had a coup contrecoup injury. Basically, as I understood him, my brain had been smashed against both sides of my skull. My future guaranteed me little but pain. Amongst other symptoms, I could for the remainder of my life experience without warning headaches, seizures, confusion, nausea, memory difficulties, mood swings, blurred vision, slurred speech... He went on.
The doctor finished and left. I noticed Norma sitting off to the side. She was teary-eyed.
"I contacted both Emily and Fiona on your behalf," she started. She looked out the window. "I informed them of your accident." She looked at her feet. "They asked whether you would survive. I replied 'yes'." She bit her lip. "They seemed happy at that and thanked me for phoning."
"When are they coming?" I croaked out.
Norma gave me a long sympathetic stare: "They're not."
I looked at the ceiling and surrendered to sleep.
-----000-----
I awoke. It looked like September: leaves.
Jessica sat by my bed.
"Norma told me that your daughters weren't coming to see you."
"Yes." Why was Jessica here?
"Did she tell you that they want to exercise the Power of Attorney with which you empowered them so they could sell your house to pay for your medical bills?"
I was stunned. My house? My retirement nest? Where would I live? I cried. I whimpered.
"They wanted to retain Mark for their work. He declined after the initial interview. They Skyped him. They were asking for all the proceeds less the medical bills to be forwarded to them. They also requested that you be placed in a state hospice. You know the sort: bureaucratic, uncaring, industrial, bedpans changed once a day, food rejected by the homeless. That sort. That's where they wanted you."
Jessica drew her chair closer to my bed.
"It's unusual, I venture to say, to see such callousness from one's children directed to their parent. What made them this way? Was mommy a bad example?"
Hers was the grin of a Cheshire cat. Her gloating permeated my damaged brain. She was scaring me.
"There's a karma in this world, old woman," she sneered, not awaiting my answer, "and for every wrong, there's a right. There is a symmetry to life." She stood up and moved to the end of the bed. She faced me.
"Look at me," she demanded.
I did. She was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Her long blonde hair caught the sunlight through the window. Her bushy yet controlled eyebrows suggested energy. Her eyes pierced me. Her dress revealed her fit shoulders, toned arms; it perfectly pinched her waist. Somewhere, there are parents proud of her.
"Is there anyone else whom we may contact to help you?"
Jessica's question cut my soul. "If there isn't, then Fiona and Emily will face no opposition to proceeding as they intend, given what they said to Mark. I imagine that they have retained someone else by now. Your situation," she tilted her head at me, "is precarious."
"I can cancel the Powers!" I said loudly.
"You have brain damage." She had no end of answers.
I hesitated but said it. "There might be someone,"
She put her hands on the end of my bed and leaned forward over my feet.
"Who?" she quietly asked. Her intent stare made me feel uncomfortable.
"I asked you about your life last summer. Your husband is dead. There are the twins. Don't they sound like callous bitches now? De-housing their mother. Taking her savings. Letting her languish in a public health gutter. You've never mentioned anyone else."
I closed my eyes, exhaled, and finally confessed:
"I have a son."
Jessica moved to my side. She grasped my hands. She drew to within an inch of my face and asked in a whisper, "Where is he?"
I cried. My life was falling apart. Everyone was gone.
"I don't know."
"Why not?" she said blandly.
-----000-----
What could I say?
That Ian was an oops child. That the twins had never liked him. That I left the twins to care for him perhaps at too young an age. That he had constantly complained of their mistreatment of him. That he said they tied him up and pinched him. That he visibly changed when they approached him or were left alone with him.
What could I excuse now?
By his early teens, the twins forced him into dresses when they babysat him. They showed such photos to their friends. They tormented him at school. They enlisted the help of their friends to do so. They alienated him from everyone. They secretly added their birth control pills to his food. He became a sullen loner, picked on, bullied. By the time they went to university, the damage to Ian was irreversible. They continually reopened his healing scars.
How could I excuse myself?
I had mindlessly encouraged the twins. I had never attached any credence to Ian's words or opinions. Too often I had told him that he misunderstood their mindfulness and care. I had told Kevin that Ian was fine; boys will be boys. I had cautioned Ian against telling his father of the twins' playfulness. And I was a participant in their last Christmas humiliation of him.
Reposed in a hospital bed, facing a life of disability, confronted by the betrayal of two daughters for whom I had spared nothing, and lying there alone, my vision suddenly cleared.
No wonder he ran away, and never returned.
-----000-----
"Where is he?"
I cried. My life was falling apart.
"I don't know."
"Why not?" she said blandly.
I looked at Jessica. My pride prevented me from telling her the truth; that I had allowed the twins to ruin him and that I had driven him out of the house.
"Because he never contacts me!"
Jessica recoiled at the words. She stood up and straightened her dress. She moved toward the door. She opened it. She paused. She looked at me. I saw her smile sadly at me.
She sighed in resignation.
"You're so self-centred and mean, I don't blame him. And you're so blind, you probably wouldn't recognize him even if he were standing right in front of you."
And I never saw Jessica again.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
CEDRIC THE ACCOUNTANT
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: none.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
Cedric Ashton-Stufmeyer-Jones was an accountant. Not just an accountant; in fact, he was an investigator for the Department of Goods & Services Tax. It was thrilling stuff! Moreover, he was well respected by the many other accountants in the Department. His was the life of envy, in their estimation. What, dear reader, would make them so envious?
Well, it was his non-work life, his out-of-office life: in a phrase, his married life. Unlike most accountants (and bankers and librarians for that matter), Cedric ruled the roost at home. His colleagues knew that his was a remarkable achievement for an accountant. They oft listened to him regal them with tales of his 1950s-styled married life.
So, let us briefly peer into a day in the married life of Cedric Ashton Stufmeyer-Jones:
-----000-----
Cedric's alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. and he sat up. His large wife, Beatrix, slept next to him. "Darling, I think you should make us some coffee," he said to wake her.
She groaned, rolled over, and replied, "Ricci, dear, I've tried again and again to make it just the way you like it. Perhaps you could make one more sample again and show me how it's done, yes?"
Cedric got out of bed and put on his fleece house-pants. He told her sternly, "This will be the last time, darling. You must do better at it." They had been married six years.
"Yes, dear," she answered and watched him slink away. She smiled fondly at him.
-----000-----
"No, no, no. Not like that. Please do it like this," Cedric said as he got up from the kitchen table and took over the cooking of the eggs at the stove.
Beatrix sat down and watched him; she sipped her coffee. "Oh, so that's how!" she said. "I never thought of that," she added.
Cedric looked at her in a paternalistic way: "Just try harder, darling. I know you can do it if you just try harder."
"Yes, dear." She took another sip. "I'm sorry." She batted her eyelashes at him.
-----000-----
Cedric stood at the doorway, suit on, briefcase in hand, his serious face underlying the importance of accountancy.
"Let me get your tie for you, dear," Beatrix said to him. She straightened it and flattened his lapels for him. "You are so handsome and kind. I am so fortunate to have you." She meant it sincerely, mostly; the fact was that Cedric was not much of a looker, not ugly though. Indeed, he was very much the prototypical accountant: frail, pale, and creatively stale.
"Be sure to have dinner ready for me this time, Beatrix. I must insist this time." Six years, he fumed to himself, and she still botches every meal. "I'm not going to help her tonight. I swear I won't." And off to work he went.
Once he left, Beatrix dashed to get ready for her work.
-----000-----
"This place has never been audited," Cedric's supervisor said to him as he flung the file to Cedric. He opened the file. The company was named 'Donna's Dungeon of Domination'.
He had never heard of it.
He swiftly summarized the file. The business had been open for six years. It had slowly but steadily rising revenues; last year's tax return indicated $576,000 gross revenue, $79,394 net, the usual sort of business deductions, and finally taxes and remittances of $138,675. At first glance, nothing eye-catching there, he thought.
"I'll do it straight away, sir," Cedric said and left to prepare for the audit.
-----000-----
The building was non-descript. Therefore, dear reader, I won't describe it.
He knocked on the front door. A large womanly figure dressed in black leather, her face covered by a mask, wearing high heels, and carrying a bullwhip answered his knocks. She immediately rocked back, as though shocked.
"May I help you?" she hoarsely asked in a stilted voice after a slightly awkward pause.
"Good morning, I am Mr. Cedric Ashton-Stufmeyer-Jones, accountant and inspector #483-35A of the Department of Goods & Services Tax." He passed her his card and flashed his badge. He enjoyed flashing his badge; it underlined the importance of chartered accountancy generally and the authority of his Department specifically.
"I have the lawful authority to inspect these premises for compliance with tax legislation, regulations both statutory and otherwise, Departmental interpretation policies and guidelines. Your co-operation is required," he passed her an official form, "under section 278(17.2)(a)(iii)(sub-g) of the Act."
"We're opening in 30 minutes. Please," she hoarsely said, welcoming him in.
-----000-----
"These capital cost allowance depreciations concern office and business equipment with which I am unfamiliar and for which there are official guidelines," he remarked as he feverishly poured over the books in the manager's office.
"Is that a problem?" the very tall, buxom manager asked. Like her large employee, she too was covered in black leather from head to toe and was mounted on a pair of stainless-steel stilettos that had, it appeared, some small specks of white goo on them.
"It may be a problem if your company has not submitted a Form 251-H. If the form was submitted, no problem. If it was not, then I must carry out an inspection of the equipment under subsection 54(j.3) of the regulations. Will that be a problem?"
The manager told him that they had not submitted the Form and therefore he best follow her employee --- the large woman who had greeted him at the door --- to the room in which much of the equipment was stored.
-----000-----
Cedric took measurements of the first device. It leant against a wall and looked like an extremely large 'X'. It was made of oak. There were various straps on each leg and one in the centre. "You've claimed an accelerated depreciation for this under an industrial equipment scale. May I ask why?"
The manager had a quick response: "During regular business hours with half-hour slots and ten minutes between, we can process more than 25 customers daily on this device."
"Ha!" Cedric exclaimed. "That was your mistake. The appropriate basis for the valuation and reduction is based for non-mechanical devices such as this, on a textile and resource scale: here, wood and leather. The big buckles don't count. Let me revise your figures..."
-----000-----
Cedric examined the equipment that had been claimed as 'safety gear'.
"Would you like to...uh...try one on?" the large woman hoarsely asked him.
He shook his head. "I will not because my inspection here must be based solely upon objective, empirical measurements and evidence. What I see though is another problem. Insofar as a leather mask is indeed not an unconventional type of fire protective gear, its functional uses here appear in doubt.
"First, they are not stored in situ with your fire extinguishers. Second, they are neither orange nor yellow blaze, and those are the only two colours permitted under the regulations." He grimly added, "I'm sorry, but I must disallow that particular entry for...I see, $745.28 on line 248 of Schedule B of your return." He typed away at his laptop.
The manager and large woman looked at each other.
-----000-----
"You are going to have to convince me on this," Cedric officiously remarked. He could not comprehend how they could have claimed these things.
"Well," the manager began, "many of our customers enjoy this. They ask for it."
"I regret to inform you ma'am," Cedric countered, "but the essential function test under the legislation controls. Yours is not a provision of a diapering service. Rather, it's obvious to me that your company merely supplies diapers. Therein lies the difference between using a Goods Table under the 2009 statute or the Services Deduction formula under section 2056(25.6)(d) of the amending legislation.
"The difference to your tax return will be... please bear with me... just one more minute... Ah! Your company appears to be positioned to receive a return of $241.89 which I can adjust retroactively to the date on which your return was submitted."
Cedric was pleased with himself to have discovered another error.
-----000-----
He finished his work. The three of them were back in the manager's office. The company owed an additional $98.72 which the manager paid from petty cash and for which Cedric issued a receipt (receipt #73893).
"I don't normally comment on the nature of the business of a company that I inspect. However, in this case, I am going to make an exception." He waited for them to acknowledge just how serious a deviation from standard Departmental protocol he was making.
He construed their opening their eyes wider, as if in disbelief, as such.
"For the life of me, I cannot see how any mature man confident in his masculinity would submissively subject himself to such acts, particularly toward more controlling female figures. I am not criticizing nor condemning the nature of your work. I am simply expressing in stark terms my astonishment."
The manager and large woman looked at each other.
"I take my leave and recommend that you retain a chartered accountant to assist you in preparing your next year's return. Thank you for your time and assistance," he offered as he left.
-----000-----
Beatrix greeted him breathlessly by the door. "I just got home too, dear. Let me get your coat and your briefcase please."
"Thank you, Beatrix. It was an exciting day."
"I bet it was. Accountancy is like that! Please tell me."
"In the living room, darling. I think I would also like a G&T for our talk. What's for dinner?"
Beatrix put her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, dear. I was running late and couldn't prepare the casserole. I suppose---"
Cedric sighed. "Look. In the fridge are all the ingredients. Remember last weekend how I showed you how to pre-prepare them? It's not rocket science, darling. Okay, follow me and I'll show you one more time." A slightly exasperated Cedric gathered the ingredients and put them in a baking pan.
"How do you mix them together, again, dear?" Beatrix asked as she leaned against the kitchen island, sipping the G&T he had prepared for her.
-----000-----
"Have you finished cleaning the bathroom yet, darling?"
"No, Cedric, I am still working on our banking."
At least, Cedric thought to himself, that was one thing she had learnt extremely well. He was proud of her. She managed their banking almost to his exacting accounting standards. Ask her, and she knew on the spot precisely how much money was in which account and what the value of their various investment portfolios were doing.
"There's still a ring in the toilet," he said to her. This is the last time I'm doing this, he fumed to himself. "Did you watch that YouTube video on how to clean toilets that I sent you?"
"Not yet, dear."
-----000-----
"And that's how I showed them the benefits of a year-forward claim under section 836(f) instead of a post-Fiscal Year retroactive submission using Schedule 18(G). I think they appreciated my ingenuity." Cedric lay on the couch after dinner next to Beatrix. "How was yours?" he asked.
"Not much new. Just the normal ins-and-outs, you know, teaching little bitches how to obey, corrective discipline, whimpering, anal gland squeezing, urination, and defecation. Dogs; that's my day, me, the dog trainer."
Cedric was glad that she enjoyed her work training dogs. It was unfortunate that she never had any exciting stories like his adventures in accountancy and tax remittance, but such was life. He loved her anyway, no matter her job.
-----000-----
Their bedside lamps were on. They were reading and chatting about the day.
His book was entitled, 'Tax Deductions In Imperial Rome: The Fourth Republic'.
Hers was covered in a brown paper but was in fact volume 5 of a series entitled, 'Japanese Roping Techniques'.
They put their respective books down and turned off the lights. They lay facing each other in the quiet room, dimly lit by a distant streetlight. The suburb was silent.
"I love you, Beatrix. Please try again to get the coffee right tomorrow morning, darling."
Beatrix caressed his cheek. She kissed him. "Yes, dear. I'll try again tomorrow, but you may have to help me."
She looked at him with nothing but love in her eyes. She was so proud of him for his professionalism; she had never seen him working before today. She adored him because he was, in so many of his endearing ways, so much more of a man than any of the customers she had abused and whipped that day.
And he knew how to make her coffee perfectly.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
CEDRIC THE ACCOUNTANT (PART 2)
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don’t like reading silly fiction stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: Please read Part 1 first or you may not understand this Part.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
Cedric Ashton-Stufmeyer-Jones lay in bed. He stared at the ceiling. Beatrix, his matronly wife, snored next to him.
It was three o’clock in the morning and he couldn’t sleep.
As it had for the previous few days, his incredibly dull accountant’s brain raced through the audit he had been assigned last week: “Donna’s Dungeon of Domination”. He had found several irregularities in their corporate income tax returns: another victory for the Department of Goods & Services Tax!
Yet he lay pondering the bizarre, fascinating things he had seen during the audit. Whips. Leather masks. Collars and leashes. A St Andrew’s Cross (but not eligible for a religious exemption). Diapers. Phalluses of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Hemp rope. Cages. Evening gowns, Ballet shoes of incredible height. French maid uniforms. An endless variety of items and equipment, every one of them beyond his experience.
The establishment’s manager’s parting words rang in his ears: “a little make-believe in this dungeon gives wings to your imagination.”
And imagination was something Cedric had, like every good accountant had.
He eventually drifted off to sleep, content with his resolve.
-----000-----
He left his office at 11:30. He explained at length to his director that he had an engagement and wished to have an extended lunch.
“I thought you were married,” came the more senior accountant’s reply. “Anyway, take your time; you’ve earned it.”
Cedric walked the streets towards “Donna’s Dungeon of Domination”. He steeled himself and knocked at the door.
The manager, a large woman, answered it. “Hello!” she cheerily said.
“Good morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have an appointment. I’m Mr. Basil Carmen Snotwobbler. I’m a banker. I’m here for a lesson.”
The owners head tilted slightly. She raised her eyebrows. “Please come in then, Mr. Basil Carmen Snotwobbler,” she said merrily. She led him into her office, the same office in which he had informed her the previous week that the company owed an additional $98.72 in taxes. She invited him to sit and closed the door.
“It’s nice to see you again. I thought your name was Cedric Ashton-Stufmeyer-Jones, accountant and inspector #483-35A of the Department of Goods & Services Tax? You were here last week auditing us, yes?” She spoke gently.
Cedric gasped.
Busted! She remembered him! His hopes of anonymity lay in ruins. Well, he thought to himself, in for a penny, in for an audit.
He stared at her blankly and replied, “Ah, err, yes, it is. I was just testing your memory! It’s a pleasure to see you again!”
They then chatted for a brief minute about the weather and the audit. Cedric took particular pains to assure the manager that he was not presently attending on official business.
“Cedric, why are you here? You’ve made a one-hour booking. What interests you here?” The manager leaned back in her chair and put her stilettos on her desk.
Cedric drew a breath and answered: “I would like to take lessons to become a Dominatrix.”
“You mean a Dungeon Master?” she warmly asked.
“Yes! A Dungeon Master!”
“May I inquire of your motivations?” she asked taking her feet off the desk, leaning forward, and cupping her head with her hands.
“May I speak candidly?” he politely asked. She nodded and opened a hand to invite him to do so.
“I am happily married to the best woman in the world, my Beatrix.” He noticed that the manager smiled. “But our sex life is, well, I’ve never told anyone this and I could not ever mention it to Beatrix. Our sex life is monotonous. I’ve tried to get her to experiment beyond the missionary position but she always seems so reticent — or embarrassed to try anything else. ‘Why? I love us like this,’ she says. Or ‘That sounds terribly kinky,’ she says. And so we’re stuck in the missionary position.
“Long have I desired to use the doggie position. It would be so enlivening! I have many fantasies about the doggie position: the control, the power, the dominance. Sadly, she seems unwilling to push our boundaries.”
He hastily added, “Just to be clear, I love her deeply and want to make her happy, but I feel as thought she’s simply satisfied with the basics. I want more than the basics! I’m an accountant! I, however, don’t know how to get us to be more creative in the bedroom.
“And so,” he sighed, “after the audit, I gave some thought to the possibility of persuading her to be more adventurous in the bedroom. Showing her how wickedly kinky we can be if she just let go and allowed me to open her mind to the wilds of her unexplored imagination!”
The manager raised her eyebrows and took a moment before answering.
“Very well then. Let me talk to my staff for a minute to see whether we have a submissive — that’s a person whom you would master, a ‘sub’ — available for you to practice on. Please wait a moment. I shan’t be long.” She left the office and closed the door behind her.
A minute or two later, he heard muted laughter down the hallway.
The door reopened and the manager stood brightly by his side.
“I have good news! There is a sub here getting ready for her session! You can be her Master! Put on this mask! Now, take off your clothes and put this on.”
She passed him a black leather dress and black leather boots.
He looked puzzled at her.
“This is standard fare for a first lesson. No, hush; don’t worry about the fee. You can pay me at your next lesson. Let’s see today whether you like it!”
And she left and he changed.
-----000-----
“This willing girl is into flagellation. Now, it has to be done a certain way. Gently. Slowly. Methodically. It’s just like a backrub! So, try it for five minutes and then rub her back. She’ll moan in satisfied desire!”
In the dim, hot dungeon, Cedric stared at the shape on the table. He thought laying on it was a larger woman, naked but for the fact she wore a mask. No handcuffs. No ankle straps. The lighting was poor.
He glanced around the room; no First-Aid kit. He would bring one next time.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now you twirl the floggers in a rhythm like I showed you and swat her backside. Yes, just like that! Good! That’s it!”
After a few minutes during which the sub moaned with pleasure, the manager gave him further instructions: “Excellent. This time, when you flog her, respond to her moans. She’s enjoying herself. Give her pleasure. When she moans, be sure to ask, ‘Do you like it, Mistress?’ or words to that effect. Remember: the customer comes first!”
“Mistress?”
“Yes, ‘Mistress’. If you’re the Master, then she’s plainly the Mistress, yes?” The manager fluttered her eyelashes as she happily answered him.
Well, that reasoning makes sense, I suppose, Cedric thought.
Oblivious, Cedric renewed his efforts to give the sub what she wanted. After each gentle flail, he inquired of the sub as the manager had instructed.
“That’s enough for now,” said the manager shortly. “Does our little sub want a back rub, now?” asked the manager, putting a finger under the sub’s chin. There was a nod in response.
“Cedric, sweetie, sit astride the sub’s back and rub it.”
He stumbled his way in his high heels and climbed above the large woman. He sat on her butt and leaned forward.
The manager encouraged him. “Glide your fingers over her back. Awaken her skin, her flesh. Drag your fingernails softly down back toward you. Get the blood flowing. Don’t scratch; just let your fingers doing the domme-ing.”
She giggled.
“Use your thumbs. Right there! Under the should blades! Feel the muscle! You can do it, Basil!”
Cedric was grateful that she used his pseudonym before the sub.
Cedric exerted sufficient force to render an adequate Swedish massage, exactly like the ones he had seen on the YouTube videos he had watched. He lowered his elbow and pushed it up the side of the sub’s spine. He did the same on the other side.
His enthusiasm raced as she melted under his touch. He got daring.
“You like this, Mistress?” he cooed to her sighs and rubbed more furiously.
His thumbs began to ache.
“Moooooooore,” came the muffled voice of the sub.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said cautiously.
His hands began to ache.
“Moooooooore,” came the muffled voice of the sub.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said daringly.
His shoulders began to ache.
“Moooooooore,” came the muffled voice of the sub.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said confidently.
Eventually fatigued, he looked at the manager.
“Time’s up!” she said chirpily. “How was it?”
Cedric sat erect. There was a little bulge underneath his leather skirt. His heart raced.
The exhilaration! The rapture! The power! He had pleased the sub! The customer was satisfied! He had taken this unknown woman and pleasured her beyond her dreams! He could do it! He could satisfy a stranger this way and so could surely satisfy his wife this way too!
“Same time next week?” the manager asked him as he left.
Cedric was thoroughly pleased with himself. He hadn’t had to pay for this session — “The first one’s free!” the manager said — and now was being offered a chance to return for another lesson: “We don’t get many like you, here!” the manager quipped.
He returned to his office.
-----000-----
“No, no, no! Not like that!” Cedric whispered in frustration.
He got up and went to the cutting board.
He nudged Beatrix away and began salvaging her pitiful attempts at sliced carrots.
He moved to the stove and stirred the — yes — stir-fry. The mushrooms were sauteed to perfection. His thin carrot slices quickly softened. The medley of other vegetables (but aren’t mushrooms a fungi?) leapt at the addition of the soy sauce and subsequently the marinated sliced steak strips.
The meal was delicious.
“How was your day?” he asked his wife.
She nibbled on her dinner, sipped her sparkling water, and lovingly replied, “We got a new puppy in for training today. He’s really quite adorable. So willing and eager to obey. I can’t wait for the next lesson. It would be so nice to have him here at home — if you let me.”
Cedric frowned. A puppy? Some four-legged wild beast wandering indiscriminately around the house? An unpredictable, uncontrollable, little puppy? He shuddered at the thought.
“How was yours?” she asked.
Cedric was paralyzed! He hadn’t thought of a cover story to explain his lunch appointment at the Dungeon! What to do? What to say?
“I performed some physical exercise of an uninteresting nature to increase the strength of my upper body.”
He hastily gulped a huge bite of his food. She beamed at him.
“Isn’t that somewhat risky for accountants?”
“I’m an accountant,” he said proudly, “I can handle it.”
They finished their meal.
“You’ll get this, won’t you? Cedric asked as he waved his hand at the plate-strewn table.
“Yes, dear. It’s a dishwasher night. It won’t take long.” Beatrix stood, cleared some dishes, and started placing them in the dishwasher.
Cedric watched her in mounting frustration.
“Beatrix, my love,” he snorted to her, “did you pay any attention to me when I explained how to load a dishwasher to you?” He also bitterly remembered the dishwasher loading course in which he had once enrolled her.
Six years, he thought. Six darned years and she still messes it up.
“I read the instruction manual,” she said disarmingly. “Everything will get cleaned.”
He moved toward the dishwasher. She smiled and stood aside. She opened a cupboard and grabbed a bottle of Whiskey.
“Would you like one, dear?” she asked.
“Yes, please, dear,” he said, aligning the dinner plates on the left-side of the bottom rack and arranging the forks in one section of the cutlery basket and the knives in another.
-----000-----
Cedric’s loin surged with vitality as Beatrix French-kissed him goodnight in bed.
Then she rolled over.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.
Now.
Now was the moment to apply the knowledge he had acquired today. Her kiss had been extremely passionate, like those described in racy tales about investment bankers. He sensed that she was open to his advances tonight.
But he would surprise her with his newfound skills!
He flung the sheets off the bed and sat on her rump.
“What are you doing, my love?” asked Beatrix with a husky voice.
He leaned down and put a finger to her mouth to silence her.
“Shh,” he whispered in her ear.
He began rubbing. Her neck. Her shoulders. Her rhomboids, Her lats. His hands glid up and down her spine, his thumbs pressing into her lumbar muscles, his fingers inching underneath her should blades.
Beatrix groaned: “Yeees.”
Cedric smiled to himself. It was working! That lesson was bang-on! He could rub her and make her body respond! His touch! His fingers! Him! Novelty in the bedroom! A new beginning! More interplay and playfulness! Yes! He could do it! He was in control! Yes, he could!
Feeling a tad smug, he (as macho-ly as he could) asked her the determinative question, the question the Master he was willing to become had to ask, indeed, had been trained to ask:
“Do you like this, Mistress?”
Her face in her pillow, Beatrix moaned — and grinned.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
DETUMESCENCE
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
WHAT ANNE WANTS
The smell of coffee woke me --- again. I hated it now. It signaled the start of another long workday. I groaned as I got out of bed. I took off my nightshirt and went to the washroom: five minutes of reflection. The shower was running to the correct temperature. I showered. The towel was warm on the rack. I went back to the bedroom. My business suit for the day was laid out on the immaculately made bed. I dressed and went downstairs.
Breakfast immaculately presented on the warm plate on the table. Menu Item B5 today. Sigh; the routine of this; I miss variety. I ate and read the freshly ironed newspaper. I skipped to the business section. The construction industry was doing well enough but not spectacularly. Hotel occupancies were down. No schools were suffering major plumbing problems. More of the dreary same, I grumbled to myself. I finished eating and left the table.
I went back to my immaculately cleaned bathroom and completed my morning toilet. My mind was already at the office. I own, run, manage, and do just about every single office job for my plumbing supply company. It's hard work running a business. I have two new clients coming in today. If I can sign them to a contract, it might lessen the financial squeeze I constantly find myself in. I went back downstairs.
My briefcase was on the tidy table and the dishes were already put away. The kitchen was immaculate. I took the briefcase and left the house. The door was closed behind me.
Immaculate. My house is immaculate. My fucking life is not.
-----000-----
"Anne, that new client just cancelled," my one and only office assistant said. She's pregnant and will be gone in a week for several months.
Damn, I thought to myself. I went back to the books and tried to reconcile the receivables. I think there are accounts owing that total $45,935. I can't be sure. Accountancy is a challenge, even after trying to do it for the past year. And I don't have the wherewithal to hire a regular accountant, nor to face their inevitable inquiries about the company's history, ownership, and management.
The second prospective new client arrived at 10. We chatted. I thought it was a good discussion. Unfortunately, their farewell --- "we'll call you, maybe" --- dimmed my hopes.
I despise the marketing aspect of the job. It requires too much sucking up and politeness for my liking. I had once thought it would be a bit more distinguished: "I am President Anne Smith of Smith Plumbing." Frankly, the presidency is a burden.
My desk was a disaster. Buried somewhere on it was the folder for the big supply delivery today. If I couldn't find that, then the delivery team would not be able to sign off the delivery. Paperwork everywhere. I could really use a secretary here.
And now Ted just quit. He complained about his hours and his rate of pay. He's been here 12 years and just like that walks out. I know he'll get a job. The reputation that he built up here will open numerous interview doors for him. I should be happy for him; I'm not because he just made my life harder. Why does life do this to me? What did I do to deserve this?
Mid-afternoon, the coffee maker broke. I had rashly economized several months ago --- "percolated coffee is just fine" --- but even I regretted its burnt taste. And that stench reeked throughout the office and supply room. And the coffeemaker from the big discount store was made in a manner commensurate with its price.
Closing time could not come fast enough.
My hopes of leaving the office at 5 vanished at 4:50. A telephone call from the manufacturing plant down the road: flooded washrooms, numerous parts required asap. I called the staff in and briefed them on the imperative. Under our contract with the plant, we were required to deliver needed parts within 90 minutes of being notified.
"Are we getting overtime for this?" John asked.
"We better get overtime for this," Mary demanded.
"You will get overtime for this," I sighed.
-----000-----
Exhausted, I finally parked the car in the garage at 7:20. I walked up the well-lit path and the front door opened. I walked in and dropped my briefcase, which got placed on the small foyer table. The foyer was of course immaculate. The front door was quietly closed behind me.
I wearily made my way toward the dining room. The table was set, the wine was poured, the ice in the carafe chilled the water. A small bowl of soup was placed before me. Butternut squash. It was delicious but I couldn't appreciate it. The bowl was removed.
I drank my wine. My glass was refilled. A perfect Merlot, probably; I hardly tasted it though I drank it all. I wanted to drown myself with it. A warmed plate of cauliflower Bolognese with mushrooms appeared before me; it smelled rich, looked rich, and tasted rich. But it somehow made me feel poor.
I could only finish half of it. How was I going to come up with the requisitions in time? Why had Fred decided to have an accident with the delivery truck? It's four years old and has already been in five accidents. The insurance payments are going to increase. The staff wage increases they've been hoping for may not be affordable. Some staff might look elsewhere for employment. Can I ever let this job leave my mind?
Whatever happened to 'all hail President Anne'? It was supposed to be that way.
I dropped my napkin on the floor and went upstairs to get changed. A light gown and comfy slippers greeted me on the bed. The bedroom carpet had been vacuumed; the lines were perfectly parallel to each other. I didn't care.
I went back down to the TV room. The TV was already on my favourite channel: the TeleTubby network. It placed no stress upon me. I didn't see let alone hear the shows. Its merely being 'on' provided me some distraction. I sipped my perfect Tequila and put it back on the side table.
I felt lousy. I hadn't gone to the gym in several months; I felt how I looked. I hardly ever saw my friends now; did they remember me? My life had been reduced to the slavery of running a company and being responsible for...for EVERYTHING!!!
I Fucking Hate It!!!
I got up and stormed into the dining room. It was immaculate. You couldn't tell that there had been a place setting and complete meal consumed there not 20 minutes ago. I went to the kitchen: yes, immaculate and don't fucking remind me how nice that is. I am so sick of immaculate!
I finally found my maid in the basement rec room. I hadn't bothered to go down to that hovel in more than a year.
It had been transformed into Club Paradise! I was astounded! An NFL game was playing on a large sized TV on the wall; when did that get there? There was a small bar fridge with what appeared to be bottles of champagne and Chateau Lafitte! The shaggy rug was replaced by expensive-looking oak laminate. The faux wood walls were gone; in their place was a comforting neutral with beautifully stained natural trim!
My maid was on a plush, king-sized bed (that I had never seen before) wearing a fleece outfit that looked cozy. The maid was reading a mystery novel, one that I had wanted to read last summer but couldn't because I hadn't had the time. I envied my maid.
"I want to go back to how things were. I don't like this anymore," I told my husband.
WHAT NIKKI GETS
"I don't think so," I told my wife.
"Two years ago, you discovered that I was wearing a dress trying to relax. You didn't believe me when I told you how stressful my job was. Crossdressing was a silly relief, harmless, I told you. You didn't believe me and thought it was more than that. 'You're a sissy, Nick! A sissy!' That's what you decreed.
"So, you did everything that one can commonly find on any transgender sissification fiction site. You gave me low dose hormones to screw up my body and my mind a bit. You got me in a maid's uniform. You cut me off from most of my friends and then deceitfully tricked me out of my company. Don't even get me going about the breast implants and laser hair removal.
"Anyway, I adjusted and actually started liking it. Compared to founding and running the company, this is easy. And you got all the stress! You wanted it. You got it. In fact, this maid-thing you drove me into has given me an education about work/life balance and quality of life. I probably would've had a heart attack by now if you hadn't forced me to become your maid.
"The maid's job is to die for! Once the house is clean, all Nikki has to do is to stay on top of it. I never knew being a housewife for you, sorry, a maid for you would be so easy. I know what your routine is at work and how strenuous things can be. Emergency last minute order or something? Your problem. I'm really grateful that you bring home the cash. You wanted my gratitude, you got it.
"Me? I wake up early, putter around to accommodate you, and thrust you out of the house soonest. A quick tidy up --- it is immaculate, right? Just like you wanted! --- and by 8 o'clock I have free time. I nap, have a delightful cappuccino every day, I might go shopping and put it on the accounts you established so that I would not have any cash. I might visit the neighbours; they say you never had tea with them; I do all the time; they're wonderful people! And you've seen my magnificent tomato plants, haven't you? I can finally garden at leisure!
"Best of all, I've had time to document every single thing you've done to me. Video. Audio. Photocopies. Photos. Eyewitness statements. Everything.
"So, get out of this beautiful room, which I finally had the time to renovate this past year, get your fucking ass back upstairs to 'Mistress' Bedroom', get a good night sleep, and get back to the fucking office tomorrow morning.
"Or else I will divorce you and take you to the cleaners. Half the house. Spousal support because I am a simple, enfeebled maid that you cruelly created. And half the company. You better not run it into the ground because you, as the sole President, will be personally liable for any outstanding wages and such.
"No, Anne, no. You wanted control; you got it. Your little maid knows her place and she ain't leaving it. Never. She loves it! Just like you forced her to! Now, go do your job --- Mistress!"
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
DOWN THE AISLE I GO
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Note: I originally wrote this under a different name on a different website when I was doing some quick, just-for-fun, creative writing. It stood out, and I thought it better placed here. So, I revised it a little and tidied it up and — voila — here it is.
RT
-----000-----
I stared in the mirror.
I looked at myself.
Had you looked in the mirror, you’d hardly know that I was a hardened combat veteran. Once upon a time, long ago, I had decided to go SOF, Special Ops Forces; I had succeeded. Multiple tours in Iraq. Multiple in Afghanistan. I could not tell you the number of exercises and conferences and courses that had taken me away from my family over the years. I was now 45 years old and very different than the young, impressionable, full-of-piss-and-vinegar man who had enlisted long ago.
My absences had taken a toll. On my relationship with my family. On me. Part of me was still the soldier. Yet part of me had evolved, grown, blossomed even. I can use that sort of soft wording now. Once upon a time, I never would have.
My time away from my home and family had done something to me. I had seen a great deal of human-to-human violence. I had witnessed firsthand the consequences of abhorrence and repudiation, blasphemy and excommunication. I knew what hate looked like. I knew to my core that there’s a lot of hate in the world.
It got me thinking a lot about the meaning and importance of love. Who gives it? Who gets it? And can I love myself? Like I said, I had evolved.
I stared in the mirror.
I knew I had to do this. More importantly, I now knew I wanted to do this.
Several years ago, I swore to be true to myself, to my feelings, to my instincts, no matter what anyone else said. What I do and what I say speak for me. No one else does. Not anymore. “They say” or “those people” or “they really shouldn’t” or “that’s not right”, and all that constraining background chatter: I now ignored it. I had resolved to be true to me, to my feelings.
Now, today, there was a person downstairs waiting for me, waiting for my love, and nothing would prevent me from proudly showing it; fuck everyone else.
I glanced at watch. It was time. I heard the music start to play in the background. Pachelbel's “Canon in D Major”: standard wedding fare. I had to get going.
A final look in the mirror. I knew exactly how I looked.
I flashed my reflection a reassuring grin. Yes: this is right.
-----000-----
A few moments later, I stood in the narthex. I looked up the nave toward the chancel.
That man was there. He was smiling my way. I was no longer ashamed to say he was handsome. It had taken me sometime to orient myself that way. The fact is he was; I say it freely now; he was handsome. He was a handsome groom.
A handsome groom awaiting a beautiful bride.
I steeled myself to prepare for the slow processional march up the nave. Focus. Focus. Focus. I’m only concerned about my three-meter space; I control that; ignore everything else. I felt the adrenaline.
An arm hooked mine.
I turned to look. So plain to see: a cheery, loving smile, a smile of admiration and pure love, a smile that no caring family or loved one could ever ignore or pass off. Here I am: combat vet, long-serving soldier, tough as nails guy. Here I am: walking up the aisle at a wedding. And a part of me is thinking how lucky I am to have a supportive smile here today for me. I never would have expected it.
I never thought it would happen — this way.
I had never wished it would happen — this way.
But now it was happening — this way.
And now I wanted it too — this way.
Mendelssohn's “Wedding March” began. The congregation rose. I was buoyed by the large number that were attending. I frankly hadn’t expected so many. There had been, I sadly learnt, several declinations of invitations. And yet the seasoned soldier in me said, “Fuck ’em.”
We slowly made our way down the pews. Grins. Smiles. A few stoic looks. Splendid dresses. Business suits. A few military dress uniforms here and there; not as many as I had hoped but more than I had expected. I issued each a quick smile. My feet trembled step by step on the red carpet. My companion thankfully didn’t notice.
As we drew closer to the rector, I saw more of the groom and bridal parties.
On the groom’s side — and yes, he was in fact ‘handsomer’ the closer I got — there were his brothers, sisters, and dearest friends. I had met them all: great people, very supportive people. Very tolerant people.
On the bride’s side, I cried at the sight. On the bride’s side stood my first and second born and my ex-wife. Each looked resplendent in their wedding attire. I cast a fond and knowing glance to my ex. She smiled, wiped a tear, and nodded back.
We had confronted many challenges in our marriage. Some we had managed to work through together. Others we had not.
But on this particular challenge, we had been in unison. We had evolved to be in unison. Our love had prevailed over everything else. I understood her and she me. “Be true to yourself,” we had often said to each other and to our children.
At the second to last pew, I stopped.
My companion whose arm I held stopped too and looked at me, puzzled.
I looked at the bridal party. I looked at the groom, the best man, and the groomsmen. I turned and briefly looked at the congregation. They began to softly murmur, puzzled. All of them stared back at me.
I had known well how to be a man. I had killed people with my hands. I had destroyed things with my hands. I knew how to fight with my hands. I had blood on my hands.
Mustering every single fibre of excellence in my body, every single force of will and determination I had ever relied upon in the darkest of moments, I lifted my head to speak.
And I tenderly touched the much smaller, unstained hand that I held in my bloodied one.
Loud enough so all could hear, I spoke to my companion.
This is what I said:
-----000-----
“I am never giving you away.
“I will let this young man take you, but only after he vows to love, honor, and cherish you forever.
“As I did. And as your mother did. And as your older brother and sister did.
“You have always been loved. By us. Always. And you always will be.
“I never expected my baby boy to become my beautiful daughter, Darlene, but here you are.
“You have always been true to yourself. And to your friends and to us, your family; it’s a standard of bravery that, despite all my many accomplishments in service to this country, I will likely never attain. I am so incredibly proud of you, my super-brave kid.
“You are in so many ways my hero.
“I love you, Darlene, and nothing in the world would have stopped me from being here with you today.
“I am honored to walk you up the aisle.
“I am honored to tell everyone that you are my child, my love, my pride.
“I will let him take you.
“But I will never give you away.”
-----000-----
I cried.
My tears wetted my several medals on my tux.
Those medals never looked better.
FRATRICIDE
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: Many inspirations but especially the following gems: "In Blood Only" (2019) and "I Am The GOAT" (2017), both by Sarah Goodwoman, and "The Prodigy and Me" (2019), by Commentator. And a curtsy to Jennifer Adams.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
JULY -- SUNDAY MID-AFTERNOON
Paul sat at his usual place, at the head of the dining room table. His wife Claire sat to his right, and his daughter Kim to his left. His son Greg sat at the other end of the table. It was 2:30 pm, too late for lunch and far too early for supper.
All eyes were on Kim; she had summoned them to a family meeting.
Everyone in Paul's family had the right to summon the others on the condition that the matter was significant and merited the participation, contribution, or knowledge of everyone. Paul and Claire had been philosophy and political science majors at university; they had encouraged involvement and teamwork within their own home.
They had just taken their first ever week-long vacation without their children after 18 years of raising them. Mature and sensible Greg had turned 18 a month ago, and Kim was a clever albeit immature 14-year old. Their parents had felt confident in their children's ability to manage one week without parental supervision.
Paul and Claire had come home happy. They had not been home for more than two minutes when Kim had rung the singing bowl to summon them all. Not yet unpacked, not yet freshened up in the bathroom, not yet having a tea in hand, Paul and Claire were somewhat anxious about Kim's insistence that the family meeting occur immediately, without any delay. Kim's parents looked at her with inviting but puzzled faces. Greg's expression was grimly blank.
Paul started. "Well, Kim. You called this meeting, and your mom and I have to assume that you have a good reason to do so. What's up?"
-----000-----
Kim's face suggested only one adjective: serious. Kim sat staring at her hands, which rested on the edge of table. Her fingernails were bright pink and matched her lipstick. Kim began in a soft, measured voice. Her parents and their curiosity leaned toward her.
"Dad. Mom. I will never talk to Greg again. I do not and will never trust Greg again. I will never be left alone with him again. Not for a week, a day, an hour, a minute. Never."
Paul and Claire's eyes widened as Kim slowly spoke. They glanced at Greg, who was frozen in his chair. The parents scrutinized Kim, who displayed focused calm. This announcement wasn't the sweet homecoming they had been expecting.
"I would ask that you please immediately arrange for him and me to live apart from each other. If you don't, then I'll find my own way to live apart from him; I'll leave this house and never come back. I want nothing to do with him ever again. I am not going to speak of any of this anymore. My position is unchangeable."
Kim sat back, put her hands in her lap, and stared at them.
Claire was horrified.
Paul seemed both angry and confused.
Greg merely glared daggers at his sister.
-----000-----
Paul studied his daughter's face. This was not play-acting. She showed genuine sincerity and honesty as she spoke. Her eyes betrayed a wound, a deep wound.
Claire was stunned. "Kim, where is this coming from? What happened this past week that gets you saying stuff like this?" Claire glanced at her son. He did not move; he simply stared at Kim. "Did Greg do something to you?" she asked Kim carefully.
Paul remained silent; his eyes narrowed as they now bore onto his son's face. "Greg," Paul said very quietly, "come with me." The devoted husband and father walked out to the backdoor, turned back, and waited for his son.
Greg slowly got up and backed toward Paul. Greg's eyes hardly left Kim's face. He suddenly turned and walked out the backdoor. They went into the backyard.
-----000-----
Claire stared at her daughter who looked fine, healthy, and, well, normal. "Kim, they're gone now. It's just us here. Tell me, please, what's wrong, sweetie?" Silence.
Claire moved next to Kim and wrapped her arms around Kim's shoulders. "Please, sweetie, speak to me." Silence.
No: a whimper; then another; and then more. She's scared, Claire thought. And the collapse began. Claire saw Kim's eyes turn red and teary, and could feel her faster, shallower breathing.
"Look at me, sweetie," she said more forcefully. Kim looked at her.
"Kim, did Greg touch you?"
Kim's body started to tremble. More tears. More whimpering. But no answer. Claire breathed deeply. "That's it. Upstairs to my bedroom."
-----000-----
Paul cornered his son between the shed and the cedars. Greg was a strong, growing 18-year old young man. But his father was a 45-year old muscular construction worker, much bigger and much more powerful than his son. Paul was also a firm believer that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line.
"What happened?" Paul's tone was unmistakably aggressive.
"I dunno."
"What fucking happened?"
"Like I said, I don't know. You and mommy went away. Kim and I stayed here. TV. Games. No one came over. Tanned in the yard. I dunno what's with her." Greg's eyes darted to and fro, everywhere except into Paul's eyes. Greg's voice wavered and was rife with diffidence.
Paul knew his son was uncharacteristically squirming. Paul took a bold step toward him, into Greg's personal space. Greg backed up nervously and hit the shed; he could not run away. Paul persisted in his interrogation. But Greg continued his equivocations and deflections.
Paul now knew that Greg was lying, and now believed that Greg knew of the cause --- or himself had caused --- Kim's obvious stress.
"Go to the basement TV room, sit down, and don't you dare fucking move." Paul's stern order was coupled to the most menacing look any child had ever seen or could dread.
-----000-----
Claire took Kim by the hand and, once upstairs, closed the door. She led her daughter to the bed, and they sat.
Claire tried and tried to get Kim to explain herself. Kim remained emotional but would not speak; she stayed silent. Claire asked about the entire past week. No responses. Kim wept, her body shaking. But she said nothing. Claire was becoming frustrated and angry, not at Kim, but at the mystery.
"Kim, I want to look at you naked. Now. Take all of your clothes off."
She had to help Kim undress. Kim awkwardly unbuttoned her blouse. Her fingers fumbled over the pants' belt, button, and zipper flap. She almost lost her balance dropping the pants. She removed her bra after several clumsy attempts. Claire wondered whether Kim was suffering some diminished motor control. Drugs?
The child stood naked in front of her mother. No bruises, no welts, no markings: nothing.
"Let's get you dressed, sweetie," Claire instructed. "I'm going to go downstairs for a moment. I want you to stay here on my bed." She left and closed the door.
-----000-----
Claire and Paul stood by the kitchen fridge. She grabbed a glass of water, hoping it would imbue her with some insight into her children's tension; she desperately wanted a stiff drink. His eyes scanned left, scanned right, looking for something, some clue, that would shed light on Kim's ultimatum and Greg's evasion.
They spoke freely, comparing their children's stories. Understanding eluded the parents. They recognized the immediate imperative to continue investigating. Claire would take Kim to Kim's bedroom. Paul would take Greg to Greg's.
"Greg!" Paul shouted down the stairs. "Come up right now!" His son came and they went upstairs into Greg's room. Paul closed the door.
Claire was already upstairs to lead Kim into hers; Claire closed the door.
-----000-----
"Sit on the bed." Again, Paul's tone was unmistakable. Greg immediately sat. Paul looked around the room. Greg looked nervous. "What's that shit? Paul asked, seeing several plastic bags under Greg's bed.
"Nothing!" Greg said far too hastily.
Paul emptied the bags onto the floor. An infant girl's pink romper. A toddler's floral T-shirt with a suspender skirt, and some other toddler clothing. Some young girl's skirts and various shirts, suitable for elementary school. Diapers, several packages of diapers. And lots of clothing that appeared to be Kim's.
Paul's eyes bore into Greg as though his son was a freak or a monstrosity. Paul spied a couple of receipts. They were for the several purchases of the things on the floor; all the purchases were made during the past week.
"What the fuck were you doing when we were gone?"
Greg's face showed pure fear; given Paul's dark face, Greg's fear was understandable. But he still remained silent.
-----000-----
There was a knock at the door. Claire opened it: Paul.
"You'd better take a look at the stuff Greg has gotten this week. Some of it he bought. Some he seems to have gotten from this room. Do you mind if I talk to Kim for a minute, please?" Puzzled, Claire went down the hall to Greg's room. Paul sat next to Kim on the bed.
His daughter was normally a cheeky little brat. Juvenile. Crafty. Cheery. But not serious, not deliberate, and definitely not terrified of her older brother. He smiled at her. She looked up at him and tried not to cry.
Claire's clear scream --- "What the fuck???!!!" --- streaked from Greg's room, down the hallway, and into Kim's room. Greg's bedroom door then slammed shut. Consequently, Paul could hear his wife's loud but muffled cursing and his son's occasional muted replies.
"Kim," Paul gently said, "there's quite a bit of girl's clothing in your brother's room. Do you know anything about it?" He stroked her hair.
Kim nodded and wept.
"Tell me, Kim." Paul smiled and raised his eyebrows to encourage her.
-----000-----
There was a knock at the door. Claire opened it: Paul and Kim. Paul nudged Kim toward Claire: "Stay by your mom". Husband and wife exchanged glances. She was curious. He was incredibly determined. She deferred.
"Greg." Paul's voice cracked across the room. Greg got off the bed and stood next to it; his breathing was rapid and shallow. "Greg, Kim's told me an incredible story. It's all about betrayal." Claire's eyes widened; Paul's face was super-grim.
"Greg, you and I went backpacking a month ago. What happened the second night, when we tented at Sawyer Pond?" Silence.
Paul pursed his lips. He turned to Kim. He warmly smiled at her. "Tell me, Kim, what happened at Sawyer Pond the second night?"
A whimper, A tear. An answer: "A chipmunk got into your pack. You'd forgotten to take the trail mix out. We shared mine the rest of the trip." A sniffle.
Claire's jaw dropped.
Paul stood inches from Greg and calmly, given the circumstances, asked him a question:
"Kim, where's the fucking magic necklace?"
JULY -- SUNDAY EARLY EVENING
Only Paul's threats of brutal, physical violence instigated the confession.
And the magic necklace, in a plastic bag, now lay at the centre of the table.
A week ago, the family had sat at that table and had enjoyed a meal together.
Now, a horror within had been exposed, and the family --- as once it had been --- was destroyed.
-----000-----
Kim (Kim-in-Greg's-body) had confessed.
"I'd found a cheap looking necklace in a gutter by a garbage can at the mall several weeks ago. I discovered that it could alter my body, like larger breasts, better teeth, be taller or shorter, and stuff like that. Then I had discovered that it could completely change my body; I could look like mom just by using her clothing. I could even look like a nurse on the wrapping of the Halloween party costume. It was cool." Kim sniffled as she told her story.
"I made a mistake. I hated, resented, Greg being in charge. I loathed always being compared to him; you always compare me to him! Yes, I was jealous of him and his relative freedom."
Paul and Claire sat astounded. That Kim would eventually grow out of these emotions (and that Greg would soon depart for university) was beyond the 14-year old's limited vision. Accordingly, Kim had planned to be the one left in charge when their parents went on vacation.
"When you left Saturday, I put two of mommy's sleeping pills in his supper. Once he passed out, I switched bodies with him." Kim then recounted how, Sunday, Greg had awoken startled: a) he was a 14-year old girl (Greg-in-Kim' s-body); and b) his old face (Kim-in-Greg's-body) was sneering at him.
Kim sniffled again. "I made him do stuff." She said nothing after "stuff".
Paul pressed her hard to explain what she meant. It had gotten worse. Bigger, strong, faster male Kim immediately started making smaller, weaker, slower female Greg's life an abusive hell. Cleaning the house and doing miscellaneous chores that first day was tame. And Kim had kept Greg busy, too busy to calm himself and too busy to rationalize his ordeal.
And then Kim had used the necklace again, and Greg had become a 7-year old schoolgirl. More abuse. Then Rapunzel. More abuse. Then a baby. And it continued: Tiana, Mulan, a baby again, a 5-year old ballerina, and so on. As did the abuse. Each change throughout the week contributed to Greg's utter terror of his sister. Kim reduced Greg's confident, young male psyche into blithering mush.
"I told him that if he told you, then I would turn him into a baby and drop him off at an orphanage and throw away the necklace." Under further pressure, she confessed that, alternatively, she would change Greg into Maria, their neighbor's Mexican cleaning lady, and cause him to be deported.
And Kim had admitted --- to her father, to her mother, and to her brother --- that she had enjoyed watching and imposing Greg's subordination and humiliation.
The family might have survived all of the above.
-----000-----
But it could not survive Kim's most despicable, callous, vicious act.
"Friday morning, I transformed myself into Heavy Helmut, the WrestleMania brawler. I turned Greg into Mary." Mary was their cousin, a petite, blue-eyed, 18-year old brunette.
"I had intercourse with him." Kim spoke quietly. Shame filled the room.
Claire sat back, shocked into silence. Paul pressed for more. Kim had raped Greg. Repeatedly. Vaginally. Orally. Anally. All day Friday and Saturday. And Sunday morning too. Just hours ago. Here, in this house, in these three bedrooms.
"To see what it would be like," Kim murmured in explanation to her astonished parents.
Claire wailed, grabbed her son (in Kim's body) who was now sobbing uncontrollably, and led him upstairs.
-----000-----
Paul stared at Kim. How could this have happened, he wondered. Where had he and Claire gone wrong?
There had been love under the roof. The kids had never wanted for anything. They had seemed to get along, subject to the normal brother-sister banter and teasing. What had they not seen, not known, of Kim? Impetuous occasionally, yes; she was but 14. Emotional? Of course, for hormones raced through her young adolescent body. But so vindictive, abusive, sadistic?
His wife and ... Greg were upstairs.
Claire, Paul thought, would be forever devastated that her pride and joy could commit such a shocking crime against a woman. Kim had but a year ago walked with Claire in protests against systemic misogyny, against racism, and against fascism. Claire, with his support and from time to time Greg's, had nudged and guided Kim into modern womanhood: to consider oneself empowered and to combat oppressive gender norms. Paul did not consider it conceivable that Claire could have failed in this instruction.
Paul wanted a smoke.
Greg, Paul thought, had just cause to insist upon separation. Paul could not envision any circumstance in which Kim and Greg lived under the same roof --- or even associated with each other in any way. No matter the skin Greg lived in (which Paul now knew could occur), it would require super-human effort to the point of god-like ability for Greg to forgive Kim. Paul was honest with himself; he probably wouldn't be able to either.
Paul was honest with himself; he wanted to smash the fuck out of Kim.
He was also pragmatic; there had to be a better solution.
So, Paul thought, were could Greg go from here? To stay in Kim's body, a constant reminder of his torturer and rapist? Impossible. To return to his body? Unlikely given that Kim had inflicted significant trauma upon Greg while she was in that body. To live under this roof and daily see the rooms in which he had suffered a nightmare of sexual assault?
He continued to stare at Kim.
This one, Paul thought, was no longer part of the family. It would not matter how she looked; the three others had seen the monster within. Paul shook his head in the immutable knowledge that his daughter had already died, after killing in many intangible ways his son, her brother. And a little switch went off in his head and he would never look at Greg's body as being a family member ever again.
Paul knew that Claire would linger in constant anguish, haunted by her self-perception of her failing as a mother.
Paul knew that Greg would live with the scars of the violations for years to come. Such memories could not be undone by sunshine and rainbows, nor hugs and kisses.
Paul felt this unjust. Accordingly, he came swiftly to the conclusion that Kim would pay. He stared at his daughter in his son's body.
"I'm gonna make you an offer," he began.
NOVEMBER -- THANKSGIVING
The new house still smelled. Off-gassing from the carpets and the oil-stained oak flooring. And the paint; don't forget the paint. The developer guaranteed satisfaction, and there was little cause for dissatisfaction. The kitchen was spacious and well-windowed. The large living space accommodated the new dining room table. Each generously sized bedroom had its own walk-in closet and 4-piece bathroom.
After careful reflection and much discussion with his parents, Greg had decided to remain female. To return to Greg's body was not an option. To be any other male would remind him that he had once been Greg. A radical difference, a bold new start: these were necessary and sensible. Not in Kim's body. Not in Mary's body.
Claire had spotted a pretty 15-year old girl trying on a dress at a store. The girl put the dress back on the rack. Claire had immediately purchased it and taken it home. Greg trusted his mother and closed his eyes. He woke up in the body of an attractive, somewhat athletic-looking, tall girl with raven hair. He instantly felt more peaceful; this was a measurable new start to his new life. So was his new school, and his new friends.
Paul and Claire applied to change their daughter's name from Kim to Darlene. Greg had picked it. Thus, Darlene went to her new school with her new friends. And Paul and Claire could cogently argue that Darlene was simply Kim after the early onset of puberty: Kim's body and Darlene's were 'same, same, but different'.
Greg before becoming Darlene had sat expressionless when his parents informed him that Kim --- in an 18-year old male body --- had run away. "I don't care," he said. He and later Darlene never spoke of Kim again.
Claire had cried for days upon learning from Paul that Kim had vanished, run away. Kim's farewell letter was filled with apologies. It also plainly stated that Kim had judged herself unworthy to remain in the family. It also expressed that, should she, Kim, one day, ever return, it would be in a most penitent, humble manner.
Kim's farewell otherwise exuded finality. So, Claire resolved to remember the good Kim, the cheery Kim, her precious Kim. The monster Kim had been eventually receded into the to-be-forgotten crevices in Claire's memory. Such emotions assuaged her mind to contemplate welcoming, one day, Kim back should she ever return.
-----000-----
"Mom, this turkey is delicious!" Darlene said as she finished a piece of dark meat.
"It's your stuffing that puts it over the top, my dear," Claire replied.
Paul took a mouthful of garlic potatoes. He spread some butter on the remainder on his plate. He had never found mashed potatoes to be appetizing until he had tasted Claire's laden with garlic. "They taste great, Claire," he said. He looked at her with as much love as he had when they married. And he glanced at Darlene with the same degree of fatherly love that he had accorded Greg before the summer and Kim before...
He snapped his fingers.
Claire chided him, "Stop it. Don't do it at the table."
He grinned back at her, took a piece of chicken breast, and gave it to the Maltese dog sitting obediently at his feet. The dog very gently took the meat from his hand, ate the meat, looked up to him, and slavishly licked Paul's lowered hand.
"Good girl," Paul said affectionately to the dog, "my beautiful little girl."
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
GUILT
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: Depressing.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
She closed the door. They had delivered the parcel on time, as they had compassionately undertaken to do. She had given the courier a small tip from the left pocket of the apron she had been wearing. The courier had wished her all the best and had walked back to his van. It left the very humble townhouse neighborhood.
She, once, had been younger and had known so much more about life.
She was older now. Her hair was salt and pepper and hung lifelessly. Her forehead was wrinkled: age and worry. Her eyes were tired. Cheeks that had once burst with colour were now splotched and pallid. There was no smile on her lined face. The corners of her mouth were turned down.
She cradled the parcel as a mother would cradle a child. She remembered the very first time he had tried to latch on, searching, struggling, crying. Her nipple had comforted him then. Her breasts were useless now.
She slowly moved into the modest living room. She remembered that, in this room, he had first crawled, first stood, and first said "ma-ma". She could still hear it: that sound of pure living joy. Silently, it resonated even now through the room.
She made her way into the kitchen. She remembered his daily efforts to set the table, help her prepare meals, do the dishes, and make tea. The same fluorescent light lit the table today as it had when he had done his elementary school homework. His grades had been excellent; he tried so hard. Her usual apron hung next to the broom closet. The hanger next to hers was empty.
She went upstairs. The staircase creaked now as it had years ago. How often had she chased him up the stairs --- or down them --- for the purpose of instilling in him appropriate behaviour, expected behaviour, required behaviour? The stairs were still slippery. She had never pushed him; she knew that; she had never pushed him. She moved carefully today.
She looked into the bathroom. Standing at the same spot whence she monitored him when he was in it. What day had it been when she had first noticed her toiletries askew? A Sunday, yes, a Sunday. The smell of rose-scented oil. The embarrassment on the little boy's face in the bathtub was still vivid in her mind.
She walked into her bedroom. His wail still filled her ears. His tears still dampened the carpet. The nightlamp still fell in slow motion. The image of her young son, her pride, her treasure, still dominated the room: her blue dress, her pantyhose, her jewelry, her lipstick, her...everything! On him, a thirteen-year-old boy. On his face, shame --- and fear.
She wavered, briefly, before she walked into his bedroom. The arguments in this room had been heated and strenuous. Each had always risen to the challenge of the other, each defiant, each resolute. Could she have been more ordinarily tender-hearted? Could her words have not been so hideous, loathing, venomous? 'Compromise' had not been in their lexicon; but could not 'compassion' have been in hers?
She gently placed the parcel on her son's bed and carefully unwrapped it.
She softly put her son's urn on his pillow. She delicately tied a pretty bright pink bow around it. She bent over and, holding the sides of the urn as a mother would hold her child's cheeks, kissed it.
She said, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
She then stood up and looked out the window toward the front walkway. He had been missing for two years. The police had said that he had died a few days ago. He was seventeen. They had approached her house on that very walkway. The circumstances of his death were simple: on the streets, abused, vulnerable, exploited. His had been a brutal death by perpetrators unknown.
She, two years ago, had delayed filing the missing person's report. The importance she had attached to winning their arguments, to imposing her will, and to all sorts of other nonsense that would never have kept her son safe 'out there': these had wasted precious hours, days, and weeks. Her pride had prevailed over his protection.
She took a small revolver from the right pocket of her son's apron and killed herself.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
I WAS MISSING
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: none.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
LOST TENT
I can't do justice to the landscape.
The river meanders through a chain of mountains whose lofty peaks are often lost in the clouds. The banks of the river are perpendicular granite cliffs. Pinegrass Trail runs close to the edge of the cliffs; if I fall, I am dead. In certain spots, a promontory allows me to see the river in its majesty and opens my way toward new horizons. The mountains are soaked in a dark coniferous green.
I love backpacking. It's about me, my pack, everything I remember to take, the sun, the wind, the trees, the river, the trails. The silence of the wild. To be fair, the wild is not entirely silent in late August; there's still some mosquitoes around so there's the occasional high-pitched buzz by my ear.
My destination that trip was campsite 17. It's long been one of my favourites in these mountains. I loved its remoteness and solitude. There were never ending ascending trails, innumerable hazardous jumps over petty ravines and cracks in the rock.
I had planned a four-day trip. Arrive at the trailhead and bash through the late afternoon into the early evening to get to site 5: I finished off the leftover pasta I had brought from my fridge and moderately sipped my Grand Marnier. A great meal, a great drink, and a great first night's sleep.
I woke, broke camp, and continued on Pinegrass Trial. The trail markers here were few in number as the trail itself was a lesser travelled one. No humans: another reason I love this trail and this remote area of the mountain range.
After five hours and at precisely the right time, I hit the intersection with the Minnimisettwaugaom Trail. Its trailhead was only 2 miles away, but they were tough miles. From the hard-to-drive-to parking lot off the abandoned logging road to the intersection was an unending up and up and up. The marker at the intersection said, "Campsite 17 - 2 miles.'. This I knew I could travel quickly.
Only a few hundred yards after the intersection, I spotted a blue bag ahead on the trail. I examined it. It was a nylon tent bag. It was dry and looked clean. I opened it. There was no dirt inside. I assumed that the person who dropped it had parked at the Mini' trailhead earlier today and was heading to 17.
Damn it; I had wanted solitude. I had just sold my software startup for $25 million and concurrently had just unburdened myself of constant stress. My parents had died when I was 21: a car accident. They had had so many plans for retirement and never got to fulfill them. I swore to live a full life in their memory. When you're 35 and have millions in the bank, it's easy to dump 14 years of worry and accomplishment in order to relax and enjoy one's time on Earth.
I picked up the tent pack and attached it to my pack using a carabiner. Whoever dropped it would want it. I'm a good backpacker; I'll help them out. And onward I trekked.
-----000-----
Several minutes later, I saw on the trail ahead two young girls approaching. They looked about 12 years old. Each wore a hiking hat, hiking shirt, hiking shorts, and hiking boots. Each was blonde, about 5'6", slender, fit, and quite adorable. Twins?
"Hello, young ladies!" I greeted them. "What are you doing out here by yourself?"
"We're looking for our tent, ma'am," the one on the left said. Her politeness was striking.
"You mean this tent?" I smiled as I showed them. Their faces expressed their joy. I took my pack off and sat on a mossy log. "What are you two doing out here by yourself?"
They exchanged looks with each other. The one on the right spoke first: "Our daddy is further ahead on the trail. We're going to campsite 17 tonight. It's where we always stayed when we backpacked with our mom, ma'am." They looked at each other again.
"Where's your mom?" I cautiously asked.
"She died two years ago in a car accident, ma'am," said one.
"Campsite 17 was her fav, ma'am," said the other.
"I'm sorry to hear that, girls. Mine also died in a car accident, 14 years ago." The memory still saddened my soul. "Anyway, here we are and here is your tent. What's your dad doing?" They looked at each other yet again. Hmmm, I thought.
"Daddy is sitting ahead on the trail waiting for us to return, ma'am," the left one said.
"He needed a timeout again, ma'am," the right one said.
Now I was curious. "Why a timeout? Wait. Before you answer, what are your names? Mine's Jessica! Call me 'Jess'!" Their names were (left) Brianna and (right) Belinda. "Twins, right?" They nodded. "So, why a timeout?"
Brianna spoke. "Daddy is trying very hard to be a good backpacker. Mom used to arrange everything. We haven't been here since she died. We asked him to take us. He's trying really hard, Jess, but..."
Belinda spoke. "Jess, he kinda doesn't know what he's doing." She paused. "He's wearing running shoes." She looked at me, embarrassed.
Running shoes? Here? Insane. The girls wore hiking boots. "Where did you get those?" They answered that they had pestered "daddy" to buy them last weekend. They had suggested he buy some too; he said he would, but he had forgotten as he was getting overwhelmed with the many things to do to prepare for the big trip.
"Let's go together!" I cheered. And we began to walk and talk our way to campsite 17. They spoke freely and maturely, for their age. They struck me as well-behaved, unusually confident young girls. They would be starting grade 8 in a few weeks. Each played soccer. They impressed me.
I told them a bit about myself, the company, my MMA hobby, my global travels (really: just the Caribbean and Mexico when the company's workload had lessened slightly). I was single, had never been married, and didn't care to, given the supply of toxic masculinity on the market. I was proud to be an independent woman who didn't need a man --- for now. I was open-minded.
I rambled on for several minutes. "Strong is the new pretty," I instructed. "Never apologize for being a powerful woman," I chanted. "If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman," I quoted.
They stopped in their tracks. "Jess, are you kidding us?" they quietly asked. I shook my head: no. They whispered to each other, glancing at me as they did.
"Jess, our daddy's name is Richard," Belinda said, looking at me carefully.
"Our mom called him 'Rikki', Jess," Brianna said cautiously. "R-i-k-k-i, Rikki," she said.
They looked at each other again. Twins: it's a bit creepy sometimes watching them do it. What they said next spoke volumes:
"Jess, you should call him 'Rikki' too."
-----000-----
"Hi, Rikki!" I shouted when I saw him. I startled him. He jumped up off the pack. He hadn't heard us approach, which is hard to do in the middle of the woods unless one is in deep thought.
He was a shorter man, a tad on the frail side but probably best described as scrawny. His hair was matted with sweat. His grey T-shirt was ringed by salt stains on the back and front from where his backpack straps had been. He wore jeans. And running shoes. He was still youthfully cute for his age, which I estimated to be about 30. I towered over him by several inches and muscularly outweighed him by at least 30 pounds.
"I'm Jessica, and I've just met the two most awesome kids I've met in a long time!" I stuck out my hand.
He smiled at that and stuck out his: "Richard," he said.
"It's good to meet you, Rikki." His eyes went wide as I said that name. "I'm going to call you Rikki. You have no problem with that, right? It's what your daughters suggested I call you, and I happen to like it. So, that's that. Right, Rikki?"
I glared at him defiantly. He glanced at his daughters; they smiled at him lovingly. "I guess, so," he said, politely.
"Good. I have your tent. Let me see your pack so I can clip it on securely."
"I can get that," he started.
"I got it," I said without looking at him while grabbing his pack. It was heavier than mine. It seemed to weigh about 50 pounds. "What have you in here? A kitchen sink?" I asked. The girls giggled. They sipped water from their Camelbacks. Without asking, I opened his pack.
An iron frying pan. Three ceramic plates. One quart of dish soap. Three gas containers. Heavier fleece sleeping bags. A large jar of peanut butter. Heavy plastic cups. A loaf of bread completely squished. And so on. So much unnecessary weight. He plainly didn't know what he was doing. I looked at the twins. They smiled at me. I grinned and emptied the pack.
"I'm going to repack it. Girls, prepare to carry some stuff. Rikki, take the clips off my pack. No, the other ones."
"I can get this if---"
"No, you can't," I said evenly to him. "I can. I will. You watch. Sit." He sat. The twins smiled.
We eventually set off together.
-----000-----
I pitched my tent and set up my gear. From arrival to set-up: 15 minutes. I was slick and well-practiced. Rikki was not. The twins stood off to the side with a dash of exasperation on their faces. I saw him heroically strive to attach the poles to the two-person tent he had brought. Oh my, I thought: he's clumsy.
"Rikki, do you want a hand?" I asked.
"I've got it! Thanks though!" he overconfidently replied. I sat. I waited. I beckoned the twins to sit next to me. They came. They sat. We watched. We knew. I looked at each of them; each looked at me sympathetically. They would have been embarrassed had they not known me as they had come to know me.
It was time for action.
"Rikki, stop what you're doing. I want you to go into the woods and scavenge kindling for our fire tonight. Belinda," she jumped when I mustered her, "you go with him and make sure he, I mean, neither of you get lost. Brianna, you and I are going to pitch the tent." I got to work. So did Brianna. Belinda moved up the trail to look for wood. Rikki stood there, mouth agape.
"What are you looking at? Get to work!" I firmly but collegially ordered him.
Off he went, following Belinda.
-----000-----
My fire roared. A few sparks drifted up toward the stars. The orange flames lit our faces. The fire warmed us as we sat around it. Belinda sat on my left, Briana on my right, and Rikki on the other side of the fire. The three of them held a hot chocolate in their hands; I had given all of mine to them. I sipped my Grand Marnier.
"Rikki, tell me about yourself." This younger man intrigued me. His daughters were beautiful, smart, and mature. He was polite to a fault and obviously devoted to them. He had diligently carried out the several minor tasks I had assigned him. He moved closer to the fire.
"I was born in the capital, attended high school, played some sports, none very well, and graduated, and was working in a restaurant cleaning tables and pinch-hitting for some waiters work when my future wife, whom I had never met before, asked me out on a date.
"I had seen her in the restaurant a few times before. I may even have waited on her. I didn't know. Janet was beautiful and kind. I was blessed to have her give me any attention. I said yes. We went to a movie, and three weeks later, she asked me to marry her. My parents liked her. 'Just right for you', my mom said. My dad loved Janet too; they yapped back and forth about the NFL and---"
"What teams, Rikki?"
"Oh. My dad loves the Packers and Janet followed the Saints. Anyway..." And on he went. They had the twins early on. He was seven years younger than she was. He stayed home and looked after the house and kids. I noticed how he breezed over that part. She had an MBA and had been a senior executive at Rathskeller Guns & Ammo. He had been surprised by their whirlwind romance and unorthodox lifestyle but would do anything for her.
I interrupted him. "Brianna, it's your turn. Please poke the fire like I showed you."
Brianna moved to do it, but Rikki intervened. "I'll get that, Brianna. Don't play with fire."
I immediately countered: "No. It's fine. I'll watch her. Keep on with your story."
I nodded to Brianna who smiled at her dad and poked the fire. He sat back; he seemed a bit relieved. I liked him and his history. He was downto -earth and modest. Genuine. He seemed to lack a single evil cell. He struck me as a kind man who had suffered tragedy and was now beleaguered in caring for his daughters as they moved onward and older. I liked him.
"Belinda, it's your turn now," I said and gave Rikki a commanding look. He said nothing. Belinda took the poker and prodded the fire. The embers roared back to life. "Well done," I approved.
Later, as the fire died down, I issued more instructions. "Girls, here are your bear horns for tonight. Like I said, anything scary, just blow it. I'll be there to help you or to drive the animals away. Both of you get ready for bed now. Be sure to pee before getting in. Off you go."
"Goodnight, Jess!" they said.
Rikki got up too.
"Rikki, sit back down." He did.
"You are going to sleep with me in my tent tonight." I raised my hand to shut him up.
"The girls will be fine. Your tent is designed for two people; three would be too crowded. The girls will stay together; that's what sisters do. Mine can take two. You will sleep in it. Go get your air mattress and sleeping bag." I stared at him.
"Move now," I sternly said. I smiled at him tenderly; I really did like him.
"It'll be fine," I reassured him. He smiled, got up, and brought his stuff over to my tent.
"Now it's your turn, little man. Go pee and then get in the tent. I'll drown the fire out. Look here: these are the cups for coffee in the morning. And here's the lighter for the stove. If you forget how to use it, then ask the girls. I already showed them. Yes, yes, yes: they're very smart...." And on I talked. And on he listened.
THEY HOST DINNER
Two days later, I was driving to their home.
They lived on Pleasant Street. Theirs was a comfortable looking bungalow in the 2000 square foot range. A well-manicured front lawn without any signs of weeds or grubs in it, some hanging baskets of red annuals by the windows, and a small sign by the front door that said 'Jones'. That would be their surname. Rikki, Brianna, and Belinda Jones. Mine was 'Loving'.
I rang the doorbell. The twins enthusiastically greeted me and gleefully shouted to Rikki that I had arrived. "Jess, I'll be a minute," I heard him shout. Then I heard, "Or maybe ten. Please don't come in the kitchen yet."
The twins gave me that resigned look that I had come to expect of them when Rikki was valiantly trying to do something.
"Show me the house then!" They took my hands and gave me a tour. A large family room adjoined a spacious dining area that adjoined the kitchen. I saw Rikki frantically bend over some pots on the stove. "Stay away!" he nervously cried.
The girls smiled at me and led me to their rooms. Each was immaculate (!!!) and very well decorated. Theirs were not dissimilar to mine when I was their age. I noted the modern music posters, teen books, manga and comix, posters of soccer stars, clothing and accessories; the girls were well maintained. Plainly, Rikki loved them.
They then dragged me to the master bedroom. I recognized a lonely room when I saw one. This was one. The bed was of course made. The carpet was warm, plush, and had been recently vacuumed. His side of the bed was obviously the far one: an alarm clock, a box of tissue, a book ('Raising Daughters To Be Leaders', by Terry Tangmere), a small watch, his iPhone.
"Jess, that's our mom," Brianna said, pointing to a picture on the closer nightstand. There was nothing but the picture on it.
Rikki had spoken fondly of her. I could imagine his pain, his loss. The girls spoke reverently of her. Their mother, I saw, had been attractive beyond belief. A French bun. Sharp, focused eyes. Bushy, full eyebrows. A straight nose, distinguished. And her heart-shaped lips were identical to those on her daughters' faces. I glanced at them; the two of them looked at the picture adoringly.
"Was your mom, Janet, was she kind?" I asked sincerely.
They nodded: "Jess, she was the best mom." I smiled. That they spoke so highly of her even today, two years after her death, indicated much about the love and care that had been in this home.
I looked again at the picture.
Then I saw it, lurking in plain view behind the woman's beauty:
Ruthless decisiveness.
-----000-----
Well, Rikki did say to seat ourselves.
Acting on instinct and a good hunch, I sat at the head of the table and started bantering back and forth with the twins. Rikki brought the plates out from the kitchen. He appeared surprised when he saw me in what, I suppose, had been his place. Before he or I could say anything, Brianna pulled out the chair at the far end of the table and patted it: "Here, daddy." Belinda nodded. I smiled. He sat.
I watched the three of them place food on each plate. We began to eat. The girls' manners were splendid and refined. They dabbed their napkins properly, used their cutlery smoothly, and sipped their milk quietly.
"Rikki, this is a delicious salmon pasta. What was the panic in the kitchen about?" Although I was a guest, I posed the question in such a way that Rikki the host could not avoid answering it.
"A spillover on the pasta water."
"Did you leave the lid on?" The girls looked at me as I kindly asked.
"Yes, I did." The girls looked at him as he answered.
"Well, in future, don't. And from now on leave a wooden spoon in the pot as the pasta cooks." The girls looked at me as I gently spoke.
"I've never done that before." The girls looked at him as he answered.
I cocked my head at his response. "I have. It works. And that's that. That's how I like it. I recommend it to you. Surely there is no reason that you would not follow my recommendation?" The girls looked at me as I helpfully spoke. There was a brief pause and then he replied.
"Okay. I'll try that next time, Jess." The girls looked at him as he answered.
"Jessica. The girls call me 'Jess' because it's a girls-only thing. You may call me 'Jessica'. I insist." The girls looked at me as I firmly spoke. I raised my eyebrows and playfully grinned at him.
"Yes, Jessica. I'll try that next time, Jessica." The girls smiled at him as he answered.
"And you'll protect your clothes with an apron next time too, right?" He nodded his agreement. "Excellent!" The girls beamed at me as I decisively spoke.
"Excellent, daddy!" Rikki and I looked at them as they gleefully cheered.
We ate.
"Girls, let's continue the tour! Back to the bedrooms, right?"
"Yes, Jess!" they shouted.
I stood and looked at him as the girls took their plates and cutlery to the kitchen. "You're good with the clean-up, yes?" I said in a way that, rather than posing a question, simply conveyed a fact. I stared at him. He looked cute, like a big-eyed puppy dog being given attention by its master.
Or its Mistress.
-----000-----
"What's behind this door?"
The twins looked at each other. It really did creep me out when they did that. So, it wasn't just that one time in the woods. It's them. If they were less attractive, I'd call them the Grady Twins. Well, not really; they weren't malevolent or anything like that (yet).
"Jess, we promise to show you. Before you go. We love our daddy and we so do want you to get to know him better. But not yet please?"
Hmm. "Okay," I replied, mystified, and off we went to the basement and then the backyard.
-----000-----
We sat back at the dining room table. Rikki had laid out the game of Sorry and placed some small snacks which he had neatly arranged on some small trays.
"Red!" said Brianna.
"Green!" said Belinda.
"Blue!" said Rikki.
"No, I'm blue," I said calmly. "You are yellow." I moved the pieces about and set his up. "Did you get the girls their sparkling water?" I asked. Rikki excused himself and fetched their water.
As I began shuffling the cards, I batted my eyelashes at him and said, "I would like a small drink, please." He looked at me blankly. "What do you have?" I asked.
"Oh! Sorry! Oh, I wasn't joking about that. I mean, my apologies. I was thinking that you might want some mineral water too." He bowed his head. "I have some vodka, Drambuie, brandy of some kind, whiskey, Scotch, Baileys, Slivov---"
"Do you have any Grand Marnier?" I leveled the question at him in a flat tone.
"No, I don't."
"Pardon?" I narrowed my eyes at him and drew the word out slowly.
"No, I don't, Jessica. I'm sorry." He looked down at the table. Belinda placed her hand on top of his.
"It's alright, Rikki. Next time, please be better prepared. Tonight then, I would like a nicely warmed brandy." I looked back at the cards and shuffled again.
"Yes, Jessica," he quietly said and fetched it.
I smiled at the girls. They knowingly smiled back at me.
"This is a fun game, isn't it, Jess!" they sang together.
-----000-----
"And move the chairs out before you vacuum under the table, sweetie." I watched him as I issued my instructions. He paid attention. He never looked away from me. He nodded.
"I'll be with the girls," I said and moved down the hallway toward their bedrooms. They were already dressed and cleaned for bed. They were so adorable! Being with them was like, well, it was like having younger sisters (of which I had none). Joyful. Cheery. Bright. Innocent.
Maybe not innocent. That door...
"Brianna and Belinda," I summoned them. They appeared before me and stood side-by-side, smirking. I jerked my thumb toward the last door, the mysterious door. "Show me now, please, girls."
Their smirks vanished; in their place were two anxious faces.
"Do you like daddy?" one of them asked trepidly. I nodded vigorously.
"Would you ever want to hurt daddy?" the other asked protectively.
I shook my head: "Absolutely not!"
They paused by the door and suddenly appeared nervous.
"You won't laugh, will you?" They asked softly in unison again: twins, creepy.
"No. He's too adorable to be hurt in any way. I never want to see him cry," I happily answered. It was true too.
A visible wave of genuine relief swept over their faces. Belinda took a key out of her nightgown pocket, unlocked the door, and opened it.
I turned on the light and dropped my jaw.
I HOST DINNER
Two days later, my doorbell rang. Exactly 4:22 p.m.; they were precisely on time. I had warned him that there would be repercussions were he to show up one minute late or one minute early. Punctual means reliable, I mused.
I opened the door and saw what I needed to see.
The twins were wearing identical blouses, jeans, socks, and shoes. Their light makeup was identical. So were their ponytails. "Ladies! You look precious! Inside! Shoes off! Run around! Explore!"
They gleefully dashed into my modest 9,000 square foot mansion and disappeared somewhere within it. They'd be back for dinner. They'd told me that they loved turkey stir-fry pasta, and, to make them happy, that is what I had prepared this morning. I simply had to reheat it.
I turned to look back at Rikki. He too was dressed per my instructions (to avoid my admonitions): a plain white T-shirt, a bland pair of light cotton shorts, and cheap running shoes. "Excellent!" I greeted him after my inspection. He smiled at my approving grin.
I closed the door after him and led him by the hand on a quick spin around my little cozy shack. We never saw the twins during the tour. I thought I had heard them once in the entertainment centre. It mattered not.
I led. I narrated. He followed. He listened. I was again surprised at how easy it was to talk with him. His patience and understanding were unparalleled and exemplary. His delightful "you have exquisite taste", his innocuous "is that so?", and his self-deprecating "I never thought of that" endeared him to me.
I grabbed his arm as we entered my bedroom. It was, admittedly, an indulgence on my part: 1,200 square feet of a sleeping area, a lounge area, two massive walk-in closets, and a splendidly magnificent, marbled bathroom. His jaw dropped.
I pushed him on his back onto my bed. I straddled him. I grabbed his forearms and pushed them over his head. I hung my feet over his thighs, inside his groin. He was pinned.
-----000-----
"I like you, Rikki. Very much in fact," I spoke tenderly.
"I like you too, Jessica." He spoke tenderly.
"Ms. Jessica." My voice and face went cold.
"I like you too, Ms. Jessica," he said nervously.
"I love it when you call me that, sweetie," I said, my voice dripping with genuine care. "The girls are wonderful. I am so looking forward to living with them, and you sweetie, and you, here. Starting tomorrow." I saw his eyes widen. Was I going too fast? Fuck it. Full speed ahead.
"No more worries for you about working at that office," I leaned over him.
"No more stress about the girls' education, their future, their upbringing," I softly kissed him on one cheek.
"No more worries about anything," I kissed the other cheek.
I gazed into his gentle eyes. I saw a beautiful meek creature that had no place trying to be a man in this world. His was a soul that needed protection, guidance, and comfort, all of which I had the capacity, capability, and determination to provide.
"Do you understand, honey?" I asked him. He nodded.
"The girls want this too, dear," I kissed him again. He nodded again.
"Don't be afraid. Ms. Jessica will care for you," I said, and he moaned under my kisses.
"Yes?" I whispered.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" My tone ever so slightly changed.
"Yes, Ms. Jessica," he whispered back.
"Good. I shall be downstairs in the living room with the girls. It's four fifty now. Be down there in 60 minutes. Not a moment sooner. Understood?" He nodded.
"Good. And Rikki, when I was at your place the other day, the girls gave me something for you to wear today. They told me that it was their favourite. I can see why. Now, you shall put it on for me, prepare yourself, and come downstairs. It's on the chair in the lounge. Next to my vanity. There are other instructions on the vanity; read them and comply." I kissed him one more time, passionately this time, and swiftly left him.
-----000-----
The twins flanked me on the couch. We muttered back and forth about our plan. Frankly, they were more upbeat and positive about it than I was. I thought he might back out and flee; if that happened, I do not know what the girls would do. Would they silently follow him? Demand to stay with me? Berate him endlessly?
We held hands. We wore blouses. We wore pants. We anxiously waited for any noise or movement from the top of the stairs.
Here I was, 35, educated, filthy rich, retired, and lonely no more. What a blessing to have had these stunning young girls walk into my life. They exuded potential. I could see it in their eyes. School. University. The corporate ladder. The sports field. I perceived in both of them the ability to climb the greasy pole and attain the highest of heights.
If they just had the right amount of mentoring...
Their mother had excelled in the time that she had had with them. I knew that I could build upon the solid foundation laid by their beloved Janet. And I knew that they would be my best friends and the most flawlessly modern women.
She had gifted to them an advanced degree of sophistication unusual for girls their age. I had detected it immediately. I regretted that I had never met Janet; on the anniversary of her death, I would mourn and honour her with my new girls. Their future accomplishments would be a lasting tribute to their beautiful mother, and in lesser part to me. And that was fine by me. I was truly happy for them.
Both Belinda and Brianna tightened their grips. Our eyes turned upward.
-----000-----
Rikki appeared slowly. He put his hand on the railing and slowly began his descent of the stairs. Belinda's foot tapped the floor. Briana murmured something to herself. Their faces expressed joy. I exhaled: anticipation.
With the grace of a cat, Rikki approached. He was nervous. His daughters saw that and let go of my hands. They lovingly raced to his side. His breathing increased. Might he be afraid that I'll bite? That I'll mock?
Fool. I wouldn't dare do that to this gentle person whom I realized was my perfect soulmate.
"Girls, please lead him here," I said, pointing to a spot on the floor before me.
"Everything's going to be fine, daddy. You need this," said Brianna caringly.
"It's been so long, daddy. We love you like this, so does Jess," said Belinda tenderly.
I stood and entered his personal space. My mistake: I moved my personal space closer to him and brought him into it. There! I felt the rush! Everything about him was mine. I wanted to hold him, clutch him, seize him, squeeze him. I would absorb him if I could. I put my arms around his neck and looked down at him.
Even with those 5" heels on, he still had to look up at me.
"Rikki, you have done wonders with the girls these past two years. It's time for you to go back to your proper place. I will take the lead now, and you will assist me." I kissed him on the lips and smeared his perfect lipstick. He shed a tear; his mascara ran. I gently thumbed the tear away.
"We love you, daddy," the girls soothed him.
"I love you, Rikki," I said kissing him with care and compassion. He needed my love.
His dam broke and he started to sob. Poor thing. Two years alone. Two years of heroically trying to accomplish that which he knew not how to accomplish. Two years of noble, loving efforts for his daughters finally rewarded. They were happy. Belinda flattened the back of his dress. Brianna rubbed her fingers over his fingernail polish. And I kissed him again. He fell into my arms. I held him closely.
He wept. "I love you too, Jessica."
I lifted his chin with my index finger and answered him with a caring but firm voice:
"It's Ms. Jessica to you, my Loving wife."
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
JUSTICE FOR BOBBY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
Warning: Horror.
Author's Note: To the credit of its author, one TG story on a site disturbed me to the conclusion that, in order to sleep better at night, I needed to write a moral counterpoint to it.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
FIND
Stephanie Leski was in the kitchen savoring her freshly baked gingerbread cookies when she heard the firm knock at the front door. She wondered why people didn't ring the doorbell anymore. There was a doorbell there; why not use it? She went to the security system and looked at the screen.
There were two fairly average looking men in business suits at the door. One had darker hair, the other lighter hair. Both seemed to be about six feet tall and fit. The darker-haired one had a neatly trimmed beard.
She pressed the microphone button. "Yes, can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the darker-haired one said. "We're from the county tax investigation bureau and are looking for Mrs. Stephanie Leski."
"Could you please show me some identification? Please hold it up to the camera." Stephanie was reasonably cautious but not paranoid. Satisfied with the officious bronze badge and ID cards, she told them she would be there in a minute. She ate one hot cookie then went to the front door.
"I'm Stephanie Leski. How can I help you?" Her smile was warm and welcoming. So were the two men's smiles. It was a typical friendly moment in a pleasant suburban neighbourhood. And the sun shone too.
"Good afternoon, I'm officer Frank Williams," the darker-haired one said, "and this is my partner, officer John George. May we come in for a minute please?"
They sat in the tasteful living room. Expensive couch. Plush leather chairs. An incredibly fine 105 raj Tabriz carpet. Mahogany table. Murano glass. Inuit sculptures. Chinese vases. Stephanie thought the décor exquisite. Frank and John didn't care about the décor. Their eyes darted all over the room and any visible, adjoining rooms and corridors.
Frank assumed responsibility for the social preliminaries. While Stephanie focused on him, John slowly got up and walked around the room, looking, searching. Stephanie glanced curiously at him from time to time.
"...And so it is that we need your assistance in figuring out what happened to the seventy-five dollars that the audit failed to clear. And we would deeply appreciate it if you were to accompany us to our office so that we can show you the video Moses made." Frank opened his hands in a pleading gesture. His voice was disarmingly kind.
Stephanie had heard of this incident: Moses Lans had been caught with his hand in the daily cash float box, and the managing director had fired him. Stephanie had not heard of a formal investigation by the authorities but reasonably assumed that the managing director had called for one. Stephanie would have called the police. She had never improperly taken a dime from the company and had nothing to hide. And stealing was wrong. So, these were the two men the managing director harnessed and then unleashed to chase down Moses. But really: all this for just seventy-five dollars?
"I'd love to help you, but I have pick up my two children in three hours." She was 27. She and her husband (Phil) had wanted to start a family as soon as possible after marriage (which had come right after university).
Frank replied. "It won't take that long, Mrs. Leski. We would very much appreciate your assistance and deeply regret the inconvenience. And we can mention your positive assistance to your boss, Ms. Sinclair. And I assure you that we will re-unite you with your family soonest." His was a friendly smile.
Reluctantly, Stephanie quickly packed the cookies, closed the house, locked the front door, and walked to the it's-so-obvious-it's-anundercover -cop-car car. John held the back door open for her. "Sorry," he said as she squeezed into the caged back. In the driver's seat, Frank flicked a few buttons, started the car, flicked some more buttons, and drove. John sat serenely in the front seat.
The car moved quickly and was soon on the highway heading out of town. "Where are we going?" Stephanie's question went unanswered. She opened her purse. "My cell phone doesn't work." No response from the front seat. "Alright. Please stop the car and let me out." Silence. The car continued on its way out of the city.
Stephanie had a brief temper tantrum. There was the normal shouting and swearing and bashing and thrashing. Eventually, as is so often the case for anyone in the back of a police car, she calmed down resignedly and watched the scenery pass by, not knowing what her immediate future held. Or where she was.
After driving down several forgettable, winding country roads, the car turned into a driveway and stopped at a gate. A 30'ish, fit man wearing jeans, a grey T-shirt, and a baseball cap came out and looked into the car. He opened the gate and the car went up to a fairly non-descript, large country house. The man closed the gate. The property was secluded and charmingly bucolic.
FIX
In contradiction to the house's first few rooms upon entering, the room in the interior of the ground floor of the house looked very much like a police interrogation room in the movies. No windows. One wall with a door at one end and the rest covered in what had to be a one-way mirror. The other three walls were light gray, blank. There was a table and three chairs, two on one side, the third opposite them. John and Frank sat on one side, Stephanie on the other. The room was otherwise empty.
John spoke. "I apologize, Mrs. Leski. This all may seem somewhat unusual to you, but we do have our methods here. Please be patient and work with us through our problem. Okay?" John smiled and tilted his head. Stephanie evidenced some irritation but nodded her agreement.
And so John began his long dance with Stephanie. "When were you born?" "Tell me about your parents." "Where did you live?" "How was school? What teachers did you have?" Question after question about her early life, her teens, her university years, her entrance into the business world, and her family life today.
Stephanie glanced at her watch. "I have to pick up my kids in one hour." She started getting antsy. "I don't see how any of this concerns Moses whisking from the cash box at the office," she said with exasperation.
"These questions, and your answers of course, they matter to us," John said in the same bland, dull, slow voice that he had asked all of the questions. His was a voice to lull one to sleep.
"I have to go now to get my children," Stephanie replied.
John answered in that flat voice, and his answer terrified Stephanie: "Please don't tell us about your children anymore. We know you don't have any." He amicably stared at her.
Busted! Her eyes showed her fear. "What does that mean? You can't keep me here! I have rights you know! Now, let me go, officer!"
John lifted a hand, made a signal of some sort to the mirror, and sat back. Two huge, gigantic men, 'heavies', entered the room and stood behind John and Frank. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped, chin on hands. He stared at her. After a few minutes of mutual staring and silence, he continued.
"Stephanie, I'm going to ask you my questions again. You lied to us about having kids. Please do not lie to us again. Now, there are some things that you can help clarify for me. Some details. Some better descriptions. You do want to help us, don't you?" Silence.
"Please let me go." Stephanie began losing hope.
John slowly said, "Let's start at the beginning again. Tell me about your first memories at kindergarten. Describe your childhood house again. Let's start there." He motioned the men out of the room.
----- 000 -----
Stephanie had no idea what time it was. She saw her watch no longer worked. She saw her cell phone no longer worked. She strained to resist going to the bathroom. She shifted her weight from one side to the other, to lessen the discomfort on her bum. She was fidgeting. Frank was standing behind her somewhere, wasn't he? Her mental acuity was getting worn down. It had to be late at night now. What would Phil be thinking right now?
She was trying to play nice and answer all the questions. But there were so many! John never ceased. She answered one, and he asked another. He kept going back to what she had said the first, second, third, or fourth time she had recited her biography and 'life story'.
She asked, "When can I see my husband?" She was not soothed by John's tranquil answer, "Don't worry about him." There was a knock at the mirror behind him. He got up, and then he and Frank left the room. She was alone in the locked, empty room for what seemed like hours.
A third man sat down opposite her. He was older, larger, and crueler looking than John was. There was a deep scar running from his right tear duct to the middle of his jawline. He did not smile at all. He looked through several pages of documents in a folder he carried. His hands were thick and deeply calloused. He stopped on one page, read it, and looked up at her.
"Tell me about your stepfather." A primal snarl. His voice was meaner than John's. Stephanie was tired, hungry, and thirsty. The water on the table had turned out to be salty. John had never tried it. Stephanie had. John had smiled when she had.
The third man repeated his command. Stephanie, exhausted, answered once again. "Like I said before, mommy met him when I was about 14 years old. He had ---"
The third man interrupted her, "Mummy? You mean 'Mumzie', right?"
She nodded her agreement vigorously. "Yes, sorry, Mumzie, that's my name for her. Mumzie met him when I was about 14 and he owned an injection molding business, running some fancy plastic or rubber plant. You know those winter pads for your car to keep the carpet from getting slushy? They made those. He had money. He made mumzie happy. He seemed happy too. He was a nice man."
"What was his name? What was his NAME?" the third man shouted, slamming the table with his fist.
"Rob Wells, his name was Rob Wells!" she cried in fear. "I told you that before!"
The third man stood up and leaned over the table. His face was red. His eyes blazed with hate. He smashed his two fists on the table time and time again. Stephanie was frightened. He shouted inches from her face, "What was his FULL name?"
"Robert Wells!" she cried.
"His FULL FUCKING NAME, you fucking cunt!"
"Robert Jonathan Wells!" she cried.
The questions were coming machinegun fast. The table almost fell apart under his last barrage of fists. "WHAT WAS HIS FULL FUCKING NAME?"
"Robert Jonathan Wells, senior!" she cried. Her tears, saliva, and runny nose snot mingled on her face. Her mascara ran. He hair was, shall we say, askew...
The third man grinned and suddenly left the room. Empty chairs, empty table, empty room. Except Stephanie, who was left alone in the silence and emptiness.
Stephanie wanted to sleep so much. She had no idea what was happening here and what was happening to her. Suddenly, her spirits lifted: John, calm John, beautifully placid John, re-entered the room! She was glad to see him. Relieved in fact.
John leisurely walked around the table, softly putting a finger briefly on Stephanie's head, but not stopping. He dragged his seat out, moved to its side, put an untitled folder on the table, and sat down. He adjusted himself. He looked at Stephanie. His face, she thought, was kind and caring, sympathetic.
"Stephanie, please help me here." He nodded at her. She nodded back, instinctively, eagerly. "We can work together here. We can do questions and answers and get you re-united with your family fast. But you have to work with me, understand, Steph?" He nodded 'yes', and she agreeably nodded back. Please just make this stop, she thought, please just let me go home.
"Me and Frank have been with you here. We like you. We don't want you to get in any undeserved trouble. But," he voiced took on a tinge of frustration, "if you don't work with us, then Marco has to come back again." He pointed his hand toward the door and the third man who was no longer in the room.
"I do want to work with you. Anything. Please. Anything."
John smiled and nodded. Stephanie nodded too. John said, "We like working with you too. I really want to work with you. But you've been holding back from us, haven't you?" Stephanie was tired, reeling from the entire day's events, and shook her head 'no'.
Frank walked in, sat down, looked at John, and smirked. John turned and smiled at Stephanie. John's was a soothing voice, a tranquilizing voice, a voice to which lamb and wolf could blissfully dance together. John moved his hands across the table and gently grasped Stephanie's. She started to bawl. John said it was okay to cry, crying is good, crying can re-unite her with her family sooner.
John looked at Stephanie's eyes. "Stephanie, you have not been truthful." Her eyes were wide open and red, her head shook, she mumbled, "Yes, I have. Yes, I have..." She mumbled these words repeatedly. "No, Stephanie, no, you have not." John bent his head forward and looked at her beseechingly. "I wish you would tell us the truth."
"I did. I did, I swear I did," she cried. John went silent.
Frank spoke: "Stephanie, please tell us about Robert Jonathan Wells, junior."
She cried, "I did."
Stephanie watched Frank get up and go to the door. He opened it, appeared to say something to someone (Marco?) outside the door, lifted his hand as though to indicate stop to that other person, closed the door, and returned to his seat. John looked at Frank, who leaned back and with his hand urged John to ask the questions. John's voice changed. It conveyed urgency and frustration, that time was almost up.
"Last chance, Stephanie. Tell us about Robert Jonathan Wells, junior, your stepbrother, also known as Bobby."
Upon hearing that name, Stephanie felt nauseous. A little dusty box of fun, laughable memories, long ago wrapped with a bow and put away in an attic and forgotten, sprung open and unleashed a wave of horror that filled her soul. This interview had nothing to do with Moses' supposed, petty embezzlement. Her body began to tremble. Her eyes rolled. And she fainted.
----- 000 -----
That Stephanie had endured seventeen hours so far was impressive. But everyone has a breaking point, and the only question is 'when?'. The smelling salts restarted the countdown toward Stephanie's breaking point.
"I don't remember that much about him," she started.
But Frank pursued. "You said Mumzie married when you were 15. Bobby would have been 13 then, right?" She nodded yes.
"We've checked some records. You both lived at the same house, 42 Pleasant Street, went to the same school for five years, right?" She nodded yes.
"Even a bit together in that house after your stepdad, his real, biological dad, died, when you were 18, right?" She nodded yes. "And Bobby was 16 then, right?" She nodded yes.
"Tell me about those years. What was Bobby like? Who were his friends? Who were your friends? John and I want to know more about Bobby."
Stephanie's mind was mush. Sleep deprivation. Lack of food and water. Constant mental exercising. Relentless questioning (polite of course). Reciting time and time again the same story line, knowing that, each time a slight discrepancy emerged, it would give rise to another line of questioning. No sense of time. Worry for her husband, her gingerbread cookies, her life.
And now endless questions about Bobby. She tried and tried to skirt her way around those questions. Yet Frank and John invariably caught every single inconsistency, maneuvered the conversation (if that's what it was) to different topics, and then without notice, pounced back to each inconsistency and pounded her with questions about it: e.g. "Whoa: you said he wanted to go to university! So, why didn't he apply to any?"
They had skillfully gotten Stephanie to draw a fulsome sketch of Bobby's life from age 13 to 18. She did in fact remember much about him. They observed her reluctance, avoidance, aversion, of anything after age 18. Therefore, they spruced the interview up. They increased the speed. They alternated questioning. They danced back and forth in the timeline, throwing her off again and again and again.
John started, "You said you loved him. I'll rewind the tapes and show you saying that you loved him. Where is he now?" He then threw her off: "What was Christmas like that year? Did you send him a gift, a card? What was it?"
Frank hit her mind with heavy ones: "If you love him, why didn't you care to find out where he went? Who reported his missing to the police? Is that a lie? You said Mumzie reported him missing earlier."
John resumed with his detailing: "What happened to all the stuff in his room? Where did it go? Who took it away? Don't say you don't know; you were still living there!"
Frank added more: "How much did his father bequeath to him? What lawyer had the Will? How much did you get from your stepdad? How did you and Phil buy your house?"
And so on.
Stephanie felt her entire world was collapsing in ruin upon her. She couldn't keep up. She felt physically weak, mentally ravaged, and completely depressed.
A loud bang filled the room: Marco slammed open the door and stormed over to her. He glared at her and threw something on the table.
It was a black leather biker hat. Marco then threw a surgical mask down next to it. And then a long black rubber apron. She stared at them. Her curiosity gave way to shock and then fear. Stephanie recognized the three articles before her. She knew them all too well, having worn them all so well.
Long suppressed memories awoke and began to haunt her. The click of heels on the dark stairs down to the steel door in a sub-basement. Gargling, whimpering, gagging, and especially hissed, restricted breathing. The feel of rope against human skin. The burn in a bicep from tightening a leather strap. The sound of leather hitting a latex body suit. The smell of leather. The sound of a dildo getting lubed. The cold metal touch of the maternity/gyno examination table. The sloppy popping sound of a plug leaving an orifice. Stephanie's head shook back and forth as though seized by insane disbelief.
John and Frank quietly got up and left, taking their folder with them. Marco moved around the table and sat down.
Stephanie still had enough reasoning ability to realize that her pleasant little suburban world had evaporated and that her life would never be the same.
Marco raised his hand above his head and snapped his fingers. Frank came back into the room and gave Marco a laptop and then left again. He spun it around to show Stephanie the screen.
"Do you recognize this woman?" His was a low, menacing voice. The picture was of her longtime friend Carmen, standing next to Marco in this same interview room. Carmen's body displayed utter defeat and her face utter fear. Marco whispered to Stephanie, "Now is a very bad time to lie. I know who she is. Say her name."
"It's Carmen," she whispered back.
"Look at me. Has Carmen ever worn these things?" He waved his hand across the table. Stephanie answered with a nod: yes. Her tears splashed on the table. Marco nodded back. "Good girl," he said. "Keep it up and don't lie to me." He turned the laptop around and hit a few keys. He turned it back.
"Here's another pic. Carmen says that this person in it is her. Do you agree?" He pointed to the second picture. Stephanie did not want to look at it. She dreaded what it might be. "Look at it. Do you agree it's her?" Marco snarled in her face.
It was a screenshot from a video made a couple of years ago in a dark, hellish basement dungeon. The picture was of a room. The background was shiny and black. The floor was grey concrete. The lighting was dreary.
In the right of the picture was a figure wearing a black leather biker hat, a surgical mask, a white gown of some kind, and, over the gown, a black rubber apron. The figure was sitting on the floor with one hand between their legs and the other hand under the apron, apparently caressing a breast. Women's running shoes and socks were visible. So were the figure's milk chocolate skin of her shins and calves.
In the centre of the picture was a smaller figure on its knees. It was dressed entirely in black; no human flesh was visible. Its lower legs appeared to be held tightly together. Its toes were pointed straight back, undoubtedly painfully. Its upper legs and torso were perfectly straight, presumably because of the corset that seemed to be excruciatingly tight around the figure's waist.
The figure's arms were together and behind the figure's head. The head itself was hooded. A black tube fell from the mouth area. Directly in front of the figure was a large size television screen, presumably filling the figure's entire field of vision. What looked like fellatio between some humanish forms was occurring on screen. The figure was facing to the right in the picture, and the screen to the left.
Slightly off centre and to the left, dressed identically to the first figure (Carmen), a third figure stood behind the kneeling, restrained second figure. White flesh was visible below the hem of the white smock. The third figure's left hand held a rope that raised the second figure's bound arms. The right hand held a long straight rod that looked like a yardstick.
"See the dark skin down there?" Marco said, pointing to the right side of the picture. "Carmen. Even Carmen says it's Carmen. Do you agree?"
Stephanie nodded yes. Teary snot ran from her nose.
Marco breathed deeply, "Who's this on the left, Stephanie?" Silence. He played with the laptop briefly and turned it back toward her. It again showed the picture of Marco and Carmen --- petrified, scared shitless --- in this same room. He flicked it to the dungeon picture. And back. And forth. Eventually, he stopped on the dungeon picture again. He pointed to the figure on the left.
"Me," she whispered. "Louder," he answered. "Me, the person on the left is me, and Carmen is on the right," Stephanie cried.
Marco stood up and walked until he was behind Stephanie's chair. He leaned over and directed her to look at the second figure, the kneeling one, the trapped one. "Say the name," he whispered in her ear. Stephanie sobbed.
This was the day of reckoning that Mumzie had promised her would never, ever come.
"Bobby," she said, breaking down.
-----000-----
Stephanie was drained. After her first confession that first, long day, she had been led to a windowless bedroom of sorts, with a bed, a small dresser, a mirror, a small closet, and a vanity washroom. A thirtyish woman a bit taller than her but visibly much stronger told her to change.
Stephanie asked: "Into what?"
The woman opened the closet. Stephanie was astonished to see her own nightgown, bathrobe, and slippers. And a couple of her dresses and some of her underwear, as well as a large suitcase and a small carryon! She looked around the room and saw other personal things from her home: makeup, hairbrush, shoes, and the such. All things one might take for a week-long vacation. She cried.
The woman monitored her changing into the nightgown and then doing her ablutions. She then instructed Stephanie to sit. She gave Stephanie some cashew packets, much like one gets on an airplane, and a small can of Coke. She ordered Stephanie to eat. Stephanie complied; she was starving.
She ordered Stephanie to swallow two large green pills. Stephanie looked at them and hesitated. The woman snapped her fingers. Marco walked into the room. Stephanie swallowed the Rohypnol. The woman ordered Stephanie into bed; she complied. The woman restrained Stephanie's wrists with straps by the side of the bed. Stephanie would not be able to get up while lying in bed. The woman covered Stephanie with a warm blanket and left.
Marco pointed to the corners of the ceiling: "Cameras and microphones." He turned off the lights, exited the room, and shut the door.
-----000-----
Shortly after she awoke from her undisturbed sleep, Stephanie, under supervision, got unstrapped, cleaned, dressed, and fed. She had no idea where she was or what time of day, let alone which day, it was. Into her bedroom or into the interview room or briefly moving along some woodpaneled hallway joining the two rooms. Although she was generally disoriented, she was forced to be acutely focused on her actions of years ago towards Bobby.
Several times over several days (or was it hours or perhaps a week?), she was taken into the interview room and asked to tell --- again and again and again --- her role in the treatment of Bobby. And Carmen's role. And Madame Chin's role. And Mistress Alice's role. And, of course, Mumzie's role. Time after time, she was asked to talk about her life with her stepfather Rob, her stepbrother Bobby, and her beloved Mumzie.
Marco's sessions focused on the factual specifics of her evil acts in the basement. Stephanie had to describe her routines, the equipment she used, her techniques, the various protocols and checklists Mumzie had devised, among other things. Marco used videos from the dungeon to stir her memory. He insisted that she point out specifics in the pictures on the screen. She found her sessions with Marco to be the most grueling and humiliating.
Frank's sessions invariably gravitated toward property, money, inheritances, expenditures, etc. Stephanie now hated talking about them and wanted none of them anymore. "But you did want it all once upon a time, didn't you? And so, you and Mumzie took it," Frank countered. Stephanie quickly gave up her efforts to justify let alone explain all of her wealth. She couldn't; quite a bit of it was properly, lawfully Bobby's.
John asked her to consider how she would judge herself. She detested his line of sanctimonious questioning: "You helped destroy Bobby. Stephanie, what would be a reasonable punishment for you for your role?" She was reluctant to accept any responsibility.
John kept leading her to questions of morality and humanity. He seemed to be asking her to determine whether she deserved to live. Or whether the world would be a better place without her. 'Saint John' seemed concerned about her soul but, disturbingly, not its fate. Stephanie downplayed her immorality because she hardly recognized it.
The cumulative effects of these many sessions --- Marco's and Frank's and John's --- wore her down. She gave up hope of seeing her husband again, let alone her home, her neighbours, her tennis club, her car, her favourite restaurant. She began to doubt that she would ever see daylight again. The rooms and hallway felt like a tomb. The pittance of food fostered a constant feeling of hunger and added to her burdens.
Remorse, repentance, and redemption: these teased her mind but could not get a foothold in it. They may well have been alien to her. Maybe she had lost whatever compassion she had once had when she had first treated another human being (her stepbrother at that) as an object to be tortured. Or maybe she had never had any compassion at all, ever.
After many days (the number of which Stephanie knew not), she comprehensively admitted to Frank and John: 1) that Mumzie had dehumanized Bobby simply to keep control of his father's bequest to him; and 2) that she, Stephanie, knew about it, did nothing about it, didn't care one bit for Bobby, enjoyed helping Mumzie, and had directly benefited from it. She acknowledged that what she had done was wrongful. "I shouldn't have done it," she murmured.
But as John --- and Frank, Marco, and the other team members whom Stephanie never saw --- observed, when reviewing the interview recordings afterward, she never explained the 'why': why her treatment of Bobby was wrong.
It was as though Stephanie did not understand the issue. A mid-20s, university educated woman who had never had a single challenge of any significance in her life and who had had every opportunity to excel couldn't explain right from wrong.
FINISH
Stephanie was shocked when the woman entered her bedroom accompanied by Marco, John, and Frank. John said, "Big day, Stephanie. Family reunion day! No more interviews." The lingering effect of the Rohypnol caused Stephanie to not immediately grasp what was said. She shook her head to clear it. "What?" she asked.
"Come on! Get up! You're not sleeping here anymore. The interviews are over. We have one final briefing and then you're on your way." John's words encouraged her. So did his smile. She moved with alacrity to get ready. She packed her suitcases. She avoided looking at Marco and that woman. Frank seemed bored, reading something.
The woman drily told her to put the suitcase down: "We'll take it for you." The woman took it and left the room.
"Come here," Frank blandly said.
"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," Marco plainly said. His lack of emotion made her apprehensive.
John stood in front of her, seemingly amused by the confusion on her face. "It has to be this way, Stephanie. So, just relax and let it happen." Calming John.
Marco grabbed her upper arm and walked her down the familiar hallway to the interview room. Frank stood by the door, ready to open it. His expression was flat, grey; Stephanie had no idea what was going through his mind. Before opening the door, he asked Stephanie whether she was a good person. He had never asked her a question in that vein before. She nodded yes. He grunted in reply and opened the door.
As fast as lightning, Marco dragged her into the room and sat her down in a chair. The table was gone. Stephanie noticed other people sitting in chairs: Mumzie, Carmen, Madame Chin, and Mistress Alice. All were handcuffed. All looked defeated. All looked scared. Each had a heavy standing behind. Each heavy kept his hands on his respective woman's shoulders to prevent her from moving. Marco moved behind Stephanie and similarly kept her down.
The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle. John took a chair and plunked it centre stage. Frank closed the door and leaned against it.
-----000-----
John slouched and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles. He looked casually relaxed. John took out a small black case with a panther on it. He took out a cigarillo and lit it. He drew on his cigarillo.
"Just under a year ago, a very nice couple, a wealthy couple, asked us for help. It seems that their teenage boy had been kidnapped. He disappeared. These parents loved him very much and, after some discussions, asked us to bring him home. We here have certain skills that can be used in such cases. In fact, we're pretty good at it." He drew on his cigarillo.
"We found him. His name doesn't matter to you. In the course of our search, we also found Bobby. That's a name that matters to you, right? Oh, my bad; it didn't." He paused to let that sink in. He drew on his cigarillo.
"Anyway, Bobby had ended up in a depraved sadist's house along with this other boy we were looking for and three more boys who had been kidnapped. We got those three back to their homes. They are loved. Cared for. Happy endings there." He drew on his cigarillo.
"There were some unexpected things in that loser's house but we felt we did a really good job for the boys' parents. They understood our efforts and appreciated them." He drew on his cigarillo.
"Suffice it to say, we were --- how do I put this? --- we were shocked at Bobby's condition. Dehydrated. Starved down to 95 pounds. Incontinence. Multiple fractures. A bit of scurvy. Infections. Some of these things can be treated, fixed." He drew on his cigarillo.
"Some can't be. Like his joints for instance. Your armbinder pretty much dislocated his shoulders forever. His arm nerves were shot. The neck thing collapsed his airways and ruined his neck muscles. He couldn't move without it because his neck would wobble over and he'd suffocate." He drew on his cigarillo.
"He couldn't walk either. Madame Chin, I believe, gets credit for rendering his feet and ankles completely useless. Foot binding still works, I guess. But that disability probably started with Mumzie's idea of BDSM ballet boots." He drew on his cigarillo.
"Bobby's knees were also shot. Fuck, I can't get mine more than past my butt. Now, your videos show him with his feet right behind his head. And his back gets that back-breaking arch. Lumbar and disc damage. Permanent. Everything. You know that pink, pudgy, bald, bean-bag doll that cancer patients often have? Spineless Chuck? It was like that. But living." He drew on his cigarillo.
"Maybe that corset did him in. Regardless, you ladies pretty much made it impossible for him to move around like a normal human being. His guts were all screwed up too. He could hardly eat. After you, all of his subsequent owners worsened it. Yeah, we know about them. Sadistic bastard was last." He drew on his cigarillo.
"Sorry, I apologize. I would be very remiss if I did not also mention Mistress Alice's castration of Bobby. That video was particularly horrific. No anesthetic, Alice? We saw that." He drew on his cigarillo. It went out. He dropped it on the floor, crushed it, and lit another.
"I guess I'm getting off track. Anyway, so, we fulfill the contract with the kid's parents and then we're staring at Bobby. We're nice people. None of you have been beaten, right?" He drew on his second cigarillo.
"We have a team pow-wow. We make good money doing what we do. It pays the bills and more. Not as much money as you ladies took from Bobby, but I digress. We have our pow-wow and decide to find who did this to Bobby." He drew on his second cigarillo.
"Some of the guys on the team persuaded the sadist to be open and honest with us. That led to a name, a bit of work for us, and that next guy, bless his soul, then enthusiastically gave us another name, a bit more work for us, and so on and so on and then --- bingo! --- Madame Chin. It's so good to see you again, Elsie!" He looked at Madame Chin and laughed. He drew on his second cigarillo.
"A pro-domme indeed. But you're not a pro-submissive, are you, Elsie? Right, Marco?" Marco laughed. John leisurely studied Elsie's face: she was completely broken. He drew on his second cigarillo.
"Elsie, we would have found you anyway, sooner or later. Imagery facial recognition software is pretty good these days. That's how we found you, Alice. Or should I call you by your real name: Flora Smith, mother of three teenage girls, wife of a city councilman, president of the Benwabeth High School PTA." He drew on his second cigarillo.
"Should've worn masks, ladies." He said it offhandedly, but the two prodommes --- wrong: former pro-dommes --- immediately noted that he, nor any of the other team members, wore masks. They shuddered at the implication. He drew on his second cigarillo.
"That was one way. The other was, of course, DNA. We submitted Bobby's DNA to three different genealogy websites. Two came back with positive hits for a second cousin. I suppose your cousin Elmer, or whatever the fuck his name is, may still be looking for his long lost cousin Istvan Fuss from Camden, New Jersey." The other men snickered. He drew on his second cigarillo. It went out and he dropped it. He lit another and asked Frank to please get him a Coke.
"Oh, that's so refreshing. Cold. Bubbly. You gals want some? Sorry, just joking. Back to it." He drew on his third cigarillo. "Lung cancer, buddy," Frank said. John lazily waved the remark away.
"So, we move closer and closer to you all. We find you. We follow you. We study you. We learn you. We game-plan you. And then we decide to meet you. Here. Like this." He swigged his Coke and drew on his third cigarillo. He spat at the floor.
"Frank, your turn." John got up and stood against the mirrored wall.
-----000-----
Frank started: "Mumzie, you may not know this, but I promised your daughter, Mrs. Stephanie Leski," he pointed his arm toward her, "that she'd be re-united her with her family soonest. Your ex-husband is dead so he can't make it. But you're here, and so is Steph. Now, I want Bobby to be in that chair," he pointed to John's chair, "so all of you can clearly see him. Time to get Bobby." And Frank left the room.
Stephanie felt the man behind her dig his fingers deeper into her shoulders to encourage her to remain still. She dared not move. John's exposition had laid bare the fragility of Mumzie's plan. It would have worked but for the unexpected, here, the other boy's parents. She looked at the heavies holding them in their chairs. There was no way out.
Mumzie's face was teary. She sat uncomfortably in her chair, her guard starting to shift on his feet. "Did you shit yourself?" he asked her. Mumzie nodded. It was surely a death shit, the kind one gets when they sense they are going to die and have no way to escape that fate. Mumzie's shit stank the room. The man pushed her down harder into her chair.
Elsie Chin and Flora Smith stared at the floor. In their jobs, they came across many different types of people. Both of them recognized that these men were smart, pragmatic, and hard. Flora lost hope of ever snorkeling off the Guatemalan coast. Elsie was fairly convinced she was going to meet her maker.
Carmen was hyperventilating. Stephanie momentarily felt bad for having invited her one day to help feed Bobby before going to a movie. Carmen, however, had later asked to become a full-fledged assistant and had performed her own barbarities upon Bobby. A small amount of blood dripped from Carmen's nose. And she started farting uncontrollably.
Stephanie sensed a pleasant calm sweep over her. Bobby's presence would allow her the chance she had just recently begun to dream of, of asking him to forgive her. She would say 'sorry' and shift the blame toward Mumzie. Bobby knew how Mumzie was; perhaps Bobby might remember more the nice, little things he and Stephanie had done together in the early days of their parents' marriage and think less the bad, bigger things that followed later.
She could promise Bobby anything. She and Phil could care for him for the rest of their lives. Her money? His money! He could have it all. Medical care? Done; just name it. She could be the very best sister a brother could dream of. She would atone. She would repent. Remorse? No problem: I'm so sorry for everything. Repent? I swear, I'll never do it again. Redemption? It will come.
And Stephanie saw Frank return and put something on the empty chair.
It was a funerary urn.
EPILOGUE
The other boy --- the one John, Frank, Marco, and the others, had been contracted to retrieve --- had died the day before the team took the house. He was buried with love by his devastated parents. They were terribly sad, but they drew comfort in being able to assist in the recovery of the other four boys.
The parents were tremendously grateful to John and company and had asked if there was anything else they could do.
There was one thing.
John and Frank left Shrublands Health Clinic satisfied. Their meeting with its managing director, Dr. Barbara Priest, had gone very well. She seemed to be a genuinely caring person. They felt much better about Bobby's future.
None of the team thought Bobby would survive more than a few years, Mentally, he was almost an automaton. Physically, he was wrecked, less human. Shrublands at least offered him nurture and nursing for as long as he might live. "It's for rest and recuperation, long term care and so on, mostly for the elderly, a last chance at clean living before starting on the end of the road, if you get my drift," the team's physiotherapist said.
The deceased boy's parents established a generous trust to care for Bobby at Shrublands.
And there was no one left to take it away from him this time.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
LEMONS
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don’t like reading transgender stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
-----000-----
I knew my sister somewhat hated me in a loving kind of way. I didn’t think my parents did.
She was the jealous type, always scheming, always plotting, always doing something Machiavellian although she knew not what that meant (which tells you how advanced her Machiavellian skills were). She was only 16, two years younger than I. Precocious, rambunctious, furious, impetuous, and charming: that described Mindy in a flash. She was a wild one. I loved her but recognized her soul.
My parents were nice people, mostly. We kids were well-fed, well-clothed, and well-educated. Both of them worked. Mom worked in management at the big box store and dad worked as a shift manager at the iron mill. Like many middle-class parents, they wanted better lives for their kids. Like many middle-class parents, they were also completely oblivious to the inner workings of their kids’ lives.
At high school, I got into sports. Volleyball, badminton, golf: no, not the manliest of sports but each is alive with the rigors of back-and-forth, gain-a-lead, lose-a-lead, hard or lose competition. Mindy wasn’t into sports so much. I know that she watched the football games each Friday night however: probably a social with her many friends.
I felt the odd pang of sympathy for her, especially when our parents would introduce a line of discussion with, “Mindy, you know your brother has been getting better marks in chemistry...” or “Mindy, why didn’t you help Mrs. Cheevers with her gardening? Your brother did...” or “Mindy! This is unacceptable! B-! Study harder like your brother does!” And so on. I did feel sorry for her in those moments.
But not too much. I practiced hard to be a good athlete (yes, volleyball players are called athletes; so are golfers; the verdict’s still out on badminton players though...). I studied really hard to get not just an A- but an A or even an A+! I struggled toward my goals. I struggled for my accomplishments. I didn’t cheat, backstab, or deceive anyone into giving me anything for free. I worked and I appreciated the value of good, solid, honest, hard work.
And I helped Mindy whenever I could. Your study-mate let you down? I can help you! Difficult algebra question? I can show you how to address it! Brain fart in your creative writing class? I have several ideas for short stories! I didn’t want or need credit or glory. I genuinely loved Mindy (mostly).
I never suspected that she, despite some resentment toward me, might ever do anything nasty to me...
-----000-----
One Saturday, I woke up and was somewhat surprised to see that I had: 1) long blonde hair falling across my face; 2) breasts --- not the fake glue-on kind, no, real fleshy breasts, size B if the Wikipedia article was right; 3) a hairless body with smooth skin to match; and 4) a twat --- a fully functioning, double-lipped, salmon-smelling, honest to goodness warm and moist pussy.
I looked in the mirror, recognized the face, sighed, caught myself just in time before yelling, "Mindy!", and then called her: “James!!!”
My innocent, helpful, friendly, affectionate face peered around the corner of my door. “Yes?” my face asked with all the mustered guilty innocence possible.
“Why?”
“‘Why’ doesn’t matter to you now. You are ‘Mindy’ now, not ‘James’. I’m James. And you? You play like a girl!” she squealed from my body, using my deeper voice.
“How about we change back, sis?”
“Nope. No way. I like being a boy! I’ve already jerked off twice and might a third time if I keep looking at you!” Her jeers were accompanied by the slamming of the door. Fuck: she’s got some agenda and I’m it’s victim.
Rather than act rashly, I got back into bed, explored my new body, orgasmed twice (deeply, passionately, enthusiastically), and then got up and got showered and got dressed. It was 11 o’clock; the day awaited me.
I went downstairs. Mom and dad were still out shopping. I made some breakfast. Actually, it was more of a lunch / snackie thing, 11 being a tad late for breakfast and a bit too early for lunch. Regardless, I prepared and ate food. I drank my OJ and sooner rather than later had to urinate.
Door. Turn. Lift. Check. Dry. Turn. Drop. Pulldown. Sit. Squat. Release. Wait. Release. Wait. Oh, come on! Release. Wait. Seriously now! Release. Wait. Done. Two sheets. Three plies. Front to back. Daub. Inspect. Drop. Stand. Pullup. Hitch. Smooth. Spread. Inspect. Flush. Put down. Wash. Dry. Mirror. Door.
Fuck my life. Well, at least I wasn’t yet having my period...
I took a few minutes to organize my thoughts. Unlike most immature and reckless teenagers, I was disciplined in my thoughts, modest in my desires, and sincere in my wishes. I didn’t go off half-crazed looking for some flimsy mythical store in a mall. Nor did I search high and low for some cheap-looking necklace that could reverse this situation. No, I carefully considered my position and started planning my new life.
I remembered well how Mindy, the former Mindy by the way, was prone to lose stuff, big or small, valuable and invaluable (!!!), important and insignificant. I concluded that, whatever sort of magical or alien device or property she had used to have us switch bodies, she would have likely by now lost it. So I assumed that I was and am stuck.
Not what I had expected from life but...
I trudged up to her room and opened her hitherto unopened schoolbag. Christ! She’s behind in her homework and has got several assignments due Monday! I tore through her desk: Cs and Ds and a couple of Bs! Fuck! Grade 11 and my grades --- her grades --- are shit! No uni unless I improve fast! I showered, put on some sweats and hunkered down at her --- my --- desk.
I heard mom and dad come home. How? First, I had ears that worked. Second, my parents yelled when they came in: “Hi kids! It’s mom and dad! We’re home!” I got up, went downstairs, and helped mom put away the groceries. She looked at me oddly. I cast her a quick innocuous look: “I’m doing homework. Don’t ask.” I finished and left.
I had nearly completed the calculus assignment. The last question puzzled me: “The three figures below are made of regular hexagons, regular heptagons and regular octagons respectively. In general, if this pattern continues, we get a heart-shaped figure by drawing n-1N−1 regular nN-gons among which the smallest one can be inscribed in a circle with radius of root pi over N. What is the area of the total figure as nN approaches infinity?”
No wonder her marks sucked; she wasn’t that smart. It took me a few minutes but I came up with a practical, defensible solution. I headed back to the kitchen and helped mom with dinner. She looked at me as though I was slightly mad. She looked around wondering whether James would come help as he usually did. He didn't.
My beloved brother James arrived at the dinner table as dinner was being served. So did dad. My mom looked at the former askance and at the latter resignedly. The table conversation was mundane but for a few surprises.
-----000-----
My mom asked me what I would be doing tonight, and I answered that I would be studying. My “brother’s” ears perked up as did my parents’. I explained that I had belatedly realized that my marks sucked and that if I ever wanted to get into any meaningful university program then I would have to get better marks.
I glared at James. I the young man had been accepted into uni into an advanced astrophysics program; NASA beckoned its graduates. Mindy --- the old Mindy, not the new one --- had tentatively discussed a three-year general arts program with her parents who had reminded her that her marks might only be good enough for a cook's program at a secondary college.
James stared at me. He looked terrified. He had forgotten the party the family had shared when the acceptance offer and scholarship offer to MIT had arrived. Yes! "James" was now going to MIT!
And I leaned back in my chair thinking that I now had two more years to perfect my grades, to finesse the enrolment interviews better than I had before, to better balance school and social, to hone my social skills including those with what’s his name that boy on the soccer team who liked Mindy, I mean, who liked me?
I had two more years to plan and prepare. Did I really want astrophysical sciences? That is what MIT had offered me, I mean, James. I had always a preference for a deep exploration of prime numbers with the possibility of diving into cryptography, perhaps with the NSA or CIA or a private-security firm. There was money in all three. There were no gender barriers in any of them. Two years to align my interests with my --- Mindy’s! --- new future.
Two more years of helping mom from time to time, knowing that she would be forever perplexed that Mindy her daughter was willingly helping her but would be grateful that she had --- and forever baffled that her previously helpful son had turned into a lazy slacker.
Two more years of now and then pitching into help dad with some yard work, raking leaves, or once or thrice mowing a lawn. He would remember such contributions. Men keep scorecards like that, you know…
I allowed the table a few minutes of silence. My parents undoubtedly were furiously trying to understand what had happened to their nice but average and not overly ambitious daughter. Their furrowed brows and hesitant smiles hardly hid their repressed hopes and optimism.
And the look on my brother’s face was priceless. He now had my scholarship. He now had my uni program. He now had my kinda-girlfriend, my looks, and even my second-hand car.
But he lacked my brains.
And thus I grinned at him confidently to ask him but a single question:
“I can make you some lemonade. Would you like some?”
END
LOOKING AFTER A FRIEND
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Note: I originally wrote this under a different name on a different website when I was doing some quick, just-for-fun, creative writing. It stood out, and I thought it better placed here. So, I revised it a little and tidied it up and — voila — here it is.
RT
A BRIGHT LATE OCTOBER DAY
The city bustled.
Gary sat in the sun on a patio at a café near the Museum. He sipped his latte. One of the nice things about October, he thought, was the prevalence of pumpkin spice lattes. Not that they were impossible to find the rest of the year. Rather, they were almost impossible to NOT find in October. Delicious. He watched people and life go by. The air was chilly, crisp, and clean.
“Gary?” a woman’s voice exclaimed.
He looked up and saw his friend Brandi walk toward the café. They had met in college five years and had hung around with a similar crowd. She was fit and cheery. He smiled and waved. Brandi was accompanied by two other women. He invited the trio to sit with him in the warm, fall sun.
“Gary, this is Helen, and this is Nikki,” Brandi introduced her friends.
“Pleasure,” Gary cheerily answered.
A waiter came and took the women’s orders.
Gary surreptitiously assessed Brandi’s friends. Helen was short and stocky; her face beamed with life and ease. Almost cherubic. Nikki was leaner and sinewy; her face conveyed energy and warmth. Garyboyish. Both were attractive though differently. Brandi was attractive too, but she and Gary were simply never meant to be: they were just friends.
“Let me guess: a cinnamon cappuccino!” Brandi said, breaking the ice.
“Almost! A pumpkin spice latte. You know me well. What brings you three to downtown?”
Helen replied. “Shopping. It’s a shame to be inside a store on a Saturday but when your heart tells you to buy a better blouse for the office, you pay attention to it.”
“And you?” Gary asked of Nikki.
“Strolling with friends. They think I don’t get out enough. I probably don’t,” Nikki said as Brandi and Helen nodded their agreement.
“Well, it’s a beautiful day and I have zero plans. Maybe I can shop with you!” he joked.
The trio laughed. The waiter brought their drinks. The foursome bantered back and forth.
Gary was struck by Helen’s sharp wit and taken by her accent. Welsh or Scots, he thought. Given Brandi’s humorous add-ons to Helen’s several, he figured they knew each other well.
Nikki was a bit more reticent, merely making a cutting comment here and there. Funny but cutting indeed, he determined, after she made a remark about fragile male egos. Gary liked her Lauren Bacall voice and sensed an odd mixture of confidence and vulnerability in her.
“What keeps you two busy during the work week?” he asked of Nikki and Helen. The former worked in a civil engineering firm and the latter in a medical office as an assistant. Gary disclosed that he was a Chinese-English translator and had almost finished his work on a hit novel from Shanghai.
“It’s mentally challenging,” he added and looked at Helen, “and it wards off dementia,” he laughed. The trio laughed. They all laughed.
“So, tell me, how did you three meet?” Gary asked innocently.
Brandi quickly replied before the others. “I’ve known Helen on and off since high school and Nikki is a friend of Helen’s. That’s how we met. Now, Gary, tell us about the novel!”
And he did, with self-deprecating charm and a tinge of absurdity.
Nikki threw her head back and teasingly mocked him. “That’s boring! Peking duck? A novel about a Shanghai restaurant and a Peking duck? It might make a more lecherous read were it about a Peking fuck!”
The women howled with laughter. Gary smiled and looked at his cup. The joke was in fact funny.
Nikki was pretty funny.
He glanced at her.
And pretty.
She noticed his glance, cockily raised an eyebrow at him, and flashed a smile.
A FEW DAYS LATER…
Beep.
“Hi, Brandi. It’s Gary. It was good to see you the other day. I was wondering if you might be able to find out if Nikki would be open to sharing a coffee with me again or getting together for a bit of lunch. No pressure. Give me a ring when you can. 867-5309. Thanks!”
A FEW HOURS LATER…
Gary and Brandi and Helen sat at the same café sipping the same drinks. They talked small talk for a few minutes and then Brandi drew her breath and looked Gary square in the eye.
“Gary.”
“Brandi?”
“Gary. Why would you like to have coffee with Nikki again?”
He noticed both Brandi and Helen concentrated their eyes on him.
“Well, she’s funny, knows how to laugh, seems pretty damned smart, has character, and, uh, left a striking impression. That comment she made about Southern politicians? Exactly how I feel too.”
He leaned back in his chair and smirked.
“And she was the only one of you three who also ordered a pumpkin spice latte, not that I hold it against you two though.”
He chuckled.
They didn’t. They exchanged glances. Helen hesitated then spoke:
“Gary, I don’t know you well. Brandi knows you better than I do. But you seem like a nice guy. May I ask you some personal questions? I’m being sincere. Please trust me.”
Gary saw her sincerity on her face. He nodded.
“Let’s suppose you get together with Nikki and find out she’s a right-wing radical. Would you want to go out with her?”
Gary shook his head: no.
“Okay, a communist?”
Gary scoffed and said, “A socialist? No problem. Hell, Medicare and Medicaid are socialist. So are public schools. But communists are so fringe and harmless. I wouldn’t care.” He sipped his latte. “I’m a left-bending centrist of sorts myself, by the way.”
Brandi nodded as he spoke. Helen observed her and nodded too.
“Cool. What about abortion? What if she’s die-hard pro-choice? Bodily autonomy and all that.”
“So am I. As a guy, who am I to claim ownership over a uterus? And I’d never want the state to compel me to get castrated!”
Gary immediately sensed that his joke fell flat. He took refuge in silence for a minute.
“Gun control?”
“My brothers were in the army. They’re good with it. I’m with them. The army’s big on gun control. And I’m sick of school shootings.”
“Climate change?”
“Human caused though tinged by planetary evolution over millennia. It’s a problem and it must be solved. Coal, plastics? Reduce or eliminate.”
“Gay rights?”
“People are people. Dignity. Respect. Texas? Those laws? A bunch of wackos. They don’t recognize that love comes in various forms.”
“Trans rights? You know, bathrooms and all that? Sports?”
“Everyone urinates and defecates. I don’t care. As for sports, why can’t people just go out and have fun?”
“Evangelical movements?”
And Gary answered that question, and the next one on women’s rights, and the subsequent one on immigration, and the ensuing one on corporate texes, and so on and so on.
Both Brandi and Helen leaned back, basking in the late fall sun, satisfied with Gary’s several answers.
Brandi pursed her lips, sipped her coffee, and spoke.
“Gary, please don’t be offended that we’ve sort of interrogated you. Nikki is a friend whom we look out for. She’s been through a lot over the years. Helen has helped a ton, and I do now too, in a lesser way. Nikki’s had a lot of challenges these past few years, got a bit of, um, baggage but she’s working through it. In a good way.
“She could use a good friend. A good male friend. Could you handle that if she were your girlfriend?”
Gary looked at Brandi. Her eyes betrayed her uncertainty of his response. Helen’s? Ditto.
He paused.
“What sort of baggage? No details. Just a general hint.”
Helen looked at Brandi. Brandi nodded to Helen. Helen place her hands on Gary’s.
“I talked to Nikki after the first time the four of us met. She likes you, Gary. For what it’s worth, I think that you’re a really good guy and that the two of you might just hit it off. You know: mental connection and all that. A good fit, maybe even a great one.”
“Like pieces of Lego?” he asked hopefully.
Helen paused.
“Yes, like pieces of Lego. Literally. Like pieces of Lego.”
“And?” he asked.
Helen looked at her coffee.
Brandi looked at Gary and answered him.
“That’s up to you to find out from her, not from us. But I think you’d enjoy her friendship, even if it doesn’t go any further. Just take it slowly.”
ONE DAY LATER…
Beep.
“Hi, Brandi. It’s Gary again. About Nikki, …
A MID-NOVEMBER LATE AFTERNOON
It happens every now and then:
You’re walking along the street. You see someone on the other side. You recognize them and think to yourself, “Hey! There’s so-and-so!” And, suddenly, you have a bit more energy in your stride, your spirit lifts a bit, and you put a smile on your face. You don’t have to cross the street to see them. Just seeing them, knowing that they are, that there are such good positive people in this world — that’s sufficient to make your day a little bit better.
Gary was one of those people who could do that for you.
He walked along the chilly street toward "La Pâtisserie des Réves." He liked its noontime bistro air and relished its lovely French evening cuisine. He wore casual shoes, casual pants, a casual shirt, and a casual jacket.
His left hand rested in his jacket pocket. His right hand carried a small pink rose.
He looked forward to another evening with Nikki.
Since their accidental meeting at a café a few weeks ago, they had spent several week and weekend nights together, getting to know each other.
Their first get-together (after he had pried Nikki’s number from Brandi) was to an art museum. It had culminated in a shared opinion that Impressionists sucked and that the Old Masters rocked --- and a fleeting kiss and a cheery eagerness to see each other again.
Their second was to an ice hockey game. Nikki requested two tickets from her engineering firm, which held season tickets. Their seats were seventeen rows directly in line with center ice. They booed at the opponent and yelled wildly when the home team scored. Gary stole a kiss before Nikki darted away from him, with a mischievous smile on her face.
A dance club on a Friday night had been their next target: The Prancing Pony. They reveled on the dance floor as the live music played. They slowly swayed together after the music had stopped. He walked her home, hand-in-hand. They babbled back and forth about life in the city, the subway breakdowns, garbage collection, politics. Another fleeting kiss on her doorstep ending with a sweet “I’d love to see you again!” from her lips, and a door firmly closed for the night.
Gary remembered their fourth time vividly. He took her to an indoor parachuting venue. They trained together, giggled at their bodysuits, received instruction, and soon after flew together in the blowing artificial wind: summersaults, twists, spins, and finally let down. She had hugged him as fiercely as he had her when done. Yet again, at the end of their day, he received but a brief kiss and a promise for dinner.
A MID-NOVEMBER EARLY EVENING
And here he now was: walking to “La Pâtisserie des Réves” for dinner with Nikki.
He really liked her --- a lot. And he sensed the feeling was mutual.
He was five minutes early. The hostess asked whether he had a reservation. He answered with Nikki’s last name. “This way, please,” she replied.
He found the warm air of the restaurant comforting. He was surprised to see Brandi and Helen seating a few tables away from Nikki. He re-introduced himself to Helen and cheerily asked Brandi how she came to be here. Brandi smiled and, while answering, touched Helen’s hand.
“Private dinner?” he asked, happy for them. They nodded.
The hostess led him to Nikki’s table. He warmly greeted Nikki and presented the pink rose. She gushed at it.
Nikki explained that she knew that her girlfriends would not be joining them.
“Romance is in the air!” Gary gently joked, jerking his head toward the others.
“Perhaps,” Nikki said cautiously.
They ordered and ate and delighted themselves in conversation. Chef Kriz outdid himself again; the meal was delicious. The table was cleared. The coffees came.
Nikki looked at her cup and up at Gary. He saw a happy/sad smile.
Nikki began: “Gary, let’s have a different conversation. How would you describe your thoughts about gay people?”
Gary glanced over at Helen and Brandi. They flashed a smile at him and winked. “Live and let live,” he answered nonchalantly.
And their conversation meandered in that vein for a few minutes: Nikki asking, Gary describing, Nikki gently pressing, Gary more contemplatively expressing.
Helen and Brandi continually glanced over at the potential couple and suddenly saw the signal: Nikki dropped her napkin; she was now going to tell him.
Neither Brandi nor Helen could hear her words. They were compelled to read from her face her tone and words; she looked composed and steady. Her hands always remained on the edge of the table. Her heels seemed screwed to the floor. Nikki, looking him in the eye, appeared to speak in a calm manner.
Helen and Brandi fixed their gaze on Gary.
Gary’s face was saturnine as Nikki spoke. His constant foot tapping was not to be seen. His hands rested on his knees. He straightened his back and held it against the back of the chair. His neck was perfectly straight. He never looked away from Nikki as she spoke.
Helen sat nervously. She knew from long experience that moments like these could produce the most unexpected of reactions, often violent ones. The number of happy endings were few compared to the many instances of ugliness. She watched over her friend Nikki.
As did Brandi. Nikki was a first in Brandi’s world: her first pre-op transwoman friend, and a sweet one at that. That they three of them had chanced upon Gary a couple of weeks ago was at first awkward; Brandi’s unease had dissipated as Gary easily disarmed much of her concerns, and Helen’s too. Brandi knew Gary well but she admitted to herself that she did not know him extremely well.
Brandi’s experiences in high school and university had bitterly taught her that within each and every man on this planet there was some spirit of sorts dedicated to competition and violence --- and that spectre of male-on-female violence was omnipresent in every woman’s life.
Brandi was especially nervous, having introduced them together. As well as she knew Gary, she knew not whether he, a CisHet, would feel threatened somehow by Nikki.
Brandi felt incredibly responsible for the moment unfolding before her.
Gary was inscrutable.
Time paused. Unease grew. Fear blossomed.
Without warning, they saw Gary abruptly stand, place his napkin on the table, take his jacket, picked up the rose, and turn toward the entrance. Brandi and Helen received a look of reproach from him as he silently passed them.
Nikki cried.
Brandi and Helen signaled to the waiter, and the contingency plan extra chair appeared at Nikki’s table as Brandi and Helen joined her.
AN HOUR OR SO LATER
A few (not several, just a few) drinks later, the trio headed home. They shared a cab and stood in the early evening’s chill. They bounced on their heels to warm up.
“Nothing?” Helen asked.
“Nothing,” Nikki replied.
“He said nothing?” Brandi asked; Nikki nodded.
Brandi had listened to Nikki’s recounting of the conversation she and Gary had. She had struck Brandi as being very disappointed but resigned.
“It’s not the first time I’ve told a man and he’s fled. But Gary was different; I really liked him. He seemed to be such a nice guy. I thought he was starting to care about me.” Nikki sniffled in the cold as she spoke.
Helen rubbed Nikki’s back.
A cab arrived and the trio got in. They gave the driver the various addresses. They sat in the back holding hands and chatting about any topic other than Nikki’s date and Gary’s exit.
“I’ll get out here,” Nikki said as the cab turned a corner near Nikki’s apartment building.
“You’re sure you don’t want us to come in?” Helen asked.
“No, I just want to soak in a hot bath and enjoy a small sip of wine by myself, thanks though,” Nikki said. They bade farewell to each other. The can sped down the dark streets.
Nikki walked the several dozen meters to her building.
THIRTY SECONDS LATER
A large figure emerged from a recessed entrance of another building. The figure followed Nikki, caught up to her, grabbed her right arm from behind, and twirled her into a narrow alley.
Her head smashed into a brick wall. She felt a searing pain in her lower back: a punch. She tried to climb the wall to escape --- but it was a useless gesture. Her knees buckled under her. A hand pinned her neck to the wall. Another smashing blow, this one to the side of her head.
Then a punch on her back in the ribs.
Then another.
And another.
She fell.
The kicking began.
Darkness grew.
Nikki realized that she was fading away into oblivion, in a piss-stench back alley.
The last words she heard?
“You fucking tranny shit!”
The beating continued.
She lost track of time.
She could hear nothing.
She felt nothing.
She realized that she was dying and that the last image in her mind would be of…
…a pink rose falling in a muddy puddle.
A MID-NOVEMBER --- MORNING
At 3:00 a.m., Nikki was wheeled from the Emergency Room into the Intensive Care Unit. She was still in a light coma. The doctors expected her to come out of it sooner rather than later. Her injuries were severe, but the doctors were optimistic about her recovery.
At 7:00 a.m., two detectives came on shift and perused their in-baskets. The police officers and paramedics who had attended the scene of the crime had provided their reports. The detectives reviewed them and together planned their day. Their initial instincts were that of a hate crime.
Helen had just gotten out of the shower when her doorbell rang. She shouted a quick “Coming!”, put on a robe, turbaned her hair, and checked the peephole. She opened the door.
“Good morning. I’m Detective Emily Carr and this is Detective Louise Breslau. Are you Helen Jones? May we come in please?”
Helen invited them in. They sat at the small table in the eating area of the condo.
“We’re investigating an assault that took place last night. We’d appreciate your assistance. Could you tell us what you were doing last night?”
Helen told them about the dinner and Gary’s leaving. She feared the worst: her voice conveyed that.
“Who was assaulted?” she asked.
“One Nikki Simkins. It seems she was walking home when someone took her into a dark alley a few meters away from her apartment building and beat her up.” The detectives described in general terms Nikki’s injuries.
Helen was horrified. She told the detectives about Gary’s relationship with Nikki in greater detail, insofar as she knew of it. Coffee at a café. A couple of dates. Dinner last night. The rejection. Gary’s silence and grim face as he left the restaurant.
“So, he stormed out in anger?” one detective asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Helen answered. “I said he left and said nothing. Deep thought. He had a grim look on his face. That’s what I said.”
The detectives made notes.
“What can you tell us of Nikki’s daily life, her employment, her hobbies?”
Helen described the same to the best of her ability. She sat wet at the table, stunned.
“How did you find me?”
The plumper detective replied, “Nikki didn’t lock her phone. It was examined. We saw the dinner on her calendar and found your name and Brandi Langley’s in her contacts. Miss Jones, we would be appreciative were you not to contact your friend Brandi until we speak to you again. And please don’t discuss this with anyone, including your colleagues at your workplace.”
Helen showed the detectives out and sat on her couch. Shock.
An hour later, the detectives appeared at Brandi’s workplace and interviewed her in a conference room. She related much the same to them as Helen had.
“How long have you known Gary Tern?”
She related to them everything she knew of and thought of Gary. “I just can’t believe he would do such a thing!”
The detectives faintly smiled at her. “Do you know where Mr. Hughes lives and works?”
Brandi told them. They left soon after with the same warning to Brandi as they had delivered to Helen: don’t talk about this until permitted.
Despite the detectives’ warning, Brandi called Helen.
“Helen, I feel horrible. I introduced him to her and gave her some assurances that he was an okay guy. I just can’t believe he assaulted her!” Brandi cried.
“I feel the same way. I don’t know what to do. There’s a part of me that wants to get to the hospital and another part that wants to hunt and kill Gary.”
“Should we have told him earlier that she was transitioning?” Regret tinged Brandi’s voice.
“Well, this has shaken my belief that we should’ve --- that anyone should’ve --- left telling him to her. We could’ve prevented this by telling him that she was. Oh, Brandi, I feel so terribly guilty.”
They continued their prohibited conversation for several more minutes. Having agreed to go to the hospital after work, both left for their respective workplaces shortly after hanging up.
LATER THAT MORNING
The beeping on the machine accelerated. The nurse standing two beds down heard it and walked to Nikki’s bed.
“She’s coming out of it. Call the doctor.”
A few minutes later, a doctor stood by Nikki’s side and asked her some cognitive test questions. He seemed pleased with her progress.
“How bad?” she croaked.
The doctor paused before answering. “You suffered some significant injuries. A few of your ribs are broken, as is your nose. There’s bruising. And you have lots of scratches. We can talk about these in more detail as you get better.”
He was deliberately economical with the truth. Nikki’s testicles had been pulverized by repeated kicks. The Emergency Room staff had to remove them.
“Nikki, there are some people who want to talk to you. Police officers. You can help yourself by helping them. I think that you can speak to them for a few minutes. Not much more than that. Nurse Betty will be in the room with you in case you need anything. Would you like to talk to them now? I think you can.” His voice was upbeat.
“Sure,” Nikki whispered.
He left.
The detectives entered. They stood next to Nikki’s bed. Louise took Nikki’s hand. They introduced themselves.
“Nikki, we know you’re recovering but have a few questions for you. If at anytime you find it hard to answer, then just tell us; you can answer them later. We want you to get better. Please don’t push too hard right now. Okay?” Both detectives smiled at her. Nikki tried to smile back.
“At the restaurant last night, you dropped your napkin to signal your friends that you were about to tell Gary Hughes about yourself, about your being transsexual. Are you able to remember what you said?” The question was asked softly.
Nikki answered as best she could. She had told Gary who she was and where her body was going. He had sat, distant and silent. When she had finished, he left. She didn’t recall any outburst or anger nor any fist-making or table pounding. He had seemed stoic yet disappointed. Her memory was not great, yet she hadn’t sensed, she told the detectives, anything but withdrawal on his part.
And, yes, she was very disappointed that he had left.
“I liked him.” She wept.
AFTER WORK
Brandi and Helen met in the main foyer of the hospital. They inquired with reception and headed to the fifth floor and Nikki’s room.
The two detectives were just leaving the room as they arrived.
Detective Emily greeted them with a smile.
“Ms. Jones, Ms. Langley, good afternoon. You’ve come to visit Nikki, yes?”
Brandi answered: “Yes. Have you caught Gary yet?”
Detective Louise answered her. “We have caught Nikki’s assailant, thanks to your statements and those of some other witnesses. He’s down on the second floor under lock and key. His injuries were rather severe.”
“I hope that bastard never recovers!” Helen shouted. “He deserves everything you can throw at him!” She was near tears. Brandi nodded vigorously her agreement.
Emily waved her hands down to calm them.
“Not everything is always as it seems. Our investigation is concluded. The perp will, I mean, the perpetrator will be charged. He will be prosecuted. We can’t promise anything, but we are optimistic about a conviction.”
“Can we see her?” Brandi asked.
The detectives exchanged bright glances.
“Yes. She’s asleep right now. And she’s got a visitor. Now remember what we said: the suspect is downstairs, not in her room. The doctors say she’ll make a good recovery. So, be happy when you go in and see her and her visitor!”
The two detectives left.
Brandi and Helen walked into Nikki’s room. The bed was slightly inclined. The windows were open letting the sub shine in. Antiseptic hung in the air.
Nikki’s eyes were closed. There was a faint smile on her face.
There was a man seating next to her bed. He held her hand.
“Gary?” Brandi whispered.
Helen’s mouth dropped.
Gary turned his head and weakly smiled at his friends. He turned back to look at Nikki.
“What? How? I thought you were… I thought you were arrested!” Helen almost shouted but stifled her voice.
He didn’t look at her.
“She told me who she was. What she was. I couldn’t process it there. I had to leave the restaurant.”
He sniffled.
“I walked for a bit and did some thinking. As a guy, I admit that I can’t fathom why any other guy would not want to be a man. She was a first for me, I guess. I had never met one like... I had never met a person like her before. I didn’t know what to do. I liked her but had no way of knowing how to respond when she told me that she was transitioning from male to female.
“So, I just left. And I walked around but soon found myself gravitating toward her apartment building. As I waited, I did some thinking. Eventually, I saw her walk up to her place. I started toward her when I saw a man come up from behind her and throw her into an alley. I froze for a second, trying to understand what I was seeing.
“And then I moved in. He was beating the crap out of her. I stopped him. Those two detectives tell me that he has a broken back and two broken arms. His face is a mess.”
He looked at Helen and then Brandi.
“I really stopped him.”
He turned back to Nikki.
The two women saw that he continued to hold Nikki’s hand.
“Brandi,” he began again, “I remember your telling me that Nikki could use a good friend, a good male friend. Last night, I had to ask myself whether I was man enough --- strong enough --- to be a friend for someone like her. A friend for her.”
He paused.
“I don’t know where this will go. I don’t know if I can have or even want to have Nikki as a girlfriend.”
He rubbed Nikki’s hand.
“But I can at least be a good friend.”
The petals of the fresh pink rose in the small vase on the bedside table opened.
END
MY SISSY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don’t like reading fetish stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: I originally wrote this under a different name on a different website when I was doing some quick, just-for-fun, creative writing. It stood out, and I thought it better placed here. So, I revised it a little and tidied it up and — voila — here it is.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
I was in aisle 9 looking for some fresh avocados.
My diet has changed over the years. I used to eat more meat and potatoes, so to speak. Today, I am almost entirely vegan. A woman has to watch her figure, and it gets harder to do so the older one gets.
I was 40 years old and often felt like it. Yes, my diet made me feel leaner and “cleaner”. My bowel regularity had never been better (and easier). Nonetheless, I could already detect the oncoming years. A few too many wrinkles around my eyes and lips. Some around my neck. Breasts? Sagging, sadly. A bigger belly. More cellulite. Less energy.
I did yoga everyday now. I ran when I could every second day or so, meaning, I ran if the weather was blue skies and warm. I didn’t hesitate to use my stationary bike. And I did use some small dumbbells to strengthen me. Although I kept my arms active at work, I had begun to notice some extra flab on my triceps.
My work...
I’ll admit straight up that I was a professional Dominatrix, a “Domme” if you please; I prefer the feminine spelling. It started in university when I needed some money to help pay my tuition. I saw a small ad on some fetish website, inquired, and soon found myself at “The Study”.
Wanda taught me how to be a Domme. She ran the erotica/fetish store. She had been over 50 years old at the time and was well-versed in the ways and wiles of subs, masochists, novices, and explorers. To my surprise, she insisted upon interrogating me before I saw a single whip.
As she explained so thoroughly all those years ago, a good Domme requires a good sub (or several). The good sub is necessary for a good Domme’s own fulfillment and spiritual well-being. The Domme must be attentive to the sub, care for the sub, nurture the sub. The trade-off is that the sub is satisfied on an emotional and sexual level and that the sub provides for the Domme. Very symbiotic.
“There’s nothing wrong with exorcising a few of your demons on a willing sub,” she counselled me, “but any veering into pure sadism diminishes you and will close the sub’s heart to you. Firm even extremely firm, but not abusive nor dehumanizing.”
With such counsel in mind, I began lesson #1 — which to my surprise required me to be a sub. That lasted three sessions. I experienced first-hand the pleasure and release of being flogged and constrained. I also lost some of my reluctance to be naked in front of strangers.
No, Wanda did not inflict any penetrating humiliations upon me. Rather, she just educated me in the sub’s perspective. While I kind of enjoyed the therapeutic element of floggings, I frankly preferred the pleasure of having one of my boyfriends give me a good massage.
For several ensuing lessons, I assisted Wanda in her dungeon. “Watch and learn,” she counselled. I watched and learnt a great deal.
Most of her clients were men: businessmen, lawyers, executives, managers, husbands, bachelors, large, short, fat, skinny, muscular, lean — all sorts. Some were women: again, all sorts. If both had one thing in common, then it seemed to me to be a desire to let go, to not care, to feel for a brief moment in their lives that they were not subject to rules.
There were, of course, always rules. People may have the wrong impression about the rules imposed by Wanda at The Study. Yes, the clients had to grovel and call us, “Mistress”. And, yes, there were consequences for failing to comply. Afterall, they paid us (the Dommes) to inflict appropriate punishments upon them if they failed to comply
Overlooked by many, perhaps, are the rules that a good dungeon imposes on its Dommes. Health, hygiene, cleanliness. Recognition of physical stress, de-escalation techniques, even First-Aid!
Above all, Wanda schooled us in reading a sub. Can you tell me the difference between a face in pain and one in bliss? Sometimes, the difference is imperceptible. Similarly, a bruising welt and a tantalizingly pleasurable one. Equally, a scream of horror and a scream of orgasm.
“The client is always right!” is the adage. Wanda believed in it firmly. She insisted that we give the customer what they wanted (in spades, I might add) without ever transgressing into sadism. It’s a fine line, a discerning skill — and it became my second job.
My primary job after uni was in finance. I invested other people’s money and made them richer. I got richer too, steadily. My student debts gone, I began to live well. The cars came and went: a new one every year. So did the boyfriends: a new one every two or three months. I do not think that I was ever dumped. No, they simply couldn’t keep up to me or they soon bored me.
It never bothered me too much. Having seen men in the dungeon at The Study, I knew well how to both inflate and deflate a male ego quickly. And mine was simply fabulous, thank you.
I didn’t need the dungeon’s money. Honestly, being a Domme was pure fun! The scene. Munches for reconnaissance, socials on Zoom, board game nights at The Study, vanilla sloshes with BDSM like-minded people (often couples), watching a few gangbangs, FemDomme Play Parties for the joy and entertainment of empowered women and for subs to be adored for the wonderful little play things that they are! There was so much that’s hidden from the eyes of mainstream life and I reveled in it.
By the time I approached my thirtieth birthday, I was also feeling the need for a partner. I knew myself; ours would always have to be a slightly unequal partnership. I knew men. They can be fragile and strong, boisterous and meek, dominant and submissive. They come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities. I just had to find the right man for me, the Domme.
And I had.
I thought I had.
Back to aisle 9.
-----000-----
I bumped into a woman in aisle 9.
I dropped my avocados and bent to pick them up. The woman bent too and helped me. We gathered them and put them in the plastic bag. I looked at her.
She was gorgeous! My height of five-seven, taller still in the tawny leather short ankle booties she wore. She struck me as sinewy and lean; she plainly worked out. Her shiny mane was set in a low ponytail but maintained its volume. Lovely diamonds (no, not zirconia). Her gold Patek Philippe shone. Her several impressive rings glittered. Her modest makeup was distinctly light pink and glossy: confident and distinguished. Capping off her beauty were faded designer jeans, a mauve T-shirt, and a snappy black leather jacket.
I was impressed.
She looked at me, first with reeling shock and then with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Carrie Walters,” the deep husky voice taunted.
I didn’t recognize the voice, but the face intrigued me.
“Do I...” I began.
I stopped.
I did.
I did know her.
My jaw dropped.
Kevin Winston.
-----000-----
When I was 30 and fairly well established both as a financial investor and as a Domme, I one night (doing my Domme thing) handled a new client. Wanda informed me that he had asked for me: “He told me a friend of his had recommended you,” she said. I introduced myself my usual Domme way. I smiled my warmest welcoming smile. A steady customer likes to be smiled at. I wanted steady customers and so I smiled at him.
He said he was experimenting.
He was very young, with an innocently attractive air about him. I found him cute in a puppy dog (or kitten) sort of way. He completed the intake form, and I directed him to the change room while I perused it.
Kevin Winston, 23 years old, corporate junior accountant. In the box “Interests”, he described himself as a “vanilla man who wants to explore the spectrum of life”.
That caught my eye. Most of my clients are more specific in describing their interests: e.g. spanking, clamps & clips, pegging, edging, etc. Kevin was plainly a novice — and open to learning.
And therein I saw an opportunity.
Our first session was fairly tame. I flogged him, having sold him on the therapeutic merits of the lash. I got his dopamine levels up. He enjoyed it and asked for more. I lightly did him over. After the hour, I was pleased with myself, and he was pleased with me.
You can imagine my surprise when, later that week, I saw him at the office!
It may shock you — or make you laugh — the number of times during my day-business day that I walked past clients. Theirs was often a startled face which I would return with a knowing grin. No one outside The Study wants to see a Domme in her everyday attire recognizing them. Context and setting matter! I enjoyed each and every one of those embarrassing moments.
Regardless, I asked him to come to my office. The door closed, we chatted. I found him charming and sweet. His youthful naivety was striking. He seemed eager to agree with me. Our coffee finished, he returned to his cubicle. I knew he would see Mistress Carrie again.
And he did, several times, always a loving flogging. He never asked me for sex; many clients do, and I shun them; no full service from me. His seduction of me went a different way; he asked me whether I could review a corporate report he was working on. Flattered, I agreed.
Things escalated into office coffee, a workday lunch, a dinner, a movie and a dinner, and eventually a movie, a dinner, and a simple kiss. Flowers, surprise chocolates, a wonderful bottle of Dom Perignon (Dom: hah!) on my desk. Above all, his eyes: his eyes never left me. I was convinced of his adoration of me.
I, in turn, must admit that I was increasingly attracted to him. Older man, younger woman: it’s so cliché. Older woman, younger man; now that’s not uncommon these days but was a new experience for me. I sensed his passion and loyalty.
Each of which I caringly reinforced in one session per week.
I’m a woman. I wanted children. I had had studs and bulls, dominants and submissives, cater to my sexual desires through the years. None had ever touched my heart the sensitive manner that Kevin did. A weekend getaway to the Hamptons, another to Lake Placid, yet another to a pigsty bar in the upper state that had live bands. Glorious. Each moment with him was glorious.
Having seen (and slept in) his one-bedroom apartment, I eventually asked him to move in with me.
And he did.
-----000-----
“Oh my God! Kelly!” I exclaimed.
She smiled back at me and moved to give me a hug. I gripped her closely, partly out of loving memories gone by, partly out of guilt.
“How are you, Carrie? It’s been a long time.”
“Fine. Getting by. Doing my usual at the office and elsewhere.” I grimaced as I completed that sentence. I should not have mentioned “elsewhere” to her. I swore to avoid that subject again with her.
Kelly half-closed her eyes and nodded with an understanding smile.
“I’m sorry, Kelly. It is ‘Kelly’ now, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
I continued. “How about we leave our carts here and grab a coffee? I’d so much appreciate an opportunity to—” I touched her hand, “—talk to you. I’ve never had a chance to say so much and I have so much to say. Please?”
I begged. I admit it; I begged.
She seemed unmoved by my plea but readily accepted my offer. We left our carts, left the grocery, and headed along the sidewalk toward “La Pâtisserie des Réves”, a trendy French bistro in the market.
I wanted to take her hand. This was someone whom I had loved but now, because of our history, could never hold again.
And it was all my fault.
-----000-----
The early days of our living together were rather normal. We assimilated whatever good kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and dinnerware he possessed into mine and disposed of the unwanted. His furniture was tacky and sent off to charity. I made some space in my walk-in closet and purchased a solid oak dresser for him.
The intimacy we shared was unsurpassed in my experience. He doted on me. He attended to me. He never hesitated to assist me in household tasks. He allowed me to lead, and he willingly followed. I could not have found a more emotionally comforting companion. My stress at work decreased. My enjoyment of life increased.
We complemented each other well.
Then, one day...
“What are you doing?” I coyly asked him.
He swiveled his head and looked at me, embarrassed.
“Putting your laundry away,” he said too nervously. I knew men. And I recognized instantly what he was doing: admiring my panties and lingerie.
“Kevin plays with lingerie,” I drawled non-judgmentally.
“It’s not like that,” he blustered.
“Yes. It. Is. Like. That,” I slowly teased.
He said nothing.
“My little baby likes my panties, it seems.”
The traffic on the streets below muffled its way into the temperate, air-conditioned room. I inched my way toward him, gently took his hand, and gave him what I knew he wanted: my permission.
“It’s okay. Try one on.”
He stared at me anxiously. To reassure him, I said what I had so oft said to him and to my many other clients who sought to stretch their boundaries:
“I can help you get what you want, if you want me to.”
After a visible gulp, he answered me: “May I please try one on?”
I lifted my head to pose an unstated question.
He answered it perfectly: “May I please try one on, Mistress Carrie?”
And thus our lives completely merged. Our domestic relationship stayed fairly much the same as before, but now he oft added “Mistress” when I led our conversations. Example: me) “Could you please fetch me a coffee with a couple of biscuits, Kevin?”; him) “Yes. Would you like it in the TV room or your office, Mistress?”
I never berated him for not calling me “Mistress” nor did I ever again demand that he so call me. Rather, I let things evolve.
And evolve they did.
-----000-----
We sat at “La Pâtisserie des Réves” and enjoyed the late afternoon sun. Two old friends. Two old lovers. A café. Memories. Reminiscing.
About the good times.
Eventually, I began to do what I felt I must do to relieve my burden.
“Kelly, I’ve had much time this past decade to reflect and contemplate my actions of years past. What I did to you was unconscionable. For my transgressions, I sincerely apologize. The settlement could never express more deeply than I can now how terribly sorry I am.
“I pushed you and pushed you. I thought that I was giving you what you wanted because it made me happy when I inflicted it upon you. I conflated my happiness with yours and forgot that our inner most feelings and emotions, to one another, ought never to be dominated by just mine. You were terrific, a caring and gentle lover, and my best friend. By my actions, I betrayed you. For all those things, I apologize.”
I wept as I spoke.
She reached into her purse and handed me a tissue.
She briefly touched my hand and smiled.
-----000-----
Soon after the panties, the pantyhose went on. Then, around our apartment, the heels. The skirts. The blouses. At each turning point, Kevin said nothing. He merely looked at me and awaited my instruction.
“Do you really want this?” I would ask. He would nod. I would provide. I can’t remember his ever saying that he wanted a particular outcome or a novelty. Instead, his permitted feminization crept up on us. In our apartment.
One night, as we were preparing to attend a Japanese roping evening at The Study, he approached me wearing his pink heels, white hosiery, and a Little Bo Peep dress and blouse. A blonde wig adorned his head. He would have slicked back and hidden his long hair to accomplish the look.
But that look! Oh, even today, it stirs my loins. He was simply adorable. I inhaled the surrender emanating from him. I inhaled it; my power grew.
“Is this what you want to wear?” I playfully asked.
He lowered his head. “At your suggestion, Mistress.”
It was intoxicating!
The other Dommes mocked him mercilessly. That is part and parcel of any event attended by Dommes and subs. It could have been a munch, yes, in which case the mockery would have been present but subdued. It could have been a Pet Play Party with any of us (the Dommes of course) holding his leash. They came to know him and respect his respectfulness. Never was a cruel word uttered by him to my friends nor my face.
He went along with it, as I certainly knew he would.
That said, do not misconstrue my actions. We also shared many tender nights out on the town dressed as Carrie and Kevin, cavorting as couples do on a night on the town. Many of those excursions culminated in fantastic, sweet romantic lovemaking at home — or in a conveniently located hotel on the West Side.
The exhilaration of being a recently promoted investment banker and an emboldened confident Domme opened my eyes to all the possibilities that life could offer. A fine house, a Merc in the driveway and an upscale SUV in the garage, a maid to clean every week (no, not Kevin; the maid was from Puerto Rico). We could have it together.
We relished life and lived it with abandon.
In retrospect, our working in the same office, our entertaining the same friends, our shared enjoyment of the BDSM Scene: these things cemented much of our togetherness. As long as we had them, we had each other.
He asked me once of children. I declined; my job, my hobbies, my fetishes would suffer. I said “no” — and he accepted that.
During the first several months of living together, he grew to wear women’s clothing at home. If he held a gaze at a dress in a store, it would soon be found in his closet. In the beginning, he was embarrassed and self-conscious. I found him in tears that first time he dressed in an evening gown and full feminine regalia. It was hardly a silly Little Bo Peep costume for fun. I consoled him and let him undress.
But days later, I suggested it again. As I said earlier, he would never deny me, and, accordingly, there came the day he dazzled me in Alaia goat suede high heels, a Ted Baker jamboree skater dress, diamond earrings from Mikimoto, sapphire rings from Alexis Bittar, and the most daring Korean makeup, all topped off by a beautifully complex French bun.
I wet myself looking at him.
“We must go out!” I breathlessly said. He seemed reluctant. I asked — sorry; I stated that I wanted us to go out. He nodded. I dressed. We went.
It was his first time.
“Kelly”, as I petfully christened her, looked magnificent.
I had showered him with the finest clothing and breathtaking jewelry. Heels? He had more than I had. Makeup? His grew to be better than mine. I splurged, yes, splurged on him relentlessly once I discovered his acceptance of my generosity and of his nascent femininity.
-----000-----
“How are you doing, Carrie?” she asked me.
“I’m stumbling along. You wouldn’t recognize the office anymore. So many minions have come and gone. The twenty-somethings keep churning through. They’re so eager and ambitious.”
I stared at my coffee.
“I pushed you too hard, Kelly. I take responsibility for that. I pushed you to the point that you couldn’t...” My voice trailed off.
“Don’t worry about that anymore. Everything turned out fine. Look at you, Carrie! You still have that energy and spirit that I admired. You were always marvelous. It just got to be a bit too much to resist, and you understand what I mean by that. I won’t say more about it.”
Kelly saw my pain and changed the subject.
“I got married a year after we parted. Ted. We adopted three children. I wanted to name them Tic, Tac, Toe, but Ted forbade me.” She laughed. “He’s a wonderful man, a loving father, a successful doctor. Dr. Ted Lanski. I treasure him above all others. We have a beautiful house in Connecticut. A weed free front lawn. I’m fine.”
I winced as he — she — spoke. A not dissimilar life could have been ours.
-----000-----
In my enthusiasm, I think it was in June all those years ago, I suggested birth control pills. My recollection is that Kevin swiftly swiveled his head and stared at me, mouth agape. Rather than a fight (which we never had; he was very agreeable), I put them on the granite counter and left them there: he could decide since I had permitted.
After my shower, they were gone.
I commenced delivering them to him on a special platter at breakfast. He didn’t bat an eyelash — yes, he had them done by then — and swallowed the pills. He knew what they were: they were what I wanted him to swallow.
And that was much as things remained in the bedroom. I’ll give you an example. I enrolled him in the pleasure of a perineum massage. I advanced him to a prostate massage. I graduated him into the rapture of pegging. Slowly. Tenderly. Gently. The tears he shed were, I was certain, tears of gratitude: “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much.” His ejaculations convinced me of his sincerity.
After the fifth pegging, it was with alacrity that I led him into the dungeon at The Study one play night and, upon my urging and with his consenting nod, pegged him soundly in front of my peers. They cheered. He groaned. Tears of pleasure surely. I exulted.
No, I never humiliated him in public; only in the presence of my understanding fellow Dommes would I do that. Eventually, so did they. They grew to like it for he never objected nor even used his caution safeword (I allowed him to pick it: “Chameleon” by the way).
I deliberated at length and sought the advice of Wanda before his first fellatio. “Sensitize him,” she said. “A small, easily throated dildo is perfect for that. It won’t strain him, but it will familiarize him. After the first time, he’ll be less inhibited.” Truer words were never spoken.
As I sat and watched him lose that virginity to another sub, I realized that my lovely man was no longer a man in the initial sense to which I had been attracted. He was beautiful in his dresses and skirts and capris. But he struck me as less handsome in his jacket and tie, his jeans, and his slacks.
Now I had seen him in his closest of feminine moments, pleasuring another man. It was an image I could not shake.
He had changed. I had changed him.
I led him by his leash to the car from The Study’s modest entrance. I said nothing. A part of me was angry at him for submitting so daintily. Another part of me — a small part of me — was relishing his gradual emasculation and the emergence of a new best friend, Kelly. I loved Kevin the man and saw him drifting away; I was increasingly drawn to Kelly.
When we got home, he (or she) showered, made me a tea, and said that he was off to bed. A perfunctory kiss and she was gone.
I felt that an unpleasant threshold had been crossed.
It had.
-----000-----
“Kelly, I never told because I never had the chance. I regret the hormones. I ought to have asked you far more clearly and directly. I irresponsibly assumed that you’d go along as you normally did.”
She looked at me with her carefree eyes.
“They helped me along, I can say now. It was the lack of input that I found most offsetting.” She sipped her coffee. Mine was already done. “In any event, they worked wonders on my figure!”
I nodded; she did look good.
“Are you still working?” I asked, wanting to change the topic.
“No. I retired. Ted works and pays the bills. We’re more than okay. The kids will have college money when they need it. There’s very little left on the mortgage. Two cars. We’re really good!”
Her cheer softened my regret. I took her at her word now, much as I had before.
-----000-----
“I love you. Never forget that: I love you.”
Those were the last words she said to me on that fateful Friday, November 30, so many years ago.
I dressed and went to the office. There was a meltdown in Chinese real estate and my acumen saved our clients several tens of millions of dollars. My boss was impressed: “There may be another promotion for you in this!” he thanked me.
Kelly and I had not crossed paths that day because of my business.
When I returned home, the lights were off. I turned them on. The apartment was too quiet. Kelly normally had the radio on, Top 40 music playing. The kitchen was immaculate; no dinner was ready. I called her name — I had been calling her “Kelly” for several weeks by now — but heard no reply.
I got a shock when I entered the bedroom. Her closet was empty, her dresser drawers open and empty, her bedside table empty.
Had she left me?
She had left me.
I was staggered. I called Wanda and explained the circumstances to her. Ours was a long conversation. “We’ll get Doris to cover your shift tonight. Tell me if you need anything,” she said before hanging up.
I spent the weekend calling and texting Kelly endlessly. No response. Not one.
On Monday at the office, I saw that the cubicle in which I had sat so often on its petite desk to chat with her had been cleared. Empty. “He phoned in on Friday and said that he quit,” the HR staff informed me.
Emptiness filled me. I reluctantly concluded that she — he — was forever gone. My sweet loving Kevin. My adorable companion Kelly. Both gone.
The process server appeared at the door to my office on Wednesday that week.
A lawsuit! Kevin Winston was suing me! The Statement of Claim listed several torts, including intentional affliction of mental harm, battery, conspiracy to commit battery, unlawful confinement, misappropriation of property, invasion of privacy, and such.
My head rolled. I felt nauseous. I asked my VP for the day off; he granted it. I went home and re-read the Claim a million times.
The Claim was for $4 million.
I punished myself with much reflection on my actions. I need not reiterate them; I told you the major lines earlier.
I came to see how he could have misperceived my actions. I struggled to identify any one instance in which he had taken the initiative and said, for instance, “I want a cock cage”. Never, I determined; it had always been me nudging, cajoling, or prodding him.
Me. It had been me.
“Good facts win cases,” corporate counsel always lectured us (twice a year: boring as hell). My dominant personality was known to all. But my Domme persona — if known to all — could ruin my career in investment banking instantly. I soon came to invite myself to the sorrowful conclusion that I was in fact responsible. Liable.
And exposed.
I decided that I now had to protect my career, regardless of the cost. Yes, I now owned many a nice toy and luxury; investment bankers tend to live well. But, at 31 years old now, I still had many good income years ahead of me. They had to be protected. “Mistress Carrie” of The Study for once would have to be utterly divisible from and completely subordinate to Carrie the investment banker.
Over several Pinot Grigios, I resolved to settle the dispute swiftly. I contacted a lawyer. I was candid with her.
“Your prospects are ruinous if this comes out,” she said, I mean Captain Obvious said. “There’s also the risk of punitive damages at trial if your ex- decides to pursue criminal charges too. And I contacted his lawyer. I tried to persuade them to pursue mediation; all of my approaches were peremptorily rebuffed.”
I groaned at the enormity of it all and instructed her to add the additional $1,000,000 that Kevin’s lawyer had proposed in his settlement offer in exchange for Kevin’s irrevocable forbearance of filing a criminal complaint and for a non-disclosure agreement. No discovery. No witness interviews. No examination-for-discovery. Just get it over with.
Risk $4 million in the law court and disaster in the public court of opinion?
No: simply settle for $5 million and obtain a silence befitting an abandoned cemetery.
The lawyers handled the paperwork. I paid the money. It was accomplished: a settlement.
Life moved on.
I remember the subsequent years of hollow emotions, of my silent apartment, of my vacant life. I missed her deeply and, frankly, never truly recovered from my loss. I doubted that I would ever marry. My biological clock ticked furiously but vainly; I never again met anyone good enough to rewind it. Despite my frenetic energy at the bank, I was simply a living shell of a woman.
My enthusiasm for Domme work waned on and off but I eventually regained some footing there. Wanda helped me tremendously but also steered me away from certain customers. “It’s better for you this way,” she wisely advised.
My customers became more monotonous: dull, overweight husbands whose marriages were as dull as themselves and their dull, overweight wives. I confess to unleashing several of my demons on many of them. Yet I knew I was just punishing myself.
After the settlement, I never saw Kevin, or now Kelly, again.
Until a decade later in aisle 9.
-----000-----
I stared at Kelly.
Long gone was the adorable sissy, the budding transwoman whom I had incrementally created freehand. Kelly appeared now to be thoroughly woman from head to toe.
“I miss you still, despite the years and my misguided actions.” I wanted to cry.
She breezily laughed my sorrow aside.
“Carrie, you don’t know just how much you meant to me,” she generously replied. “You were very much my dream woman, the very sort of woman I so long pursued. I have nothing but the fondest memories of you. I shall treasure them always. You gave me so much!”
The double-entendre bit.
She glanced at her watch. “Gotta go!”
She stood, beckoned a waitress, and put a finger under my chin to lift it.
She kissed me as Kevin once had — passionately.
The moment lingered.
She broke our kiss and told the waitress, “One bill,” and pointed at me.
“You’ll pay for it, right?” Her final smile.
Or a smirk?
I too smiled and nodded.
“Good-bye, Carrie.”
“Good-bye, Kelly.”
She left.
-----000-----
I’d like to say, “that was that”, but it wasn’t.
A year later, I was in San Fran for a conference on Chinese junk-bond-based derivatives. I knew all about them, but it was a networking opportunity. I bantered back and forth with my Hong Kong and Shanghai counterparts. A sexist bunch they were; I would have loved to have ruthlessly entertained them in the dungeon at The Study.
The conference over, I meandered my way through the city to a familiar spot: Sylvia’s Hideaway, a fetish club. I had passed through its doors several times over the years. A friendly crowd of Dommes were having a social, and via my Domme network had been invited to join them.
Anna greeted me with open arms. We sat at a round table and were served delightful canapes and spritzers. San Fran is so hospitable! Anna introduced me to several local Dommes and we discussed with enthusiasm politics, fetishes, women’s soccer, and various and sundry other topics.
We soon turned to other subjects, including one dear to our hearts: clients.
Nicole regaled us with the story of a mechanic who desired to be treated as a baby. Standard fare as far as I was concerned. Yet even my eyes watered with laughter as I heard his physical description: six-eight, over 250 pounds, hairy as an ape! What an image!
Denise recounted her experiences with a virginal man whose unnatural inclination was to masturbate in front of dominant women. Again, I had seen the same back East and giggled at her story of his sperm dripping from a Christmas tree decoration onto a host’s pet cat. Fitting that his sperm finally found a pussy!
Others provided equal levity. We were Dommes and had the world (of men and other subs) at our fingertips.
“Your turn, Gail!” I said.
She demurely smiled and shook her head. The others stopped being so animated. I sensed that I had made some faux pas of some sort. I liked Gail; her countenance was pleasing and her wit sharp and cutting. Yet she remained subdued.
“Okay then: how about you Tonya?” I quickly said to dispel the unease.
Tonya told her story. We laughed. And the joy of the affair was renewed.
As we bade our farewells, I made a point to see Gail and to express my regret for having unknowingly discomforted her. “May I buy you a coffee?” I asked to soothe any hard feelings.
-----000-----
We sat at a café near the Bay. I thought I heard whales singing but I may have been wrong. It was a sunny, warm day; the air held the fragrance of the sea.
“I can’t laugh at these stories too much anymore,” she said. “I enjoy my work but I’m far more careful now than I had been in the past. I’m also much more sensitive to reading a client than I had been.”
I touched her hand to encourage her to continue.
“I fell in love with a client. A little swishy shemale from the East Coast. He or she was disarmingly charming, very pleasing, and quite submissive. His name was so unswishy: Victor. She liked being flogged. She had requested me by name. After our first session, I discovered that she was a newly minted junior secretary in the law firm at which I work. We have about two hundred people on staff. No wonder I had never noticed her before.”
I listened attentively.
“Anyway, my great dividing line between my legal workplace and Sylvia’s Hideaway got blurry and disintegrated vis-à-vis my little sub. We dated between our sessions. I liked her — a lot. We lived together for a year or so. That little sissy doted on me and let me take charge. She never said that she wanted anything. She just agreed to everything I ever said.”
I listened very attentively.
She sipped her cappuccino and continued:
“I look back and recognize that I pushed her too far. SRS? Yes, I suggested that to her. I truly thought she wanted it. This is San Fran; things like that can be expedited if you know the right people. Do you know how many doctors see ME to explore their prostate? I know doctors and spoke to one who agreed to meet Vicki and—”
“You said, ‘Vicki’? Victor became Vicki?” I interrupted her — rudely.
Gail shot me a puzzled and irritated look.
“Yes. ‘Vicki’. That was the name I gave her. As I was saying,” she sternly said (once a Domme, always a Domme; even with other Dommes (except with Wanda and Sylvia of course; they’re top Dommes)), “she’d been on hormones and living as a woman for a couple of years. At least that’s what she told me. So, I set her up with Doctor Clogg who performed the SRS.”
I stared at her.
“After her recovery — and I assure you that I had arranged the best care for her — she one day up and left. She took everything I had ever given her: the Cartiers, all those LouBoutins and Weitzmans, the Versaces and Bottega Venettas: everything. I spoiled her rotten and she disappeared.”
I anxiously signaled to the waiter, a cute little boy probably destined to be an unhappy bottom to a Karen in a drab suburb.
“A Pinot Grigio for me, please. Immediately too,” I ordered. “I hope you don’t need a drink, but I fear you will want one very shortly. What would you like, Gail?”
She shrugged her head and said, “The same, please.”
I was impressed; the waiter brought the drinks in under a minute.
I gulped mine.
“Gail, as a Domme, I’ve seen my fair share of the human condition. I’ve delivered a great deal of pleasurable pain and delight to many people. And outside that work, I’ve had my ups and downs. And a few years ago, one particularly messy down with a person I loved. Please tell me how it ended.”
Gail sipped her Pinot.
“Lawyers. From another firm. My firm would’ve fired me on the spot and lodged a complaint with the law association. I faced ruin. I settled and—”
“—And you paid the extra money demanded so that no criminal charges would ever be brought, and you signed a non-disclosure agreement? How much? Four? Five million?”
Gail gasped and stared at me.
I flung my head back and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. I reached into my purse for my phone. I held a finger up to require silence of Gail (I’m a Domme; that’s what we do).
I searched and almost immediately found what Gail needed to see. I turned the phone toward her.
“Kevin Winston,” I stated acidly, “whom I transformed into Kelly Winston and paid millions in a settlement for it.”
It is impossible to describe the astonishment on Gail’s face.
She hastily rummaged through her purse and took out her phone. Her eyes were wide as she swiped and swiped and swiped. She turned her phone towards me.
I grimly knew that I would not be astonished.
“Vicki Menton,” she stated matter-of-factly.
We stared in horror at the two pictures and at each other as only twins could.
We had been topped by a bottom.
By the same bottom:
By Kevin.
By Kelly.
By Victor.
By Vicki.
By the same mysterious person whose true identity would forever remain unknown to us.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
NEVER HIDING IN HOSE AGAIN
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: Belladonna's "Hiding in Hose" (mother seizes corporate control from her son and transforms him into her maid): perhaps it's a dark tale rife with unfairness; alternatively, perhaps it's a moral tale of just desserts. This is my (unauthorized) tribute, Fanfiction, to one of the best FM authors. It is set 15 years after Belladonna's story. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to her.
https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=1...
BTW, this will be my last story for a few months.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
7 MAY 2030
The day began as usual.
We got up and prepared to drive the girls to school. I made their lunches and packed their school bags. Marie dressed them and gave them breakfast. I cleaned up their room. Marie wolfed down her fruit salad and finished dressing herself. I put on a jean jacket, headed out to start the car, and crammed Stephanie, Simone, and Sylvie into it.
Triplets. They're eight, adorable, bright, and polite; I'm dreading their growing older. Every day they grow, every day I remind myself that we need a bigger car.
Anyway, Marie locked the front door to our modest 1500 square foot bungalow and got in. I would drop her off at the coffee shop next to her office. Why the manager of a very small investment company had to always walk into her office with a steaming cup of coffee remained a puzzle to me. Whatever: she loves her job which pays our bills and a bit; my income is our gravy.
Back to the story of the day. The girls were dropped off at school ontime. Marie was delivered to her coffee shop on-time. Another successful morning routine accomplished.
So, I drove to and parked in my usual place behind "La Pâtisserie des Réves."
It had been in Marie's family for generations. Her great-grandparents had started a bakery after emigrating from Alsace-Lorraine after the First World War. It was a modest success. Different family members had worked in it over the century. Eventually, Marie's mom and dad owned it. Coincidental with Marie's birth, they converted it into a patisserie.
During the years immediately before I met Marie, Francois, her father, was fretful about the shop. He was a widower by then, his health was failing, and Marie had no interest in taking it over. Marie and I met. I knew little about baking and frack all about pastries. However, I was a keen student. I seized the offered chance to run the patisserie. Francois passed away shortly after instructing me as best he could in the time he had left. I liked him a lot and sobbed at his funeral. The shop had been Marie's for the past 10 years. I effectively ran it and didn't (and still don't) mind answering to my pretty boss/wife!
Anyway, we met, we clicked, and, one year later, we married. I was 30 years old and she was 25. Shortly after, the triplets were born. And now they're eight-years-old.
Today I tell people that I had 'drifted around' for a few years before meeting Marie. In reality, I had taken three years to rebuild myself, having just emerged from an abusive situation.
I'll give you an example of where I mentally was back then. I proposed to Marie; she joked that I have to assume her family name, 'Tremblay'; and I immediately shouted, "Yes!" Thus, I became Gavin Tremblay.
Bryceland, my previous surname, I loathed. Almost everything I had done during the past 13 years was in direct contradiction to Gavin Bryceland's pathetic, miserable, unloved life. I chose to forget the first 27 years of my life and to remember just the past 13: rebuilding myself and then being with Marie.
Anyway I entered the shop through the back door and turned all the lights on. I then turned the ovens on and checked the fridges and freezers. I loved baking; nothing bests the smell of fresh, warm bread to hearten the nose. And I felt challenged by pastries!
Don't even ask me to tell you about the joys and intricacies of pastrymaking. You say 'croissant'; I say 'kipferl'. You say 'Julia Childs'; I say 'Antonin Carême'. Ask me anything you want to know or could think of knowing about gluten networks, roll-in fat, which pastries are best made with brewer's yeast (not many BTW), chilling, rolling, stuffing, the secret to getting refined sugar in icing just right, and so on. My point is that I liked my job and my shop.
I also liked the people who came into the shop. By nine o'clock, the shop was open, and the tables were buzzing with customers. The waitresses, Fiona and Helen, had their hands full. I generally stayed in the kitchen in the back or behind the counter. I enjoyed baking and pastry-making.
Sometime around 1030 a.m., there was a cry for help from the seating area. Ours is a small town. Most everyone knows each other. Holly from Hillside Avenue, stood with her hand over her mouth, shouting and pointing at a body on the floor: "She just grabbed her chest and fell over!" A middle-aged woman whom I did not know was on the floor.
I grabbed our AED and first aid kit and ran to the front. She lay unconscious. I checked her ABCs: none. I told someone to call 911. I went into CPR mode, cut off her shirt and bra, powered up the AED, and attached it. I ensured the area around her was clear. I zapped her. I waited for the results. The AED instructed 'repeat'. I pushed the button again. The AED made a weird, fizzling sound. All its lights went off.
I immediately started doing CPR. Paramedics from a neighboring town eventually showed up, took over, and transported the woman to hospital; she made a full recovery. I was drenched in sweat and exhausted. A policeman congratulated me on my supreme efforts. Others in the shop clapped my back. I was later told that I had performed CPR for 45 minutes! I asked Fiona and Helen to take over and lock up at the end of the day. I went home. As I left the shop, I heard someone shout out that I would be famous, a real page-one hero.
I was just happy to have helped someone in distress.
I gave no thought to being a page-one hero.
14 MAY 2030
The week after that incident was not unusual. Occasionally, an old friend would ask me to get a band-aid for them or to help them cure a runny nose. That was all in good fun over a delicious éclair and cappuccino. Marie and I liked our little town and its people. Business had picked up a tad for a few days but was now back to normal.
The early morning rush was over. Fiona and Helen were about finished clearing and cleaning when two Latina-looking women in corporate pantsuits walked in. I recognized them immediately:
Julieta Navarro and her daughter Adriana Navarro.
They sat at a table.
I unconsciously picked up a six-inch chef's knife and stayed back in the kitchen. My heart started racing. My breathing ran shallow. I was panicking. I forced myself into steadying my heart and breathing. Deep breaths. Scan left. Scan right. Deep breaths. I regained control; I hadn't felt so flustered in a long time! I relaxed my grip on my knife and watched.
I could not hear what was said, but Fiona and Helen spoke to Adriana, who spoke back to them. Julieta glanced toward the kitchen. Then Fiona jerked her head toward the kitchen. I heard Helen say, "He should be in back." Four sets of eyes now looked toward me.
Fiona and Helen had always known me as 'Gavin Tremblay', married, loving husband of Marie Tremblay (who had grown up in this town), father of three, and an easygoing, casual, reliable, all-round good guy.
Julieta had first seen me, then 'Gavin Bryceland', as a young teenage boy, son of a wealthy businessman and that businessman's single-minded, determined wife. Julieta had been our maid during my teenage years and beyond. I had nothing bad to say about her until...
Adriana, Julieta's daughter, had first seen me --- rechristened 'Adela' --- as a man dressed in woman's clothing arriving at her poor village in Mexico to hide from supposed kidnappers. She had never known 'Gavin' per se.
Adriana and Julieta had last seen me as 'Adela' --- the poor, stupid, Mexican maid in my mother's mansion --- on the morning of 22 June 2017, just before I escaped from them and from my mother.
The Bryceland family mansion. My birth home. From 2015 to 2017, there I had labored daily without commendation, compensation, or commiseration. My mother had usurped my position as President & CEO of my father's company. She substituted me for her maid, Julieta, who became my mother's executive assistant and family confidant.
Adriana was Julieta's daughter, and once upon a time I had longed to marry her. But she too worked for the dark side of life known as Ms. Candice Bryceland. For two years of my life, I was their stupid pion maid and my tongue was Adriana's nightly toy.
I had been betrayed and abused by these two and by my mother.
"Hey Gav, these ladies would like to talk to you," Helen said.
I considered several options and settled on the most direct. I very slowly walked out of the kitchen, holding the chef's knife lazily in my right hand and a floury rolling pin in my left. My face was saturnine.
-----000-----
Adriana smiled hopefully at me. Julieta smiled cheerfully at me. They remained seated. The arrogance: they could not even have stood up to say 'hi'.
Fiona quietly asked me what I was doing with the knife and rolling pin. Her face showed a bit of curiosity.
I smiled at her and replied, "I'm going to sit with these two women for a while." Helen and Fiona smiled back and walked away. "Please don't disturb us," I politely added.
I sat at the table facing Julieta and Adriana and the street. The sun shone brightly. The window glistened with the condensation of fresh baking.
Adriana looked good; she always had. There were more lines on her face than on mine even though she was a just few years younger than me. Julieta hardly looked like she had ever been a maid. Rather, she presented the image of a successful but tired, middle-aged upper executive. She must be close to 60 by now. Both of them were utterly overdressed for my shop and my town.
Patience, I reminded myself. I slowly placed the rolling pin and knife on the table, spread my arms wide, and in a bored voice asked, "What's up?"
Julieta eagerly began by saying, "Gavin, it is so good to..."
I slowly motioned with my hand for her to be quiet. "It's 'Mr. Tremblay' to you. And you too," I flatly said turning to Adriana. Her face went stone. I looked back at Julieta.
Julieta winced and then continued, "Okay, Mr. er... Tremblay, please accept my assurances that I am, sorry, we are very glad to see you. It's been a long time since I last saw you. You look fantastic," she gushed and waved her hand from my head to my toes.
Fantastic? The last time she saw me I was her fat, dumpy looking, drearily dressed, depressed Mexican maid. And now, I am lean and muscular, clear-eyed, and mentally vigorous; my forearms can knead the hardest of dough and my mind can create the most mouth-savouring éclair. Handsome, sure; "fantastic," excessive.
I again spread my arms wide, and unenthusiastically asked, "What do you want?"
They nervously glanced at each other and then Adriana said, "Gavin, your mother would like to see you. To talk to you. The heart attack story in the paper! She believed you were dead! I think she would like you to come home. In fact, we would like you to come home. Me too! All of us would like to see you at home." She clasped her hands by her chest when she finished. She smiled professionally.
I said nothing to her. 'Gavin'? She had never known me --- nor even seen me --- as Gavin. She had only known me as Adela, her daily maid and nightly tongue. Her toy.
I turned and pointed my right index finger at Julieta and slowly unfolded my arms in my 'what's up?' motion. Julieta's expression changed subtly to an apprehensive one.
"Gavin, it's true," Julieta began. "She has missed you so much since you ran away. When she saw the article in the paper about the man doing CPR, the picture, oh my, she almost fainted and then started screaming and crying with joy. I was so happy to see your picture too! During the past week, we've been through many a tearful night together, the three of us." Adriana nodded.
"Surely your current maid brought the three of you some 3-ply Kleenex tissue to blow your delicate noses as you cried?" I asked with faux concern while looking at the table. Adriana stared at me, her face a Sphinx. Julieta simply nodded her head.
A great deal of anger and resentment surged through my soul. However, I breathed deeply and calmed myself. I put a winning smile on my face.
"I told you, both of you, to call me 'Mr. Tremblay'. You did not. You have not seen me in, what, 15 years and you just can't respect my simplest request." I stood up. "Today's little chat about whatever is over. If you," and I pointed only at Julieta, "would like to talk to me, then you will find a way to be here at precisely 4 pm on Friday the 17th."
I got up and calmly left. The last I saw of Julieta and Adriana that day were their astonished faces as I walked back into the kitchen. I asked Helen to watch the shop. I put the rolling pin and knife down, took off my apron, and headed out the back door. I drove home and had a shower.
Then I sat on the back steps and watched some clouds float by. I smoked and reflected. After three cigarettes, I felt sufficiently buzzed to return to the shop. Julieta and Adriana were not there.
Warily, Helen described to me how business had been during my absence. She asked whether I was alright, and I responded 'yes'. Fiona related to me that the two women did not stay long after I had left. They had inquired about me; both Helen and Fiona avoided providing details to them.
Julieta had left Fiona a small envelope to deliver to me. I took it and thanked her for it. I found a lighter and burnt the envelope, unopened, by the kitchen sink.
"They said the note in it was important and that they would be around Friday as you asked," Fiona said as she watched the last of the white paper burn, turn grey, and then turn black. "They seem insistent upon talking to you."
I smiled at Fiona and thanked her for her telling me this. I said I was going home and asked them to lock up. Helen wished me a goodnight sleep. Fiona wished me pleasant dreams. I thought I would have neither.
At home, I first began to prepare dinner, then went to pick up the girls, supervised their homework, got them ready for early karate, dropped them off, continued to prepare dinner, started the laundry, picked the girls up again, dropped off Stan's circular saw, and got home 15 minutes before Marie did.
The girls clambered all over her, overjoyed to see her. I was glad to see her too, but the mental toll of the day was heavy on me. I forced a smile, and Marie seemed to accept it.
"After they go to bed," I said pointing at the kids, "I need to talk to you."
17 MAY 2030
The day began as most do in our home. Girls ready, breakfast eaten, beds quickly made, car crammed, coffee obtained, and, finally, I parked behind the patisserie.
I had been busy the previous two days. I consulted two different lawyers I knew. In short, I arranged to prevent or at least to mitigate the risks and effects of another bogus kidnapping. My mother and Julieta had tried it once and had dangled the threat over my head for a couple of years. They might try it or some other malicious scheme again.
I also gave some thought to what Julieta and Adriana had said. 'Come home'. 'We miss you'. 'We thought you were dead'. I smoked several cigs while reflecting upon their words. The lens through which I viewed of our shared past was thoroughly tinted by betrayal; those three harridans had betrayed me. It's hard to dislodge such a strong opinion that's been shaped and designed to fit a particular vision of how one's life has unfolded.
They hadn't seemed overjoyed to see me. Their 'miss you' line rang hollow. Ditto with the 'thought you were dead' line, which, frankly, seemed tinged with regret that I was not in fact dead. And 'come home'? That mansion long ceased to be home. I filed their insincerity away in my memory.
And I had weighed the singular question re why, if she really missed me all so much, did Ms. Candice Bryceland send her two lackeys instead of coming personally.
I shuttered the shop at 3:30 pm and wished Helen and Fiona a great weekend as they left. I put a note on the front door: "4 pm meeting around back." I went out through the backdoor, locked it, and placed another note on it: "Back in 10 min." I drove away.
I returned from a time-killing stroll in the park at 4:30 pm and smiled as I saw their Mercedes parked in the only available spot: next to the almost full garbage dumpster. A nice stench on a nice day for two rancid women.
I invited Julieta in through the kitchen. Adriana followed her but I stopped her outside and said offhandedly, "You're not invited. I invited Julieta to come, not you. Remember my directions from last Tuesday."
"Neta?" Adriana asked incredulously in Mexican Spanish.
"Foutes-moi le camp, petit' salope," I murmured in French with a smile. Julieta seemed frustrated but waved Adriana away.
I locked the backdoor behind us, picked up the plate of éclairs I had left in the kitchen, stopped to fill my coffee cup, and went to the seating area. I sat at the same table we had sat at on Tuesday.
-----000-----
"There's just you and me, Julieta. Are you going to sit down?" I asked as I started sipping my coffee and nibbling on a rum-flavoured custard pastry. "Or are you going to talk standing up?" She sat down and faced me.
"Mr. Tremblay," she began, "I apologize for causing you any inconvenience the last..."
I quietly cut her off. "Julieta, before you start, there are some things that you should know." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.
"First, I made some deadman's switches. I've left a lengthy telling of my life and of the sins of Ms. Candice Bryceland and her lackeys in several trusted hands. If they don't hear from me each week, then they release the story. To the media. On-line. On all social media. To Bryceland Corp's suppliers etc. It's not flattering to any of you. So, you'd better hope that nothing happens to me." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.
"Second, I distrust you, and that putita of yours, and of course Ms. Candice Bryceland. I will listen to you. I will consider whatever you say. But I will not believe anything you say until I independently verify it." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.
"Last, I frankly don't know why you are here. I have my own life. None of you are part of it. You and the other two... well, the other two women, you all have your own lives and I am not a part of it. And I'm happy that way. So, once again, why are you here and what do you want?"
I kept my tone dispassionate. I verily believed nothing would come of being angry or bitter at this time. And I was a bit bored. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.
-----000-----
Julieta looked sad as she spoke. "Gavin. Sorry. Mr. Tremblay, I understand your concern about another kidnapping. Yes, I admit the one to get you to Mexico was faked to scare you willingly out of the country. There is no need for any such concern now. Please believe me." Her eyes showed honesty. I just stared at her.
Julieta sighed, realizing that she had failed to persuade me, and then continued. "Did you read the note in the envelope?" she asked. I answered that I had burnt the envelope without having opened it.
She looked at me desperately: "But it was from your mother and she asked me to..."
I waved to interrupt her. "I have no mother. The mother that raised me, the mother whom I loved and adored, that mother died when she faked an attempt to kidnap me. And took my company. And reduced me to be a servant. Thereafter, there was a woman who insisted upon my calling her 'Ms. Candice Bryceland'. But that woman was not and is not my mother."
If there was a lack of care in my voice, then it was because I really didn't care. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.
-----000-----
Julieta sat back, took a moment, and then seemed to reconsider her strategy.
"Mr. Tremblay," she began, "let me tell you then about my life." And she proceeded to do so. Much of it I recalled. Growing up in Mexico with Ana and Fernando. Her rape and giving birth to Adriana. Leaving for the States for a cleaning job. Dreaming of a better life. Fun times in the Bryceland household. Fun times sometimes with me, before I inherited dad's company. She reminisced in a soft and motherly tone, one I remembered well (and had liked) from my teenage years. I had always liked that Julieta.
"But things changed when your father died." She remarked that she had always seen my sense of entitlement, my knowing anticipation of an inevitable silver spoon. Spoilt rotten and morally lacking, she added softly.
"You never knew a day's hard work and yet expected to gracefully slide into control of a large international corporation worth billions and employing thousands across the globe." She looked longingly at my coffee as she spoke. "That's what I saw. I do not speak for Candice.... Sorry, I do not speak for Ms. Bryceland in this, but I know that she too was troubled by your lack of responsibility."
Julieta pursed her lips and whispered, "And all that time I had a brilliant daughter who did not have a chance to succeed in this world." She looked at me resentfully, as though I had forced her to confront a shameful act in her past.
"When Candice asked me to help her somehow, it was I who suggested that you learn the value and dignity in the simplest and most menial of jobs. Yes, I proposed Adela to her. And, yes, I also suggested Adriana to her. All of us thought that you would learn from the maid challenge and then appreciate dearly what had been given to you on a silver plate. We thought it would be a learning experience, not a life sentence." She gave me a look of sympathy and said, "But you did not learn. You lost yourself."
Her gaze and face turned hard.
"I took pride and pleasure from advancing from maid to your mother's executive assistant. I worked very hard to succeed there! I earned it all. But you!" she said in disgust and stopped talking. I could see that she was getting mad.
"Do you really think that we were happy watching you fail? Do you!!!???" She pointed her finger at me and said, "I told you when we first got to Mexico that you would not be Adela for long. Yet how could I have known that you would not learn? That you would simply collapse? If we had really wanted you to become a maid forever or to permanently destroy Gavin, then why not give you hormones and implants and scrape bone off your face and castrate you and then leave you in Mexico without any ID? Jodete cabrón! All you had to do was to grow up! To understand what hard work is. To sympathize with Adela's life and to value Gavin's!"
She drew her breath and slowed down. She fidgeted in her chair and asked for some coffee. I pointed to the carafe and mugs nearby. She bit her lip and got up to serve herself. I was never going to serve her ever again.
"Gavin, I gave up on you at the first dinner you served by yourself. Remember? To disguise you, I put brown contacts in your eyes. I saw in your eyes the deepest relief that no guest would recognize you as Gavin. And they did not. And you were happy then as Adela."
She wiped a few tears from her eyes. "I am sorry that I gave up on you. Please believe me that Adela was not intended to live shortly past Mexico. You were supposed to become a new Gavin, a nicer one, a more responsible one. But you gave up on yourself too."
I stood up and returned my éclair plate to the counter. I refilled my coffee. I wanted to smoke. In defiance of local ordinances, I lit one up in my shop. I looked at the time: six-fifteen. I was glad to have told Marie that I would be late today.
It was a smooth drag. I admitted to myself that I had never really considered the matter from Julieta's perspective, or at least the one she had just presented to me.
With similar honesty, I reminded myself that I had been a pathetic schmuck for much of my early life. I had partied too much and worked too little. Wine, women, and song were staples in my diet in those earlier days. Once dad passed away, I had been a bit too hands-off in handling the corporation. To be truthful, I now recognized that it may well have failed if it had been left in my hands. Thousands of employees' lives may have been ruined; I thought of Fiona and Helen to personalize it.
I turned to face Julieta. Her smile was gone, her eyes were teary, and her makeup was streaking her face. I thought her emotions were genuine.
"Okay, Julieta. First, I told you to call me 'Mr. Tremblay." You failed again at that. So, we're going to wrap up our little talk here now. Second, I have listened to you and will think about what you've said. Third, I still have no idea as to why 'you', Julieta, are here. If Ms. Candice Bryceland wants to talk to me, then she can get herself out here at my convenience. Next Friday, the 24th, here, at 7:00 pm." Julieta seemed flustered as I shooed her out the front door.
I added, "Tell that little thief that she can come in the front door."
Julieta seemed indignant at that. "Why do you call her a thief? She never stole anything from you!"
Julieta's brazen lie in defence of Ms. Candice Bryceland was drowned out by my lowering the shutters. I went home, mowed the lawn, played with the girls, and, last, discussed the afternoon's meeting with Marie.
24 MAY 2030
If all went well, the girls would pass their tests at the dojo today and would be granted their 4th Kyu. Although I was the primary instructor at the school (I'm a Nidan), the Association's protocol barred me from participating in and being present during their testing. Frankly, I would probably be more nervous than they would be and might throw them off were I there. So, Marie would be there and would 'capture the moment on film'.
The prospect of meeting Ms. Candice Bryceland tempered my happiness for the girls. I can't recall how many smokes I went through earlier during the week or how many stars I idly saw as I mentally rehearsed late at night the innumerable ways in which this meeting could unfold.
Earlier in the week, I did something that I had never done; I checked out the corporation's website, various business media sites, and the SEC's web resources. For the first time in 13 years, I wanted to learn about Bryceland Corporation again.
There she was on the corporate leadership biography page: Ms. Candice Bryceland, President & CEO. I had never even searched for her on-line: apathy. I had not seen her face in 13 years. She had gotten older; we all do. The picture displayed a 65-year old woman whose face demanded respect and revealed weathered burdens. The smile was plastic and the hair too blonde for her age. In contrast was a jolting memory that flashed through my mind: a young mother, a young son, a green park, a sunny day, a freshly painted swing; happier times long ago.
Long ago.
I laughed when I read her biography; it stated that she had one son, 'Gavin Bryceland'. I laughed harder when I read the short biography page about me, Ms. Candice Bryceland's predecessor. According to it, I had decided to explore the world and to participate in various environmental initiatives here and there. This pretense astonished me. I would have been proud to be called a baker. Instead, for what I could only conceive was for ostentatious purposes, this contrivance of being an international tree-hugger; it underlined to me precisely how little she knew of me.
Yes, I did review the biography of Adriana Navarro. It consisted of a series of checklist jobs all on an upward trajectory: marketing, public affairs, international development, and now chief operating officer. Yes, she was being groomed for the top. There was no mention of her marital status. I hope she dies a spinster.
The corporation itself had prospered under Ms. Candice Bryceland's hand. Over the past 15 years, profits had increased at least 10% each year, revenues continued to accelerate, there had been some minor acquisitions that strengthened the corporation's vertical integration. It would be hard to deny that Ms. Candice Bryceland was a remarkably successful businesswoman in her own right.
I wondered whether I could have led the company to similar success and concluded that I probably could not have. But that didn't mean I would have led it to ruin.
The stunner came late one night on the SEC website. Under the tab labelled "Ownership," I was listed (rather, 'Gavin Bryceland' was listed) as the largest single shareholder, holding 30% of all shares. Ms. Candice Bryceland held 21%, the second largest shareholder.
I realized that I was a billionaire. 'Still' a billionaire. All the shares dad gave me under his Will were still mine! Ms. Candice Bryceland had never taken my shares away from me!
However, she had taken me away from my shares. Julieta was narrowly correct; Ms. Candice Bryceland had not stolen anything. Rather, it was the malicious exercise of a power of attorney given to her (foolishly, in retrospect) by me. With me-Adela-the-maid out of the way, her authority to act for me could not be questioned. And 51% of the shares gave her complete control: President & CEO.
These and similar revelations, thoughts, and possibilities trotted through my mind during the week.
-----000-----
At precisely 6:59 pm, there was a knock on the front door. I saw her, Ms. Candice Bryceland, for the first time in person in 13 years. She was looking into the darkened shop. I lit the candle on the small table where I sat and stared at her. After a few moments, she opened the door and walked in.
She looked anxious and teary-eyed. She briskly walked over to me, stood over me a second, and then leaned over to hug me. I felt her warm breath on my head, the moist kisses on my temples, forehead, and cheeks, was pulled into to her chest by her encircling arms. My hands rested on my thighs. I didn't respond to her touch.
I would be lying if I said that I was not touched by her obvious emotion. But I also had some demons to excise from me --- or to unleash upon her --- and so remained saturnine and immovable. After a few minutes, I looked up at her and blandly said:
"Have a seat, Candice."
I motioned to the chair opposite mine. She sat down and undid her outer coat. She was as well-dressed as ever. My hands still had flour dust on them. I was still wearing my baking jeans (they stank), my baking Tshirt (it definitely stank), and my baker's apron (a dusty mess): that is who I am. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on a raspberry fusion éclair. I love raspberries.
Candice's eyes feasted on me. She exhaled deeply. "Gavin, I'm so happy to see you! I just..." I immediately interrupted her with a swift wave of my hand.
"It's 'Mr. Tremblay' to you," I said in an uncompromising voice. She was taken aback. I stood, walked over to the door, opened it, stared at her, and inexpressively said. "Try again or walk out."
I saw in her face both desperation and a grimacing reluctance to obey. It was a bizarre blend. "Mr. Tremblay, thank you for making the time to meet with me. I'm very glad and happy to be here tonight, Mr. Tremblay," she recommenced. She nervously relaxed as I closed the door and sat down.
I shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows at her: 'what's up?' my body language asked. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair.
-----000-----
Candice began by telling me how she had missed me the past 13 years. She had had no idea as to where I was, what I was doing, or how I was. She confessed that she often had thought me to be dead. However, she never steeled herself to apply for a presumption of death certificate. She had maintained hope, or faith, that I was alive and might one day return home to her. She wept as she related this to me. She concluded with a pleading tone: "You are my son. I've missed you. We are family. I want us to be together."
I slowly shook my head. "You're not my mother," I gently said and provided her the same explanation that I had previously given to Julieta. Candice's face fell as I spoke. I didn't take any great joy in saying this to her. But I needed to say it because it was the truth. And I felt better having said it. And she deserved to have it said to her.
"Gavin, sorry, Mr. Tremblay, I did not steal the company from you." She stared at me as she carefully said it. I nodded, encouraging her to continue. And she did.
"Do you remember when your father died? I had gone to work with him every day. I knew he wanted you to run the company. When he passed away, I helped you settle into the executive office. I even stood aside once you seemed comfortable in the office." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. What she was saying was, so far, true.
"Can you imagine my distress, however, as I witnessed your inaptitude and ineptitude toward that office? You cavorted around on yachts and in fancy cars. You indulged your baser instincts and fantasies. Hookers? Prostitutes? Bunga-bunga parties? Restaurant bills for dozens of guests, strangers all. You were leading an internationally prestigious corporation and imperiling its reputation, the livelihood of thousands of its employees, with your irresponsibility." She wiped her hands on her skirt and continued.
"I reviewed the circumstances and considered how you had been raised. Yes, I reflected upon my role in raising you too. Your father and I are also to blame. We spoilt you. We failed to prepare you for a leading role in the company. You were arrogant toward the staff and spoke to them in the most condescending manner. Nothing was too good for you, but woe be the poor employee who crossed you. You got angered by the trivial and were blind to the important. I accept a lot of blame for this."
I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. I recognized the person she spoke of. Like I mentioned earlier, the first 27 years of my life were pathetic, miserable, and unloved.
"Yes, I arranged to have you scared out of your wits by a fake kidnapping attempt. I wanted you out of the way so that I could put the company back on its proper footing, steered in its proper direction. You were 25 years old and out of your depth. I was 50 and had the experience and desire to run the company for a short time. But why on earth would you think that I would steal it from you? I never touched your shares." Her eyes showed she was perplexed.
She became excited as she provided a history that I had not previously heard from her. "My thinking was simple and straightforward. I wanted you to learn how life is at the bottom rung of the ladder. Julieta offered me ideas, but the chosen path was mine. I never imagined that you would not resist. You caved and I was astonished, especially when the choice was plain to you: a) that you could be a maid at home and eat after I did; or b) that you could work at the office and eat at the table with me. Learn the nitty-gritty in the bottom ranks as Adela and come back as Gavin in the executive ranks. Or stay a maid. I was stunned beyond comprehension that you would not choose to work at the office. You gave up after only one day! I couldn't explain your self-abasement. I eventually just thought that being Adela was the life that you wanted."
Candice wiped her nose with a silk handkerchief from her purse. "I sincerely thought that being beneath everyone in a maid's job, one of the most antiquated, menial jobs, would give you some perspective, some insight, that could help you get back to and do better at the top."
I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. She looked at my coffee with envy. The éclair too. I looked back at her blankly, silently encouraging her to keep talking. And she did. Much of what she said, however, did not sit well with me.
Eventually, it seemed timely to ask her some questions.
-----000-----
"You always suggested to me that Adela would cease to exist once the kidnappers were caught. That I could get out of that role once they were caught. Given that there were none that could be caught, then what was your timeline for my being a man again?"
Her jellyfish answer stung. "I admit that I did not have a firm timeline to return you to your position within the executive office. I knew that I would have liked to have seen you as a man again, but there never seemed to be the right time to effect that change." She must have known how weak her answer was for she looked evasively as she said it. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair.
I carried on: "If I was supposed to run the company again, then why did you groom Adriana to run it? Candice looked at me with an empty face. She didn't answer. She looked tired, old. I felt spritely and positively upbeat; many years of inner resentment were being expunged.
I carried on: "My old bedroom was taken over by Adriana. You've said that I was to become a man again. What did you do with all of my male clothes and when did you do it?" Again, she didn't answer. Futility was etched on her face. Flippancy was carried on my voice.
I carried on: "What long-term consequences to our relationship did you envision when you insisted that I call you 'Ms. Bryceland' everyday and to not refer to you nor to treat you as my mother?" Again, she didn't answer. She wrung her hands. Tears flowed down her cheeks. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. This was now cathartic.
I carried on: "Can you recall anytime during my Adela prisoner time that you acted like a mother who loved me, and, if you can, would you please describe the acts you took to underscore that love?" Again, she didn't answer. She was inexpressive.
I carried on: "I want to understand why you and Julieta and that little Malinche would want me to think that I was below everyone else." Again, she didn't answer. Her face said defeat.
I carried on: "How would it be that you introduced your son as your maid yet you introduced Adriana as the daughter that you never had?" Again, she didn't answer.
I finished with a dismissive wave of my hand: "Really, Candice, can you not see how I would not consider you to be my mother?" I sipped my coffee and finished my éclair. I stood and got another one. I sat down.
-----000-----
The éclair was to die for! I truly outdid myself with this one. Candice may have seen my pride cross my face. Perhaps she was proud of me. Perhaps she was dreaming of having just one bite from the éclair. Either way, I didn't care about her. I waved the éclair about and spoke.
"Candice, here's what I think. You wanted to run the company and saw an opportunity to do so after dad died. Given my age and wealth, you saw no reason to have your ambition hindered by family. Just like that lesbian businesswoman dad used to talk about; you know the one; you had her over for dinner that I --- sorry, your maid Adela --- served. Business came first for you. I was in the way. You moved me out of the way. You never gave any serious thought to giving the company back to me. Yours was a tidy plan, until I messed it up by running away."
I probably sounded detached and uninterested in the story. I kind of felt that way too. A large part of me truly did not care about this history, these stories, from my past. Marie and the girls were my present and future. I shook my head to concentrate.
"Anyway, you essentially had me brainwashed into being a maid for you and a tongue for that little worm Adriana. Your statements that I could return to the company once I was a 'real man', or however you phrased it, were hollow. They were lies. You never wanted me to go back there as a man. You never wanted any possible threat to your chair in the executive office."
Candice was now sobbing. I pointed to the paper napkin dispenser on the table. She took one.
I was relentless. "Now I try to understand what draws you here to this small town today. I think," and I drew this out slowly, "you're here because you are 65 years old and have had some health issues. They're mentioned on-line in the gossip papers. Perhaps mortality is on your mind. Maybe you have a terminal disease and want to ensure a better transfer of your bequests to Adriana. Or to Julieta. Or to the local humane society."
I paused and then blandly stated, "Gavin Tremblay, born Bryceland, expects nothing from you, both in life and in death. And what was in that little envelope you sent me for the first meeting? Was it a 'Dear Gavin, I'm dying, please come home' letter? Did you sign it, 'Hugs & Kisses, Mommy Dearest'? Or was it a 'Dear Adela' letter? 'Please come back, girl; our toilet's dirty'?"
I spoke in the most blasé manner. I felt quite distant from her. Part of me (a large part of me) would not care one iota if she had a terminal disease of some kind. A hint of fondness for a buried memory of whom she once had been held me back from complete apathy.
"I understand that I still own a large number of shares in the company." She solemnly nodded in agreement when I said this. "So, I can select the next CEO and President. I could even make myself that guy. But that was never your plan. Adriana has been your betting horse."
Then I acted as though it had suddenly hit me! I leaned toward her and faked a gasp. "Candice, if you are in fact ill and die, then you can only gift 21% to Adriana and she lacks the legal authority to act for me in respect of my 30%. There would be a risk of corporate instability!" She looked shocked. Was she busted or insulted by the suggestion? I didn't know.
"And perhaps you're here now to muster or corral somehow my votes for her at some point. Or to effect some other dynamic at the company that furthers your interests." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. Her sniffling was now distracting.
"For the life of me, I cannot see a circumstance in which a strongwilled woman like you, who has ruthlessly pushed her way to the top of the corporate world, would ever elevate 'family', if you even know what that word implies, over business interests. I certainly wouldn't see that now," I said as I took an envelope from a law office out of my back pocket.
"Candice, here is a letter informing you that any powers of attorney that you may have in respect of me have been cancelled. And if you look up there," I pointed to a shelf above the back counter, "you will see that my delivery of it to you is captured on video and is already clouded elsewhere." I hope the camera caught the priceless look on her face.
-----000-----
Suddenly, pandemonium interrupted us. The front door flew open, and the girls rushed in screaming. They were still in their karategis but now wore orange belts! They had passed! They swirled and twirled about me, and completely ignored Candice. They jumped on me and punched me, grappled me and tugged me.
"They wanted to show their best sensei their new belts!" Marie cheerfully said walking in and turning on the lights. Candice looked at Marie with surprise. Marie's happy expression suddenly changed; she looked grimly at Candice. The girls and I shouted and screamed together. Orange belts today! We laughed and hollered. Candice was bedazzled. Our mini-tornado of celebration came to a stop when Marie started shooing the girls back out to the car.
"C'est elle, ta sorcière?" Marie asked me.
"Meine rabenmutter, schätze," I replied, masking my sneer.
Before Marie could escape, Candice stood, introduced herself to Marie as "Mrs. Gavin Bryceland (Senior)," and offered Marie her hand.
Marie hesitated and glanced at me. I'm sure Candice noticed her aversion. Then Marie shook it, coldly said, "Marie Tremblay. Enchantez," and briskly walked out of the patisserie, turning off the lights.
The candle had a nice orange glow to it. I sipped my coffee. It was cold. I got up and poured a fresh cup. I sat down. I nibbled on my éclair. I looked at Candice. She was not in shock but was overwhelmed. And a bit sad. She stared at me.
After several silent minutes, she asked whether I had taken Marie's surname, or I had first changed mine and then Marie taken mine upon our marriage.
"The former," I said. "Until I married her, I was a Bryceland. All of my identification papers, driver's licence, everything: all of them were in my name. Once off the streets, I could have been located easily; you never did though. Marriage offered a name change opportunity that I seized instantly. I am now very much a Tremblay." She had no reply to that.
She then asked whether the children were biologically mine. "Yes, and Marie's," I answered. "Our triplets: adorable, aren't they? Their names are Suzanne, Simone, and Sylvie. Each is named after one of Marie's mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother; all of them are dead. The kids have grown up with just two loving parents."
I paused.
"They know that they have no aunts, no uncles, no cousins..."
Again I paused. I wanted this next one to sting.
"No grandparents."
Candice looked at me with an empty face. Her eyes were red and glistening.
-----000-----
I decided to change the topic significantly and began to tell her a wee bit about my life story between my escape 13 years ago and meeting Marie.
Adela the brainwashed maid had been wiping Adriana's toilet one morning. There was a particularly tenacious brown streak at the back of the bowl. The toilet brush didn't get it, nor did the bleach-soaked rag. Adela had persisted for several minutes trying to remove the streak by hand. Frustrated, she finally sat on the floor, back against the wall, and stared at the streak. "I'm cleaning baked-on shit off a toilet," Adela thought. And then she began to reflect upon her station in life.
Several minutes and one epiphany later, Adela was dead.
Staring at the streak was a now very self-aware and highly determined Gavin Bryceland who was pissed at my slavery-like conditions and felt deeply betrayed by Candice, Julieta, and Adriana.
So, I took my Gavin identification papers and one small backpack and I left.
I told Candice that I worked in odd jobs and had often slept on the streets. I avoided the very worst pitfalls of living a homeless life. I ate a lot of dog food and kitchen scraps. I wore the same shabby, dirty clothes forever. Candice seemed to weep when I related this to her.
I reminded her that I had gotten fat down in Mexico and that she and her lackeys subsequently had kept me fat up here. I had had rolls of fat all over me. But, I told her, you live on the streets for a bit then you lose the fat fast. With that diet, I started looking like a man again. Candice reached her hand out toward mine, but I avoided hers by quickly nibbling on my éclair.
Living on the streets and doing odd jobs here and there also taught me important life skills, such as 'functional' self-defence, pilfering, conning, breaking and entering, and so on. I told Candice that I was not entirely proud of doing what was necessary in the circumstances to get myself off the streets. But I did get off them. And I became quite strong doing so.
"You should update the corporate biography page. 'Ms. Candice Bryceland's son was a homeless, stinky, lice-ridden bum who broke into cars to steal stuff to survive day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, who slept behind garbage dumpsters, and who appreciated a quiet downtown alley when taking a shit'," I proudly said as I nibbled on my éclair.
I told her that I drifted and one day found myself in this modest little town. There was a bright and welcoming patisserie looking for staff. I applied and got the job. Marie's dad taught me a lot in the few months we had together. He passed away, Marie requested that I run the shop, and not shortly afterward we started dating. And I finished by telling Candice that she could guess the rest.
-----000-----
I wanted to smoke. Screw the municipal ordinance. I lit one up.
"Candice, once upon a time, you asked me whether I trusted you. I answered that I trusted you with my life for Christ's sake." I dragged a deep haul; smoking is awesome in situations like this. I turned to look at her.
"That was a mistake. I'll never trust you again, Candice. That's where we are, now, you and me. I don't trust you, don't need you, don't want you, don't think about you, don't dream about you, and somewhat don't care about you. And yet here you are." Damn nice cig.
"You have the business that you wanted and the daughter that you never had but whom you always wanted. The company is doing well. I give credit where credit is due. I doubt that I would have ever steered it toward such success. You, Julieta, Adriana: congratulations. You've really achieved something there. And I am not a part of it. Nor do I want to be. And yet here you are."
She looked at me sadly.
She may have been sad for me. Was it possible that I was so stupid to have overlooked some piece of this jigsaw puzzle and thus her sad gaze was one instigated by some condescending arrogance? Perhaps her victim (me) still didn't recognize his looming death or misfortune?
Or was she sad because I failed to see and appreciate her magnificence? Her success at the highest corporate level. Her success in international trade. Sad because I didn't genuflect to her in awe?
I examined her face closely and failed to detect any hint of the latter. No, hers was another kind of sadness, one that I thought more deserving. It was more likely driven by her growing fear that she could never be part of my life or Marie's. Or our children's.
"Come on, Candice, tell me why you are here and what it is that you want from me."
I asked this in a playful tone, suggesting that her answer (whatever it would be) would be considered insufficient. Or useless.
"My son. I want my son back!"
She shouted it out. There was pain in her voice and anger too. She went on and on about how she regretted treating me the way she did and for having so flagrantly elevated Adriana above me. Eventually, she finished her little speech with a puddle of tears on the table in front of her.
I suddenly got up and went to the door and opened it.
"You're a businesswoman, Candice. And I'm a family man. You're plainly successful at getting whatever it is you want to get. And I have everything I want or need in Marie and the girls. And this little shop," I waved my hand around in a circle.
"What I told Julieta applies to you too. I will consider what you said but I do not believe a word of it right now." I waved my hand toward the door in a shooing motion. She responded, got up, zipped up, and made toward leaving. She was crying.
I used my arm to bar her way out the door.
I looked down at her. There were traces on her face of the mother whom I once loved, whose nurturing voice I had once willingly answered, and whose hands had once caringly petted my head after a hard day at elementary school. As much as I was relishing my apathy, I remembered that --- the corporation aside --- ours was a sorrowful, frayed bond of a mother and her son. What to do?
I made a quick decision and gave her a quick glance as I let her walk out. I flatly said to her, "If you want to talk some more, then be here next week, Friday the 31st at 4 pm sharp. If you're not here, then never come back for I will never talk to you again."
I didn't shove her out the door. But I did close it quickly once she was across the threshold. I locked up super-fast and went out back. I didn't want to consider whether I ought to change my mind and tell her to never come back at all, ever.
I drove home. Marie was waiting for me, and we talked.
31 MAY 2030
I watched Candice exit her limo, the chauffeur holding the door. I could tell that she was used to having someone open doors for her. Her limo had pulled up five minutes early. No corporate pantsuit this time; she wore jeans, a blouse, and a leather jacket. She gracefully stood up, looked left then right, and then up and down, and finally walked toward the shop's door. She hesitated, knocked, and feebly pushed the door open. I watched her gingerly come in.
"The usual seat and table, Candice!" I shouted from the kitchen. The table was ready and empty. It's a deserving dinner discussion whether 'once' is sufficient to constitute 'usual'. She had only been here once before. Should I have said, "same" seat and table? I really have to stop second-guessing myself on such trivial, esoteric points.
Anyway, she sat and took off her jacket and waited for me.
I nodded to Marie who had not ceased staring at Candice. "I love you," I told Marie. She smiled at me, came over, kissed me, and said, "Allons-y." Together, we walked out from the kitchen to the table.
-----000-----
Candice seemed surprised to see Marie here but recovered to greet her: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremblay. It is a pleasure to meet you again." Candice looked at me and similarly greeted me. She waited for us to sit. There were only two chairs at the table.
Marie corrected her: "It's Ms. Tremblay, not Mrs." Marie sat. I stood, expressionless. Candice hesitated, and then sat too.
"The usual coffee and my latest creation?" I asked Marie. She smiled and nodded. Candice may have been puzzled because I had not offered her any or because I would not be sitting at the table. Either way, I didn't care.
I locked the front door, put the 'closed' sign up, went back to the kitchen, and returned with Marie's daily indulgence: a quad long shot grande in a venti cup, half-caf, double cupped, no sleeve, salted caramel mocha latte, with two pumps of vanilla substitute, two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut, half whole milk, half breve, with no whipped cream, two pumps of white chocolate mocha or mocha and substitute, extra hot, extra foam, extra caramel drizzle, extra salt, plus a scoop of vanilla bean powder, with light ice --- and well stirred too!
I also brought her my latest creation: an exquisitely wrought piece of astonishingly edible art, painting in glaçage, the cream filling infused with the taste of coffee and tonka beans, and, oh, I could go on, but I will stay modest. The point is that I brought one to Marie and none to Candice. I went back to the kitchen and started puttering. I listened to them talk.
Candice looked quizzically at Marie. "Is, uh, Mr. Tremblay not joining us?" she asked.
"He will but only after you and I discuss several aspects of your being here. You are a businesswoman. On a more modest scale, so am I." Marie spoke with confidence. Candice at first seemed thrown off by this approach but appeared to accept it after I gave her a fleeting smile.
"I will be direct," Marie began. "You said you wanted Gav to come home. Accordingly, our first existential issue is this; would you not agree with me that Gav is already home? Here. With me. With our beautiful children. With our two small businesses. With our humble house. With our humble car. With our local friends and neighbours. With his instructing karate at the local dojo." Marie leaned back in her chair. She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.
"Each of those elements are fundamental to our concept of 'family'. Family time. Family business. Family fun. Family. It is why we spend Sunday mornings together on the bed in our pajamas. Family. I will not pry to ask you how you, Candice, spend your Sunday mornings." Marie dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
"But I will insist upon an answer right now to my question: would you not agree with me that Gav is already home here with his family? This is not a primary question, Candice. Rather, it is THE primary question." Marie put her elbows on the table and leaned in toward Candice. Marie's eyes bore into Candice's.
I enjoyed watching my lovely bride metaphorically plunk her German Shepherd paw on top of Candice's Pomeranian head.
Candice returned Marie's stare then glanced over to me. I nodded. "Yes, I agree with you. He is already home with his family," Candice said with resignation.
-----000-----
"I'm glad we agree. In that case, with that common yet fundamental understanding forever established, we can now address lesser matters." Marie smiled brightly at Candice who seemed drawn and fatigued.
"My husband owns 30% of your company. Sorry, 'his' company. You own 21%. Between the two of you, there is majority control. My husband does not want to 'usurp', his word by the way, you as CEO or President. Gav has made it clear to me, in his best vernacular," Marie smirked, "that he'll never step foot in that company ever again. Indeed, when he told me that he owned that 30%, he seemed rather enthusiastic about selling it to Tangmere International at a discount rate. Coupled to their current 10%, his shares would effectively ensure Tangmere's control. You would not be CEO for long, n'est-ce pas?" She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.
Candice simply nodded.
Marie continued. "Gav is also sensitive to the fact that his grandfather and father built the company. He loved both, as you might recall. There is pride to be taken in ensuring that one's predecessors' efforts have not been wasted. This quietly successful patisserie," she waved her arms around above her head, "exemplifies that." She glanced back at me.
Marie faced Candice again. "Your efforts too, Candice. Gav acknowledges that the company has done well under your leadership, better than it did under his. He also acknowledges that, when he was younger, he may not have been strong enough or bright enough to run the company." Marie almost took a sip of her coffee but instead added, "But that was once upon a time, long ago. And that particular Gavin is dead."
Candice briefly looked at me. Her face was impassive. I looked back at her impassively.
"So, Candice... Sorry, do mind if I call you Candice? Good. Candice, I have a simple business proposition for you. You transfer to each of our children one-third of your shares to the conclusion that you will have none and Suzanne, Simone, and Sylvie will have them all. Gav exercises the authority over the minors' shares. In short, Gav controls 51% of the company." She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.
I watched Candice closely. Her face was stoic. Marie carried on.
"He will not remove you from your CEO position. To the contrary, given your track record, he wants you to keep running the company." Marie raised her eyebrows in saying this and Candice raised hers back in disbelief.
"He did say," Marie paused with some embarrassment, "that the woman named Adriana would have to explore opportunities elsewhere. She would have one month to move out and go someplace else. Gav is insistent upon that. His diction when he speaks of this woman is quite," she flipped her hand in the air, "colourful. The other woman, the one named Julieta, he says can stay for however long you stay."
"I am insistent upon one thing as well," Marie said with an edge. "At the first mention, hint, reference, allusion, joke, or so on, by anyone, about some slave-maid Adela," Marie shot me a reassuring glance, "you're cut out. Of everything. Forever, Candice. And all his shares go to Tangmere. No one diminishes my husband. Is that clearly understood?" My heart raced as my beautiful wife said those words. Marie sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.
Candice nodded her assent.
Marie cheered: "Gav, this éclair is to die for!" She licked the traces of the cream from her lips and threw her head back in gastronomical joy. "Candice, you really must try one!"
Candice looked at me. The corners of her mouth were turned down sadly. I held up a plate on which was a beautiful avocado filled éclair; the hints of smoked salmon and pickle put this one over the top. Candice nodded slowly 'yes' and ventured a smile.
-----000-----
I walked out from the kitchen bringing an éclair and a coffee. I put them on the table and drew up a chair. I looked at Marie and smiled. She smiled back. I turned toward Candice and smiled. She nervously smiled back and glanced at my pastry. She moved to pick it up, but I waved her hand away. She looked at me puzzled.
I began casually: "Candice, I have a great wife, great kids, a great life. I love what I do here and the life we have here. Our family serenity in this serene family town: this is what will be protected. Ruthlessly protected."
I stared at Candice as I spoke. My voice was firm and confident. I knew who I was, what I could do, and how to enjoy life without Candice Bryceland.
"Bottom-line: you have only two choices. First, you can give up the 21% to the girls, stay on as CEO, and, one day, maybe even in a couple of months, have three charming granddaughters jumping on your bed when they stayover with you some weekend. Calling you 'granny'. You can watch them grow up. And you could have a daughter-in-law who is treasured and loved." I took Marie's hand under the table and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
I took a brief moment before finalizing this offer. "And you could then have a somewhat distant son --- but a son nonetheless --- who calls you 'Mumzie', not 'Candice'." I smiled because Candice wouldn't get the insult. "You would have to work on your relationship with your son, but at least you would have one."
I paused. "A great many stars would have to align for all that to happen. But it could happen."
"Alternatively, second choice, 'Candice', not Mumzie, you can stick with your original plan, keep your shares, get dumped as CEO by Tangmere, and hang around the mansion by yourself, wondering if Adriana or Julieta will change your diapers as you grow older. Then, when you die, a gravestone: 'Candice Bryceland, deceased, no surviving family, but she was a great CEO'." I kept my scorn in check as I said it. I think Marie was a bit embarrassed; but she knew of my settled views on our possible futures.
Candice had a grim look on her face.
I didn't smile. "It's up to you. Here. Today. Now. You can be 'Mumzie' or 'Candice' but not both. And no other choices. No negotiation either. It's your decision. You can taste this to-die-for one-of-a-kind éclair right now. Or never."
I pushed the small plate toward her and then sat back. Marie and I exchanged looks and then we stared at Candice.
Once upon a time, I had wanted to savour some sort of crushing victory over Candice. But would it be worth it now, meaningful now? Probably not. Did I really care now about her all that much anymore? I couldn't shutter my heart completely, however, I had no idea where some relationship with her might lead. I did know I could care less about defeating her.
Marie, Suzanne, Sylvie, and Simone: they defined success for me. I just wanted a simple life with my loving family. And I already had that, no matter what Candice chose to do.
She had made herself that irrelevant to me.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021
Warning: If you don’t like reading BCTS stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
-----000-----
Finally: class was over. Another day of high school finished.
I gathered my books and put them in my bag. I opened my purse and put my favorite pen in it. It would be windy outside walking home. I quickly gave my hair a quick brushing and did up a ponytail.
“Ready?” asked my best friend Andrea.
I stood and grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. I know, I know. Jackets and skirts aren’t the greatest combination in early December. This would be the last skirt day for months. The chills in January and February were too much. Pants and thin leggings: perfect winter wear.
“Ready,” I answered.
We made our way out of the classroom and down the hallway. Here and there, we paused our exit to gab with some friends. No volleyball today nor for the next week: winter exams were coming. Leslie mentioned that she and Todd were still “on” for the weekend. Joy told us that her younger brother had asked Melanie out; we giggled imagining the scene. Brianna asked whether anyone had a spare tampon. Heather did; Brianna gratefully took it and disappeared to do what she had to do.
As soon as we turned the corner away from the school, we took each other’s hand and smiled.
We had been besties seemingly forever. Kindergarten. Minor league soccer. Elementary school. Birthday parties. Junior high proms. Double-dating: that had been a laugh! Greg and Tom had been blindsided watching our very affectionate kissing after having teased them before, during, and after a grisly slasher flick.
There had always been Andrea. Through thick and thin, my best friend --- dare I? my girlfriend? --- had always been by my side.
A lone child, I had been (somewhat) spoilt by my parents. There is a magnificence in being “the one”. No division of attention. No forgetting. No perceived lack of love. But I had always felt that something was missing in our home. Call it an emptiness, a gap: whatever. Perhaps call it lone child syndrome, one that Andrea had partly mitigated or often caused to be forgotten.
Fear not: my parents had always been a loving presence. And they treated me more maturely than other parents did their children, at least by my friends’ estimation. Perhaps my parents treated me differently was because they had me in their late thirties. They were in their early fifties now.
“What is your plan?” my mummy would ask.
“Please tell us how you reached your decision?” my daddy would ask.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” both would ask.
“You’ve given it much thought, and we appreciate that. Now do it: we’ll support you in this if you stick to it,” they constantly reassured.
By an early age, I was well positioned to make reasonable decisions regarding friends, school electives, extra-curricular activities, and, later, as I grew up, dating. I “tried” boys. However, by 13 years old, I knew my heart was not longing for them. I did persist in my attempts, but my heart clearly was not in it.
One day, after our team lost to a school from the east side of town and as we lined up to shake hands with our opponents, one girl from the other team held my hand, her eyes sparkling at me, and she swiftly pulled me in for a quick kiss. “I’d love it if you were on my team!” she laughed, and I never saw her again.
Yet, in the few years since that moment, I came to realize that she knew something about me that I hadn’t truly known of myself. I was different, much different than most of my peers.
And I came to know that of Andrea too, and she incrementally did of me.
A few snowflakes fell. The air was chilly.
“Text-fest tonight?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes.
“I can’t. Mr. Callaghan’s assignment is due tomorrow, and I haven’t even started it.”
“Something about antiques and old technology?”
I nodded, and we walked hand-in-hand.
-----000-----
I remember clearly that day three years ago when I had told them.
It was a sunny, May, Saturday morning. The lawns were green, the eavestroughs cleaned, and the flowers planted yet unseen.
“I like girls,” I said flatly but liberatingly.
They were ashen faced.
They glanced at each other.
“Nikki, could you please go to your room for a few minutes. We’ll call you when we’re ready,” my mummy hurriedly replied.
Half an hour later, they called for me.
Their normal interrogation followed.
Eventually...
“Are you sure this is what you feel?” both softly asked.
I nodded. I was going to be true to me. Today and from now on, I would be me, a lesbian.
It was me. Me. How I felt about me --- and Andrea. And every other girl I saw.
“You’ve not come to this decision lightly, it seems,” they said. Their trepidation hung in the air.
“You’ve given it much thought, and we respect that. We cannot and will not try to change your mind. We will---” my mummy paused, my daddy hesitated and sniffled, “---try to support you. It may be difficult for us at times. And you may change your mind. You may not. Regardless, we will do our best to be there for you.”
I had never seen my parents collapse into tears but that they did. They hugged each other as they sobbed. I teared up too and raced to hug them.
Them: my loving parents.
Mine: all mine.
-----000-----
Mummy and daddy weren’t due home for another hour.
I quickly set the dinner table, cut some vegetables, and went back upstairs to my room.
As a lone child, I had been given the second biggest room upstairs. Its light lilac color made it seem so much bigger. The glossy white trim accentuated its soothing. One wall was but closets and dressers (yes, full). Another wall was but bookshelves (yes, again: full). Above my double bed hung innumerable certificates and commendations.
While my parents guided my growing maturity, they had equally developed in me a pursuit of sorts for excellence. I was among the top students in my class. By Valentine’s Day, I should receive letters of acceptance to various established universities.
Not Harvard nor Yale type universities: I recoiled at the thought of them: too uppity. I wanted Point Loma Nazarene, Bentley, Rockhurst, and such. Very good but not uppity. Solid. Grounded. Reputable. Just like me: ha!
I sat at my desk and put my feet on a corner. I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head. I stared out the window and wondered what sort of artifact might intrigue Mr. Callaghan.
I sat up and Googled various ideas and thoughts. I clicked on “images” and saw possibilities. A few moments later: there! A picture of a small plastic container, black with a grey top: a film container for a film camera.
I leaned back and put my feet back up. It takes a disciplined mind to see order out of chaos. As often happened to me (but not always: I did work hard for my marks), the indeterminacy of Mr. Callaghan’s assignment vanished; replacing it was an inspired turnabout.
No doubt, film containers were conceived for old technology, specifically, the dark storage and transportation of old film negatives. Yet, my research led me, they also heralded modernity. Plastic containers are everywhere and in their different shapes and sizes are made for everything today. I could make this old thing very modern!
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
My presentation came to me.
Time to develop it!
-----000-----
In the basement storage room, I sat before five open cupboards. Dusty shelves. Cardboard boxes, some small, some large, some dull, some bright. There were several trunks with my grandparents’ names and steamship stickers plastered on them. There was dress-up clothing tainted by the stench of mothballs. I well remembered the Godzilla costume!
And there was my first Princess gown too: I fingered it and reminisced for a sweet moment.
Sighing, I resumed my search. Somewhere my daddy put his old cameras. I giggled as I recalled that Christmas long ago when, at my parents’ suggestion (and with their financial assistance), I had gifted my kind dedushka and my beloved baba, my grandparents, a digital camera. After taking a picture of me, they had asked me how to wind the film! They died nine years ago...
Box after trunk after box after bag I searched. In a different world, I would accuse my parents of being hoarders. Honestly though, the clutter and accumulation weren’t that bad. My room was neater and tidier though, my closets too: not bragging, just saying...
Bingo! A box labeled “Cameras & Photos --- Do Not Throw Out” in my daddy’s script.
I opened it.
Bingo! His old Cannon and what seemed to be a much older Leica.
I rummaged through the box. Photos of mummy and daddy. On a beach, younger. At Aunt Helen’s for a dinner, older. Touring by the Eiffel Tower, older still. Sitting atop a mountain, timeless.
Yet my eye was drawn to something else.
In several of the photos, there had been a third person.
Yet I could not determine who it was.
That person had been blacked out.
Completely.
My curiousity aroused, I rummaged through that box.
And found at its bottom another box.
A small blue box.
Wrapped with a pink ribbon.
I opened it.
-----000-----
“Nikki, a word, please,” Mr. Callaghan said after class.
I took my seat at the chair next to his desk.
“Nikki, you are a very good student. You’re smart and bright,” he kindly began.
“However, your presentation today was, shall I say, substandard. Your introduction was disjointed. You didn’t articulate what the presentation would be about and then you rambled on about film being unwieldy and inconvenient and best left in the dustbin of history.”
He smiled at that.
“There was so much more you could have done with it. For instance,” he said, picking up the film container, “this small item lives with us today. What inspired it is gone but it itself lives on, for different purposes, in different ways, in different shapes, colors, and forms.”
He looked apologetically at me before telling me that the best he could give me was a C+ for delivery, content, and imagination.
I stared blankly at him as he spoke. Although he sat but three feet from me, I was far away. I liked him; he was a good teacher, a sincere person. I compelled myself to answer him.
“I’m distracted, Mr. Callaghan.”
He took a moment before speaking.
“I can help you,” he gently said. “Talk to me.”
I didn’t answer him. I wanted to cry.
“Do you feel safe?” he asked humanely.
“Here?” he asked officiously.
“At home?” he asked very cautiously.
I immediately nodded.
We’re reminded yearly at school about harassment, consent, sexual assault, respect, dignity, charity, and so on. We know there are resources for those of us who need help. Well, at least I did, as did all of my friends. I sympathized for those who experienced grave troubles but I couldn’t empathize with those among them who never sought available assistance.
I slowly wept.
“I’ve learned something about my family,” I finally confessed.
Mr. Callaghan looked at me expressionlessly.
“I need help,” I said.
He lurched forward and put his hands on the edge of his desk. Enthusiasm and charity were set on his face.
“I’d like to suggest that we go down to Ms. Rajewski’s office and there we---”
I interrupted him.
“No, Mr. Callaghan. I neither want nor need her help.”
I looked at him beggingly.
“I need your help.”
I turned from his astonished face and opened my school bag.
I drew from it a small plastic bag.
I put it on his desk.
I opened the bag.
I emptied the contents onto his desk.
I looked at him; he looked at them.
Five plastic containers.
Five plastic film containers.
Five rolls of undeveloped film.
-----000-----
I masked my emotions before my parents. I had to; otherwise, I might have for the first time in my life exploded at them. I stewed at their deceit, their betrayal, their hypocrisy.
I feigned cramps and shuttered myself in my room immediately after dinner each night. I pretended to be studying Saturday though my thoughts were of my parents’ incredible malevolence. Good things come to those who wait, I reminded myself.
I needed to wait for Mr. Callaghan.
Mother and father would not tolerate, however, my shrugging off Sunday services. I dressed --- “Your Sunday best, sweetie!” mother had needlessly said, --- and sat next to my parents in a pew near the front.
That fucking priest spoke. A smidgeon of Latin here, a morsel of modern English there. Yeah: HE spoke.
For years I had listened to HIM. I had accepted that, no matter my God-given nature, HE would not, could not, ever accept me, had HE known of it. HIS smirk and false handshakes: four years I had endured them.
No more, given what I now knew.
I wanted to vomit. I feared what would come next even though I knew what would come next. I watched HIM, the acolytes, the altar. My memory shot me a pic Tweet someone had tweeted years ago: “There’s no hate like Christian love.”
HE began his sermon.
I listened. Oh yes, for the final time, I listened to that fucker spew HIS venom and hatred. I don’t remember all the words. Yet HIS message was clear as an azure sky. I distinctly recall the tone: creative invective and vile vituperation. Damnation. Purgatory. Pious pontification from HIM, that fucking pompous priest.
I noticed my parents’ occasional turning to look at me.
Father seemed nervous again, as he always had during each and every sermon since I told them, years ago, that I was a lesbian.
Mother placed a hand on mine, as she had always too.
I withdrew mine from hers and clasped my hands together.
Shocked, she withdrew her hand.
I could not bear anymore of HIS filth.
I turned to mother and simply stated without room for discussion, “Calculus tomorrow.”
I rose in the middle of HIS sermon and swiftly took my leave of that congregation.
HE stopped talking while I left.
As the sun hit me, I heard HIM continue as though my departure was unmentionable.
-----000-----
Mr. Callaghan found me in the hallway after my exam. I was certain I had done well, despite my distraction.
“Nikki, could I speak to you, please?” he asked.
We sat as we had before.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“Nothing. Consider it a gift from a teacher who supports you and wants to help. An early Christmas present?”
I said nothing. I nodded my thanks.
He smiled and opened a drawer. He took out a plastic bag. He removed from it five thick envelopes. He gave them to me. I took them and placed them in front of me.
We looked at each other.
I opened the one on the left.
-----000-----
I finished my exams. My marks were very good, despite my distraction. They weren’t as good as they could have been, but I had done my best under the circumstances. I knew that the time was right. My hiding my feelings for those past weeks had burdened me. Mother and father, to whom I never had any reluctance to share secrets? I had avoided and evaded and eluded them.
But no more.
I sat at the dining room table. Oak. I recognized it from the old pictures. It was as dark as it had been years ago, as it had been in those pictures of a baby in a roaster on it in the center. Pictures with my parents in them. Laughing. Much younger parents. Happier times. More innocent times, perhaps.
Mother and father sat across from me.
They didn’t anticipate the deserving torment I was about to unleash upon them.
Their doing. Their fault. They would pay.
I looked down at my school bag by my side.
I picked it up and put it on the table.
In the center.
Where that roasting pan had once been.
I put my hand in my bag and removed the picture I had placed on top. I looked at it and briefly mentally meandered back to my bedroom one last time.
Could I ever look at it again the same way after this?
My room.
My closets.
A crib.
Baby clothes.
Baby shoes.
And baby-blue walls.
I flippantly flipped the picture to them.
Mother knew not what it was and leaned forward to look at it. She clutched her heart with both hands and stared at me. Yes, she’s just seen a ghost, I thought. Father looked at mother puzzledly and then looked at the picture. He blanched and sat upright.
Everything I ever loved about my parents had been irrevocably altered. They had never told me. They had hidden this from me. They had obviously cautioned our extended family who too had kept their mouths shut. A conspiracy of silence. By my family.
They had taught me to be transgressive. “Daughters can do anything!” they had taught. “Never let anyone hold you back!” they had instructed. “Don’t take shit from anyone!” father had (with mother out of earshot) instilled.
They had taught me well...
I was going to show them how well.
I took the birth certificate out of the bag and flung it toward them with contempt.
“Boy,” it said.
-----000-----
The morning of Christmas Eve.
Under normal circumstances, today would be final cleaning and preparation. Tomorrow would be presents, stockings, turkey, stuffing, merriment, a sneaked sip of mulled wine, and such.
Normally.
I walked toward Andrea’s condo. She lived with her parents closer to downtown than I and mine did. The breeze was chilly. The sun hung low in the late afternoon sky. The sidewalk’s concrete looked cold and stark. My little boots clicked on the sidewalk as I made my way. My jeans protected me from most of the chill. So did my hat and gloves. And did my school bag on my back.
My research, plans, and preparedness steeled me for this. I had left without telling my parents where I was going. I counted on their worrying.
I made my way to the elevator and up to her door. Her mummy answered it and welcomed me in. I declined: “I just have to see her for a minute, Mrs. Brown.” That she found this unusual was etched on her face.
“Okay, sweetie.” She left the door opened, called Andrea, watched us greet each other, and then respectfully retired to the condo’s innards.
“You aren’t coming in?” she asked.
“Not today. I have something to do and it... It’s very important and personal.”
She was puzzled.
“Andrea,” I caringly began, “you have been my best friend for so long.” I cupped her face with my hands and kissed her. I did love her. “I need you to do something for me,” I pleaded. I almost cried saying it.
“What’s the matter?” she asked hugging me. I had to let her go.
I gave her an envelope.
“In two hours, please call my parents and tell them that I was here, gave you this, and --- if they ever want any relationship with me, then they will come for this envelope immediately. And please don’t open it. It’s for them, only for them. Promise?”
I cried as I softly spoke.
Andrea started crying too. “I promise. What are you doing? What’s going on?” she begged.
I wiped her tears away.
“I love you, Andrea. Keep your promise.”
Before she could reply, I dashed to the emergency staircase and fled.
-----000-----
The sun had warmed the sidewalk, a tad. The city seemed warmer; it’s wonderful what bright light can do to one’s mood. I strode confidently toward my destination: a very tall building in the downtown core. I had never been in it before, let alone noticed it. Cool: forty-four floors.
Five-hundred-and-thirty or so feet high if my calculations were correct.
Deadly, no doubt, if one fell from it, I rather detachedly thought to myself.
I approached my destination and looked up: a modern pillar of glass dazzling the pedestrian with its reflection. I didn’t notice the people bustling by me as they did their last-minute shopping.
I hadn’t bought any gifts for mother or father.
I wanted that they get the free one I intended to deliver to them directly, whether it chilled their soul or not. I didn’t care about them now: I was too focused on what I had to do next.
I patiently waited and then slid myself into the building behind a young couple. We shared the elevator. They got off on the second floor.
I pressed the “Door Close” button.
And again.
And again.
The door too slowly closed.
So, I relaxed and mused, this is how it ends. My life to this point.
The elevator moved.
My teachers. Mr. Callaghan was a good man. Ms. Shaw was so generous and supportive. Mr. Dunning had always been kind and challenging. There are good people in this world. Me and my wonderful teachers.
The elevator passed the tenth floor.
Rita our dog; I still missed her and forever would. I remembered riding my bike through the parks with her by my side, trotting along, tongue hanging. Me and my dog.
The elevator passed the twentieth floor.
Sam, one of my better friends and her sleepovers. Amanda and Lara and Lisa and Girl Guides. My soccer teammates and our victory over Westdale four years ago. And our volleyball loss last year. Friends all. My friends. Me and my friends.
The elevator passed the thirtieth floor.
Mummy. Daddy. I slipped away to memories of playing chase in the yard with daddy, of baking my first cookie sheet with mummy. Those were good years. Growing up in security and trust: enviable for most, taken for granted by me probably. But that trust...
No, I commanded myself: only good memories of mummy and daddy, only good memories now.
They were human. They had made a mistake.
I was simply going to make them account for it.
The elevator passed the fortieth floor.
-----000-----
A lone child.
A lonely child.
Throughout my life, I had sensed something off, something missing, something incomplete. A ghost of sorts haunted my house. I never saw it. Yet intuitively, I sensed it was there, behind the love, the cheer, the laughter:
Repudiation. Rejection. Renunciation.
That sort of ghost.
-----000-----
I looked at the number by the door: 44-17. That condo would be on the west side, directly across from the city square. And the Santa booth for children, at maximum capacity today, Christmas Eve. I had been at that booth several times --- happily --- when I was younger and much more ignorant of life and my family's dark secret.
44-17.
Seventeen. My age.
I pressed the buzzer.
Instinctively, I quickly smoothed my clothing and my hair.
I heard sounds within approaching the door.
The door opened.
A woman I had never seen before stood there. She looked puzzled. I put on my desperate young girl face and desperately asked if I could use the bathroom. I squeezed my legs together.
The unknown woman warily invited me in and pointed to the (presumably) guest bathroom in the foyer. I dashed in and locked the door. I had seen the large window and balcony and the lesser bright sky; I was indeed on the west side. The balcony door was about twenty feet away. The condo seemed clean, I thought, as I sat: it was a nervous pee.
I briefly smiled at my research abilities. It had taken a few days on Google to find this place. What I had fleetingly seen in this condo --- the color, the shape, the features --- confirmed my confidence. This had to be the right place.
I took a few panels of toilet paper and wiped. I flushed. I washed my hands and stared in the mirror: yes, I can do this. Now I just had to do the right thing, just like mummy and daddy had raised me to do. I returned to the foyer.
The stranger looked at me askance.
I nodded.
Hers was a stylishly decorated condo. Sleek Scandinavian furniture. Beautiful rugs. Intriguing knick-knacks. I was impressed. Mummy would be impressed. Daddy would be too by the impressive artwork and innumerable books.
I started crying.
In the softest of voices, she asked me if I was alright. Again, there are good people in the world, there are. And she to me, a stranger to her, seemed to be one of them.
“A tissue, please, if I might ask.”
She went into the bathroom.
I hurried into the living room. I looked around.
There! Right there! There is where I would stand!
Surprised perhaps by my audacity in her home, she froze by the foyer and held tissue in hand.
“Can I help you, kid? Tell me what’s wrong. I’d really like to help you.” she gently asked as she began to ever so imperceptibly advance toward me.
“Please stop,” I whispered.
She stopped.
I finally stared at her.
She was in her mid-thirties. Her raven hair graced her shoulders. She had enviable bushy eyebrows. A straight nose. Beautiful lips. Her body befitted an enchanting princess. Tall. Elegant. Confident. A beautiful woman.
She exuded a presence I could only wish for.
I glanced at the balcony.
I removed my school bag and placed it on the floor. I unzipped it. In it were the birth certificate, the trove of photos spanning a young lifetime, the medical records, the clinical notes from child psychologists and others, copies of several prescriptions, and...
And our family Bible, the family heirloom Bible my parents had undoubtedly used when, surely torn, they had made their fear-mongered decision years ago. I’ll never go to church ever again. No wedding. No funeral. Never.
I threw it on the carpet between us.
The woman looked at it and, plainly astonished, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.
I knew then that it was time and that it was the right thing to do --- here, with her. I smiled weakly and turned to the low cabinet under the television.
I pointed to a photo, an old photo, a family photo: a child and two loving parents.
“I have many photos just like that one. I was a lone child too.”
I wept. I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I continued:
“You must know that there’s an emptiness growing up alone. It’s even harder being alone and different. I would have died to have had a sibling. Older. Younger. Boy. Girl. It wouldn’t have mattered. Someone with whom I could share games, toys, and secrets. Shared memories. A voice to trust. An ear to confide. A hand to hold.”
My wet eyes stared at the woman, this stranger.
I extended my hand and sobbed uncontrollably.
“I’m Nikki. I’m your younger sister.”
END
THE COCKY SISSY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
Warning: Humour.
Author's Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
THURSDAY AFTER SCHOOL
Rick was fuming. "I'll show them! I'll really show them one day, those nasty meanies! One day. Maybe not tomorrow though..." The tiny, petite, scrawny, frail-looking, 15-year-old wimp stormed into his bedroom and threw his teddy-bear against the wall. He dropped his school bag (the Hello Kitty one) on the floor alongside his lily-coloured jean jacket.
It had been another really tough, long, painful day of bullying at Capital City High School. Biff, Thor, Rex, and the usual others had pushed him into the girls' washroom. The day before it had been the girls' locker room. And the day before that the female staff washroom. And the day before the previous other day before that, they had held him and written "Sissy" on his forehead with the fuscia magic marker he always carried in his fanny pack.
The girls at school were even worse. They were the girlfriends of the various Biffs, Thors, Rexs, etc. Madge and Mabel. Hazel and Mavis. Wanda and Janet. Kate and Cindy. Crystal and Candy. Betty and Brenda. These were the girls, the principal girls, of the high school. And Sara Collins too; she was profoundly stupid and immensely dumb.
Anyway, there was the time the girls bleached his hair. The time they stole all his clothes from his locker during gym class and left a pink shift dress and flats in their place. And no one could forget when they had connived to have him present the human biology lecture on menstruation.
As he took off his mauve blouse and matching denim jeans, he wondered why his classmates always picked on him for not being masculine enough. As he put on his floral-print, long sleeve t-shirt and black capris, he wondered why he was disrespected for his looks. As he sat at his vanity mirror with the glamour lighting strip and brushed his hair, he wondered whether he would ever be accepted by his classmates as the young man that he was.
He tied his long hair into a low ponytail and went to make himself a tea. He thought better with tea. Chamomile tea. From France. He sat on the love chair and petted his mommy's cat, Ms. Pussykins, sipped his tea, and sucked his thumb.
He'd get them back! He'd make them pay! They'd see! They never bother him ever again He became very excited. This is how real men plot revenge and other ne'er-do-well adventures. It was so exciting just thinking about revenge as a concept! He'd show them; he was so clever to have thought about revenge!
After 45 minutes, he had no cunning ideas, and so he put on his fuchsia apron and readied to help his mummy prepare dinner.
FRIDAY AT SCHOOL
Rick was walking down the hallway toward his next class when he suddenly found himself surrounded by Biff and his cronies. Inwardly, he cringed in fear. But, outwardly, well, he cringed in fear there too; he was pathetic.
"Rikki, would you like to be our friend?" Biff ingratiatingly asked.
"Yes, please, Biff," Rick murmured. Behind Rick's back, Biff and his cronies smirked and sneered.
"Okay then. Remember that everyone who has ever joined our esteemed circle of godliness has had to survive a couple of initiation rites. Rikki, you're no different. You have to undergo two initiation rituals. One is by us and the other is delivered by the girls, you know, Wanda and Janet, Betty and Brenda, and so on. Those are the girls, the principal girls, of our high school."
Biff put his hand on Rikki's soft shoulder and steered him toward the boys locker-room. "You probably remember that every one of us here has, at least once, served lunch to the other members of our most distinguished collective in the school cafeteria."
Rikki had no such memory but continued to be guided by Biff's hand.
"Well, Rikki, you are going to keep that tradition alive for us today. You are going to serve us our lunches in the school cafeteria." Biff smiled at Rikki who replied that he had served Biff and his friends many times before, and so it would not be a problem now.
"But," Biff interjected, "you're gonna be the first to do it in a French Maids uniform!" Biff opened Rikki's locker. The cronies had already gained entry to it. Hanging on the hook, next to his Little Pony jacket, was a French Maid costume in a Halloween package. Looped over the package was a pair of bright pink girls' running shoes.
"Stop sniveling, Rikki. You have to prove your manliness to us. It takes a lot of guts to wear an outfit like that. Only the bravest of the brave. You know it takes a real man to wear a dress and a true hero to be a maid. Here's your chance to show us what you can be; are you just a man or can you be a hero? Show the school who you can be. Do it, buddy. Do it for your team; do it for us!"
The falsity, treachery, diabolically evil duplicity of Biff's silvertongued words would have been obvious to any other person in the world except Rikki. The lure of social acceptance blinded him. Plus, he was stupid. Rikki took the shoes and the costume and headed to a bathroom stall.
Biff and his cronies stifled their laughs. Their snickering had to be suffocated when La Petite Rikki emerged. That fucking idiot, they thought: what a fucking loser. And thus lunch unfolded for Rikki. He stood in line for his new friends, got each of them a lunch tray, and waited until they were done eating before taking the trays back. He also wiped down the table before and after lunch. And he got some of them extra drinks, which he paid for himself.
They easily confused his sissy brain, smiling at him or laughing with him as they continually eroded his wretched masculinity with damning faint praise. "You're doing great, dear." That sort of stuff. They complimented him relentlessly, making him associate compliments with his subservient behaviour.
Because he was so stupid and so blindingly fixated, he failed to notice how everyone in the cafeteria was sneering or leering at him. They scoffed as he walked by or as he straightened out his pantyhose. The grade 7 boys pissed themselves laughing when his pink shoelace came undone and he gingerly kept his legs together as he bent to tie it.
As Rikki had been serving lunch, Biff had a chance to talk to Wanda and Janet, two of the girls, the principal girls, of their high school. Wanda and Janet were neighbours. Both of their parents would be gone for the weekend. Only the girls' elder siblings who didn't care ("just don't do anything illegal") would be in charge of them. Party time.
"Make sure he's at my house at 10 a.m.," Wanda said. "We can have a full day of fun turning him into a complete and irrepressible sissy." She and Janet immediately left and gathered the other mean, mean, mean girls to plot and plan. Goals were identified. A budget agreed upon. Orders were issued. Tasks were assigned. Operation Sissify Rikki took shape.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON WITH THE GIRLS
Biff and Thor escorted Rikki to Wanda's house. Rikki was dressed as instructed: a white t-shirt, an old pair of jeans, a pair of white cotton briefs, and an older pair of running shoes. "Rikki, the girls get into some outdoor adventure stuff. So, you're dressed and ready to rough-andtumble with them." Frankly, the girls petrified Rikki; Biff's explanation mollified his fears --- a bit.
Cindy and Candy greeted them at Wanda's front door.
Biff joyously announced Rikki's arrival to the girls. Rex and Thor and the other cronies cheered Biff's speech and jeered Rikki onward into the house. The girls' little paws grabbed at Rikki and drew him in further. The baying of female wolves started growing louder the further he got inside.
Unnoticed, Biff and the boys drew away and left the house. The front door closed behind them, and they walked the few blocks to Big Joe's house. They lounged around and waited for the college football pre-game shows to start. Friends started dropping by. Snacks and pop (for now) started to get consumed.
The first e-message appeared. It was from Hazel: a picture of Rikki getting his hair washed. He was wearing a pink salon cape. The guys started chuckling.
A second e-message appeared. This one was from Jackie-O. It was a picture of Rikki with a processing cap on, getting his hair coloured. The colour looked like ripe avocado. One could also see two of the girls working on Rikki's fingers. The guys were laughing.
Later on, another e-message. Rikki was naked from the waist up. The girls had completed his facial makeup. Rikki looked rather pretty if one thinks that effeminate boys can look pretty. If one doesn't then, Rikki looked like a young sissy. Biff and gang roared.
Another e-message showed the ear piercing. The first one. Another emessage showed the hoop earrings and studs. Then there was henna tattoo on his neck: two brightly coloured butterflies, one on each side of his Adam's apple. Then came a picture of a nipple piercing. Then another.
The last picture before halftime of the 'game of the week' was of Rikki, poor, pathetic, pusillanimous Rikki, naked from the waist up, his hair permed and almost fluorescent green, his eyebrows high, arched, and thin, his eyes lined and tinted, his cheeks bright and pink, his lips fluffy and cherry red, his earrings sparkling in the daylight, his nipple and belly button piercings sparkling too. His white, pale skin reflected the lights. His face did not smile.
In fact, he looked quite sad. What a riot! Biff and the gang rolled on the floor in tears.
The first game ended. The second game began. Someone got out a beer. Then another beer appeared. The teenage boys got into the beer. Soon, there were chips on the floor. The telephone rang; more friends came over. Everyone wanted to know how the girls were doing with Rikki. When they saw the pictures, they laughed; what a fucking loser.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Biff got the first call.
"Hi, sweetie. It's me, Crystal, one of the girls, the principal girls, of our high school. Look, I know we were talking about taking Rikki downtown and showing him off to everyone... Uh... Err... But there's just so much to do to him! So we're staying to... uh... finish our project. We can't just leave Rikki with Wanda; that would be so wasteful. So, I'm sleeping over here at Wanda's tonight with the girls and will catch a raincheck on our date. Love you, little boy." Biff thought he heard her chuckle. She hung up before Biff could say anything. Thor got a similar call from Hazel, Rex from Betty, and so on.
And so it happened that the boys hung out together and watched the Saturday night college game. The Rikki jokes continued unabated. The guys joked about what the girls were up to. Surely they had shaved his legs by now. Was it possible they had already de-pubed him as well? They laughed and snickered and chuckled.
But there were no more pictures or texts from the girls.
Their evening wound down. In small groups, they headed home. Each lonely teenage boy eventually made his own lonely teenage boy way to his own lonely teenage boy bedroom wherein he performed a lonely teenage boy pleasure act before going to lonely teenage boy sleep.
SUNDAY
No one heard anything from the girls on Sunday.
Nothing.
Zero.
But that was okay because Sunday was real football Sunday. Between the non-stop coverage on the football network and the more outlandish pregame, mid-game, and post-game coverage on the other networks, there was much for the guys to watch and talk about.
From a gender perspective, it was completely explicable that the guys did not call their girlfriends during football. Indeed, Biff et al would rather be watching football on Sunday than doing anything else. That included, arguably, hanging out with their girlfriends or, gasp, having sex with them (except during half-time for a quickie)
Biff got ready for bed. It was late, but the Sunday night game had been worth watching in its entirety. Tom Brady, the miraculous 57-year old quarterback for the New England Patriots, executed another fourth quarter game winning drive. Another thrilling game from the ageless wonder.
Even more thrilling, he devilishly thought to himself, would be tomorrow at school: seeing the super-sissy the girls would have turned Rikki into this weekend. Biff couldn't wait.
MONDAY MORNING AT SCHOOL
Biff and his minions huddled around the school's main entrance, waiting for the girls to show up. "Here they come!" Thor cried. The jeering and cheering built up. "Let's see what the sissy looks like!" Rex shouted.
The milling, topsy-turvy swarm of girls slowly approached. It was hard to distinguish who was who. There were so many ponytails. All of them had bright makeup on. The sun glistened off the earrings, all of their earrings. Dresses everywhere; no shorts, no pants, just dresses and shiny, smooth legs. Beautiful dresses flowing in the wind. Legs that men would start wars over. And shoes too. No running shoes here nor any casual boots. Just seductive, enticing strappy high-heeled shoes accentuating polished, perfect toenails.
The boys were mesmerized by the collective beauty. "Where's our little sissy boy?" Biff giggled.
Wanda and Crystal emerged from the swarm and approached Biff. They weren't giggling. They weren't laughing. They weren't even smiling.
"That's not funny," Crystal said seriously. Biff jolted up. "Rikki is our dear, darling friend, and we will not let you mistreat him in any way at all anymore. Rikki, sweetie, please come forward," Crystal turned and beckoned a small figure who was in the middle of the swarm. The small figure approached.
Biff could finally see it was Rikki. Green hair. Ridiculous curls. Overdone makeup. Grotesquely wrong earrings. Tattoos all over her or his neck and arms. A nose ring. CSL to dream of. A frilly satin pink blouse with a pastel blue skirt and white high heeled strappy shoes. Several bangle things that guys just don't understand on his or her wrists. Rings on each finger and most toes. A small tattoo of a unicorn was on Rikki's left ankle.
"Rikki, baby," Biff taunted, "don't you look so manly." He laughed. Thor laughed. Rex laughed. All the other cronies laughed.
"Go ahead and tell them, Rikki," Betty put her arm around his shoulder. Madge and Mavis walked up to stand next to him; they looked disappointedly at the boys.
Biff was thrown off. He was not sure what was going on.
"Thank you for the opportunity you gave me this past weekend," Rikki calmly stated to Biff and all his lackeys. "You tried to humiliate me in the cafeteria on Friday, Biff. You succeeded. You tried to humiliate me during the class trip to the petting zoo last month and you did; I'll never look at sheep the same way ever again. And you tried to humiliate me this weekend when you delivered me to Wanda."
Rikki sniffled. Mavis stroked his arm soothingly. Betty petted his head. Madge nodded her head in encouragement. "Tell him, Rikki. Tell him like we told you to tell him."
Rikki spoke. "You wanted me to get to know your girlfriends so much better. So I did. Biff, Thor, Rex, Byron, Launcelot, Matthew, Edgar, Herbert, Killin' Millen, Horace, and Steve, I deeply appreciate what you gave to me. I had never had sex before. Yet I've lost my virginity to the very best-looking girls, the very best-looking principal girls, in our high school. Your girlfriends. And I thank you for that," Rikki humbly mumbled and withdrew back into the swarm. And he disappeared into it.
Thor laughed. "Did my Hazel do you with a strap-on?" The cronies pissed their pants laughing at Rikki and the image racing through their minds.
Hazel had had enough of this. She knew a good thing when she felt one. "No, Thor, I did not do him with a strap-on. Honestly, I lay on my back, spread my legs wide, and begged him to fuck me hard, to fuck me like a real man would fuck me. And he did." Pause. "And it was so fucking good." Her voice carried conviction.
Hazel slowly moved toward Thor. "That little sissy, as you have called him for years, has got a ten inch cock that is thick, juicy, and indefatigable."
"What does that mean?" Thor asked with despair.
"Indefatigable?" Hazel stared at him with scorn. "It means it doesn't fail on him, that he can keep it up longer that you can, that he can hit me in pleasure spots that I didn't even know I had. And these truths, these facts were gloriously demonstrated to me time after time this past weekend." She hissed at him: "I've never had so much cum in my life and I loved it! And he gave it to me, you didn't!"
Madge seconded Hazel's opinion. Jackie-O agreed. Kate and Brenda each joined in: "Five times," per Brenda and "Seven," said Kate. "That's how it was," Judy said. "A broadening experience," Joan added. "You little boys are so dickless," said Zelda derisively.
Lancelot started to cry. Matthew bent down to the ground and started to tie his shoelaces repeatedly. Herbert shoved his hands in his pocket and kicked the floor.
"Babe?" Biff pleadingly asked Crystal. She didn't answer him. She stared at her toenails, all bright and colourful.
She looked up at him, began to patiently explain a new life to Biff, and gazed languorously toward the sky. "Rikki is not to be touched. Ever. Our perfect little sissy will always dress up like a sissy, will always hang around us so we can remind him that he is a sissy, and will always do what we want him to do. He is harmless to you but gives me, us girls, so much pleasure. None of you need to know any more about our relations with Rikki." Her eyes had a distant look, as though she was remembering something joyous, rapture-filled, and incredibly wonderful.
She shook her head out her daze and glared at Biff. "If you ever want to put your little spiffy-biffy in me again, then you will go along with this. We girls get Rikki. And all of you? You can ask us --- I mean 'beg us' --- for a good fuck. Or a BJ, Or a quick hand-job, assuming you haven't bored us. If we feel indulgent, then we might let you cum."
She paused. "On our command."
She sneered. "Like a good little sissy would."
She looked at her boyfriend's crotch and snorted. "Little Biffy."
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
THE KICKER
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental (or light-heartedly complimentary insofar as they may be public figures).
RT
LATE FEBRUARY
"I'm sorry to break it to you that way, Nick, but that's what the national high school sports association and the state education board have decided. There's no going back." Coach sighed and dropped the papers on his desk.
I gasped. This is so unfair, I thought.
I've been kicking since I was six years old. Some soccer, sure, but mostly football. Punt/Pass/Kick. Flag football. Junior Varsity. Varsity. Next year is my senior year. I had dreams of a university sports scholarship at Alabama, Clemson, or Ohio State. I dreamt of being Sebastien Janikowski, Adam Vinatieri, and Morton Andersen, nailing the winning kick in the final seconds of the Super Bowl.
My kicking record was a state record: 100% on points after, 100% on field goals inside the 30 and 98% outside, and 100% touchbacks (pretty incredible in high school) on kick-offs. And I could consistently punt to pin the opponent inside their 10, even from our side of the 50.
"Coach, I'm stunned. How? Why?"
"Blame YouTube or Carli Lloyd, whatever. That internet phenomenon of girls kicking for high school teams got more exposure after Lloyd's 55- yarder. And then Sarah Fuller at Vanderbilt kicked open the doors in the SEC and the minds in the NFL.
"The NFL isn't stupid. Throw on top of all that the increasing number of female position coaches, strength coaches, coordinators, assistant managers, college scouts, team directors, publicity heads, marketing executives, corporate vice-presidents, and more. And there's the fans: 47% of all NFL fans are women. Merchandise. Money.
"The NFL owners' meeting before the Super Bowl the other week? That new 4F option for PATs? The Female Four-point Free kick from the Forty-four? Only Female kickers. And the dedicated, additional roster spot for one female kicker. The game's changing. The NFL follows the money.
"Across the country, mothers at PTA meetings --- and a lot of dads too -- - have been demanding more opportunities for their daughters to play high school football with the boys. Play like a girl!" Coach wrung his hands together and looked sympathetically at me.
"It comes into effect for next season. Your senior year, I know. Sorry, Nick, but if you want to play varsity next year, then you must either change position and become, say, a wide receiver, or change sex and become a girl. All kickers will be girls."
I stared at him aghast. He shook his head at me apologetically.
"Every school is having the same conversation right now with their current kickers. I got off the phone with Coach Bullnose over at Whispering Pines High. He says his kickers quit. I need your decision within a week. Be back here next Friday after last class."
His words slew me. My hopes, my dreams, my future: all gone because of some girly bureaucratic and viral-video nonsense. I got up to walk out.
"Don't forget your playbook when you come," he said to me sadly as I left.
-----000-----
"We need to talk," I said to my parents. Dinner had just finished. I explained everything. Dad and my stepmom listened patiently. "Any ideas?" I asked.
Dad looked at me caringly: "Sorry. Nick. You and I both know that you won't crack the team as a wideout, let alone a corner. You're too skinny and frail." True; he was honest.
"It's worse than that, son," my dad continued, "in this economy, sales are down at the office. No one is getting a pay raise. We're lucky there aren't layoffs. We have to replace both cars next year. And your sister needs that facelift to repair the scars from the squirrel attack. And your mom here still can't work. No scholarship, no university or college."
Dad sniffled, maybe he too was seeing the darkening skies of my future. "Ted might be hiring down at the garbage dump after next year. He remembers how you helped him out with that black bear problem last summer." I knew dad's encouraging words were little consolation. His glance told me he knew they were too.
"Don't get too discouraged," he said discouragingly.
I looked at my stepmom. Beautiful, blonde, fit, slender, majestic: she sat elegantly on the plush dining room chair. She flicked her fingers through her mane and examined her one-inch long nails. The cherry red colour accented her lipstick.
She had always treated me kindly, unlike so many stepmothers in so many fiction stories, like 'Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre' by Charles Perrault, 'Paulette' by Cheryl Lynn, or "The Finishing School' by Eric what's-his-name.
She lit a thin menthol cigarette and lifted her head toward the ceiling.
"You could just keep kicking." Languorously, she blew me a teasing kiss: "Nikki."
-----000-----
"Nick, it's great that you're considering it," my girlfriend Debbie gushed, smiling.
I admit to having been taken aback by her eager reaction when I floated the possibility of perchance just maybe 'switching teams' so I could keep kicking for my team. I thought she'd hit me and run me over with her dad's Combine Harvester. I was astonished that she was bubbling with enthusiasm.
There were so many reasons to explain my love for her. She was pretty, she was smart, and she was pretty smart. She got straight A marks. She was the leading midfielder on the girls' varsity soccer team; Mr. Ellis our math teacher was her coach. She did some modeling for a few boutiques in town. She led charity drives and fundraisers. Everyone loved her.
And for some strange reason that I never knew but had decided long ago to not worry about, she had picked me. I once thought it might be because I was on the football team: Terribly cliché: stunning girl dates football player. But she kept dating me even after she learnt I was just the kicker. I knew then it was true love.
"I'll help you!" she shouted joyfully.
-----000-----
"I've made a decision, coach." I sat across from him at his desk. He looked despondent.
"Okay, Nick. Nobody is going to blame you, especially not me. Just leave your playbook on the desk."
"I'm keeping the book, coach! It's Nikki from now on! I am going to become a girl! I will be the kicker next season again! Nobody and nothing are going to stand in my way!"
He suddenly grabbed the edge of his desk with his hands. "Really?" he asked. I nodded. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed gratefully. He looked like he wanted to cry tears of joy. Victory snatched from the jaws of, well, something.
"If you're serious, then you've got my complete support! Anything you need, we can pay for from the football budget! New chest pads for your tits, sorry, I mean breasts, new hip pads, pink towels, rainbow-coloured cleats, proper makeup instead of that cheap made-in-China eye black, a new helmet for long hair: anything! Anything! Anything!" He cheered the heavens.
"Nick, sorry. Nikki! I'm behind you all the way!"
EARLY MARCH
My stepmom helped out right away. She didn't do the evil stepmother thing like they do in bad novels and in third-rate dog-vomit on-line TG fiction. No, she was a much better person than that.
She took me shopping for new clothing; we ambled around trying on shoes; she and I danced down the aisles of Walmart to Muzak. I started a solid accumulation of what she called 'the basics', and it steadily grew.
Even Debbie was impressed: "A corset!" Her exclamation betrayed her suppressed envy.
-----000-----
News spread quickly throughout the school.
My teammates patted me on the back and thanked me. They could now concentrate on their playbooks and textbooks without fear of a horrific record next season; their prospective football scholarships would not be imperiled.
The cheerleaders jumped and cheered in the cafeteria at lunchtime, "Gimme an N! Gimme an I!. Gimme a..." Well, you surely get it; "NIKKI!" They did cartwheels to celebrate the salvaging of the next football season.
Normally, because ours is a largely innocuous skill position, few people know the name of their football team's kicker (e.g. who knows the name 'Scott Norwood'?). But everyone was happy to see me and congratulate me. I had already saved the school's football program without having even started the next season.
Many of the junior students looked at me in awe. Lots of girls started coming up to me to offer dressing, makeup, and dating tips. Debbie found many of the latter to be quite amusing. Some of the boys started leaving encouraging notes on my desk. I even received several belated, anonymous Valentine's cards.
I have to admit, however, that some of the boys in the lower grades chuckled at me behind my back. Twerps.
-----000-----
Nurse Wretched gave me a sneer as she pulled my skinny jeans with floral embroidery down.
"Oh my! Those pink panties are so you," she said just to distract me from the four extremely large needles she shoved in my buttocks.
"My stepmom picked them out for me when she got this other stuff," I said.
"I'm sure she did. How darling of her. I'll be sure to talk about them with her when she comes around to consent to your next set of shots and procedures," she replied. "Halter-top up, please." The next two syringes were even bigger than the first four! I asked what the additional shots were for.
"Just like last week! They will ensure that your new Zena shoulder pads will fit you properly." She smirked as she squeezed the contents into my nipples. They grew itchy and sore quickly.
"Now! Get going to home economics class, young lady!" she laughed as she pushed me out the door. That didn't sound right. I hadn't been enrolled in that class a week ago...
EARLY APRIL
The morning sun caught my locks as they fluttered in the wind. I decided to forego the ponytail today, despite my stepmom's urgings. I so much appreciated her advice and counsel as I progressed deeper into my 'retention of my kicking position' program.
I didn't want to call it 'transition'; that term is just for pansies and poofdahs, and I was hardly one; I was a kicker!
My stepmom and I got along so well now. Just last weekend, we got waxed together! My legs looked great with my capris and closed toe Espadrille wedge sandals in a wonderful natural tan linen. Honestly, the waxing also accentuated my thong where it had to be accentuated. "Better tan lines come summer when you're outside practicing your kicking!" she gleefully said. My tank top already helped in that regard.
The yoga classes we attended together were really helping my stretching. No more pulled hamstrings for me next season!
-----000-----
The team's off-season weightlifting program was well underway. Nurse Wretched advised me to participate in it.
"It will help you recover from your operation," she said.
"What operation?" I asked.
She smiled that snarky smirky smile that masked her sneer. "The operation that the school has raised money for. The operation that will help you become the kicker you deserve to be!"
"There's a 'GoFundMe' page in my name? For this?" I was astonished. I knew that the football program had a limited budget and that whatever money went into me took away from the team. But I was flattered too.
"Actually," she said mockingly, "there's another one as well. Most of the ninth graders call it a 'ComeFuckMe' page. There are rumours that you're only doing this to get in bed with some of the football players."
"I am a football player! Students already want to get into bed with me!" I cried.
"I know that you're a kicker, sweetie. Everyone knows that you're the kicker. And yes, there are some students who definitely want to get in bed with a kicker like you! Now, let's get back to your Kegel exercises."
-----000-----
I learned hardly any details about this forthcoming operation except the following: a) the GoFundMe page had raised $5,438.07; b) the ComeFuckMe page had raised over $2 million; and c) the operation would be performed by a Doctor Ruth White assisted by a Doctor Justine Van Damme.
Holding my knees up by my chest, I rocked myself back-and-forth as I contemplated the foregoing. My Chamomile tea tasted enchantingly delightful.
Plainly, the eighth graders had pranked the money-raising efforts. Debbie whispered to me that someone had apparently thought it funny to have the ComeFuckMe page linked to an Middle Eastern online auction for my virginity. Coach said he saw a big donation to it from the Joe Watson Memorial Fund, whatever that was. The main thing was that the school had money.
As for the doctors, given that both were women and that I needed to be a woman for the playing season, I presumed they knew what they were doing. I hastily signed the various consent forms that my stepmom placed before me. "It's just a little nip and tuck, here and there," she wryly said as she braided my hair.
EARLY JULY
I got back from the Institute in early July. I felt fantastic! The operation was a complete success; I could now be a kicker just as I had always wanted to be.
My school had granted me passing grades in every subject based upon my pre-operation marks, which were mostly As and Bs. Dad had redecorated my room, giving it that manly Chargers powder-puff-blue colour and putting up lots of posters of the Women's Football Alliance, the US Women's Football League, and the two female NFL refs, Sarah Thomas and Maia Chaka.
I had missed my family and my home, my friends and my life. But now, retooled for my 'retention program', my morale soared. I phoned my Coach; he told me to come down to the practice fields anytime and start kicking again. Rather than say good-bye, he ended our call with, "Fucking awesome!" This encouraged me.
-----000-----
I called Debbie. She came by. "You look fantastic!" she squealed. "I love your hair. And, oh my, that's permanent makeup! I have so begged my dad to let me get that."
I flicked my locks back and lifted my chin enticingly. "That's not all that's new," I teased my girlfriend and tilted my head toward my redecorated bedroom.
Once there, I dropped my robe and stood before her in my VS lingerie, one leg crooked, one heel raised, one mouth sultry, panting.
"Oh my god!" she said when she walked in. "Coach let you keep the playbook!" She raced past me to the playbook. I was surprised but, whatever. I put a peignoir on and sat on the bed. I watched her eyes dance across the pages. Cover 2 Man Over. Hashbrown 53 X-Jig Y-Zag Right. Mike Strong Blast Left 55 Eagle Monkey. Her wide eyes seemed to be soaking it all in.
"Coach only had an older one left," she muttered to herself. I barely heard her.
"Wanna play?" I coyly asked, discarding my peignoir, undoing my garter, playing with my belly button piercing. I didn't want her to see my new labia rings and butterfly too soon.
Her head swivelled. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth tightened.
"You've got the latest Madden?" she asked me breathlessly.
-----000-----
By mid-month, I had recovered sufficiently to start kicking again. My magnificent and gorgeous stepmom --- often with her swept-back hair, dazzling drop earrings, wearing a gown from Alexandre Vauthier, with a plunging neckline, a gathered ruched front, embellished in golden crystals, and designer shoulder pads --- accompanied me everyday to the field and watched me kick.
It felt good to feel the swing again. Nothing hits home like an approach from the just-right angle and a nestled kick with the top side of the foot. I could plant better than before. My follow-through went super high! My legs swung more easily; there was less in the way of the swing, I sighed philosophically, but happily.
Stepmom and I worked religiously for days at recovering my kicking form. We attracted a small, loyal following of boys from grades seven to eleven from local schools. Once or twice, she would helpfully bend over and pick up balls. I would kick away. Once or twice, she would fetch them. I would kick away.
Because it took some time for her to walk the field in her heels, she suggested to me that, since we had a loyal fan club, we could ask them to help me recover my balls. She sniggered when she said it, but I had greater confidence in those boys than she must have had. They eagerly helped.
LATE AUGUST
The preseason workouts started in early August. Debbie and I walked to the field together. I practiced. She watched me. So did the rest of the team. And Coach too.
It was hot. Typically, I wore a Nike rainbow-coloured sports bra and some lightweight knit, wicking, anti-pill and anti-pick shorts with a flattering silhouette from Under Armor. I rubbed my forearm against my forehead to wipe my glistening away. I poured cool water over my head and shook it.
It took me three weeks to kick accurately once again. There was something strange and disconcerting about my distance. However, I put it down to the final finishing days of my recovery. I was confident that my strength would return in full. I occasionally saw Coach lower and shake his head; he was plainly as disappointed as I was in the poor turf quality under the hot summer sun.
Often, after practice, Debbie and I would play together. Small little competitions. Fun. Games. Tiny bets: e.g. 'longest kickoff wins', 'most field goals in two minutes wins', stuff like that. Coach certainly appreciated my commitment and dedication; he too often stayed after practice to watch me kick. Debbie laughed about it.
We often strolled back home hand-in-hand, basking in the sun together.
If only I had seen the setting of the sun...
-----000-----
One day, Debbie didn't show up to go to practice with me. Strange.
I got to the field and saw that she was already there, kicking, wearing a mesh practice jersey. All fun and games, I thought to myself. She took off her helmet.
She was bald!!!
A fucking rookie hazing buzzcut!!!
She had made the team!!!
Then Coach came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Nikki, I've got to talk to you. My office. Five minutes." He started walking away. "Oh," he added, "bring your playbook."
I was stunned. He cut me! He calmly explained to me that Debbie had begun by just playing with some spare kicking balls but had graduated to in-pad practices. She was a better punter than I now was and a stronger field goal kicker. We were fairly even in respect of onside kicks, but in most other respects she was superior.
"Thanks for coming out," he grimly said as he grabbed my beloved playbook from my hands.
"Look," he said in consolation, "if she gets injured, then we'll give you a tryout."
-----000-----
I arrived home to my stepmom sitting on an Adirondack chair on our front porch. She was sipping a drink of some kind.
"Your father's still at the office. Sit," she patted the seat of the chair next to her.
"Well, young lady, it seems like there's yet another young girl in this country who tried to play football but wasn't good enough for the team. How does it feel to really, truly be one of us now?" She passed me a drink: 4 ounces of Scotch. I chugged it.
"Is it always this hard to play like a girl?" I needed her wisdom.
"Sweetie, it isn't. Playing like a girl is easy! It's fun!" She sipped her sangria.
"What's hard," she said grimly, as though she was remembering some painful incident in her past, "are the moments when we girls try to play like a boy. Like trying out for a hockey team as a goalie." She stared off into the distance.
"Being told that, despite having the best skills, a better goals-againstaverage than the boy goalies, the team wouldn't touch you unless you wanted to become a water-girl." She winced and chugged the remainder of her drink.
"Be happy for Debbie; she can do it! That means she's really incredible! Admirable! Enviable! Support her! Cheer her on!"
She stared at her glass, glanced at me, and said, "Now, please be a good girl and fill up my glass, sweetie. Thanks."
EARLY SEPTEMBER
I was still in a funk on the first day of school.
Coach avoided me in the hallways. He was behind me, alright, just like he said he would be; except he was running the other way. Coward. He even darted into the girls' washroom once. You would have thought that the girls would have shrieked. They didn't. They sympathized with him. I later heard they all shared a couple of joints while waiting for me to go away.
My ex-teammates refused to socialize with me anymore. "We don't need pretend football players as groupies. You didn't even make the practice squad," they said. Their repudiation stung. They forced me to turn in my leather team jacket. My colours: gone. I had worn them with pride for years. That too was gone; my pride: gone.
If I had magical powers, then I would have transformed all the boys who now snickered at me behind my back into Little Ponies, Little Mermaids, and castrated unicorns. Those fucking little pricks; I hope they all end up working at Burger King when they graduate.
And Debbie who had taken my spot on my football team? Rumour had it that Florida State was already scouting her: fuck my life. And she had dumped me for that cute little lesbian in Grade 10, Fiona, Fido, or something 'F'. Bitch. Things couldn't get worse on the dating front, I thought.
I was wrong. The Goths and Emos started pestering me. "Snuggle and chat," they said. They creeped me out. I'd probably end up a Wiccan sacrifice or something. I avoided them. Then the computer club nerds started shadowing me; I shooed them away with a flash of my tits. I thought that would scare the masturbating incels away and it did.
Worst was the cretin Biff from English lit class: "I want you to want me because you know how my junk works." Gross: how do girls put up with that? Stepmom had warned of such behaviour but added, "Every crisis is an opportunity," and had rubbed her thumbs and forefingers together in a money sign when she had said it. I toyed with him into buying me three lunches in exchange for one peck on the cheek and a kinda-maybe-perhapsprobably -not-though promise to have a dance with him: what a stupid sucker he was.
Anyway, I held my books up by my B-cup chest and walked to calculus. It was a course that I was dreading and thought that I would not miss after graduation. Thinking about it some more, I realized that I would miss it. This would be my final school year.
No more college dreams. No more university dreams. No more dreams of being a brilliant scientist who discovers the cure for cancer. No more dreams.
Perhaps, then, calculus was my last chance to enjoy school before the drudgery of life eroded my soul, corroded my spirit, and crushed me into a pitiful, pathetic remnant of, well, something.
-----000-----
The calculus teacher, Mr. Ellis, took me aside just before class started. "How are you?" he asked kindly.
"Good enough. Thanks for asking," I answered emotionlessly and headed into class.
"Nikki," he said gently, "I know you're bummed about Debbie taking your spot on the football team. I get it. But that's done and over with. No more 4-down football for you." He waved his hands sincerely. I sniffled, nodded, and turned to sit at my desk. I wanted to cry.
"Nikki!"
His shout caught my ear and those of all my peers, fair weather bastards and bitches as they were. I turned back to face him.
Everyone looked at the two of us.
"I don't have a midfielder now for my girls Varsity soccer team. And scouts from Dartmouth and Stanford are coming this weekend. They offer scholarships. Can you kick for me Saturday?"
Everyone gasped.
I smiled, nodded, and started dreaming of Julie Ertz, Amandine Henry, Dzsenifer Marozsán, and my kicking the winning goal in the next World Cup.
I would proudly play like a girl after all.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
THE LOSER AND THE WINNER
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
Warning: Horror.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
PART ONE -- THE LOSER
1A -- MONTH ONE -- REALIZE
The sex was bad. I knew it was me. I had not been into it. My vagina had remained dry. My nipples had remained flat. My heart had remained unresponsive. My young stud hadn't turned me on. Again. Same as the previous buck. And the bull before that too.
To be fair, Craig had tried so hard. He gave me his best shots. Deft French kisses. Targeted caresses. Skilled cunnilingus. Expert teasing with his broadsword followed by a series of honed, playful thrusts. His moves would have turned any normal hormone-ridden woman mad with desire.
But I was 55, increasingly wrinkly, increasingly heavyset, increasingly finicky, and --- above all --- increasingly disinterested in sex. Menopausal women often are not interested. That I had sustained my urges and desires for more almost 7 years after years of my peri-menopausal punishment had been astounding. Even my doctor told me this blissful time would not last forever.
And tonight, it plainly, blandly ended. Craig had been a fun, enthusiastic lover. But I didn't feel anything for him or from him anymore. He had always been kind and considerate. His dash of boyishly immature tomfoolery had amused me endlessly for many months. Had it been passion or lust? Either way, it had not been love and, whatever it had been, was gone.
There was now something about this 43-year old virile man who had screwed me relentlessly at my bidding for more than a year that I found utterly unattractive. In a phrase, I knew I did not love him, he did not love me, and I wanted love. I knew that I was now officially growing old. I wanted someone to have and hold as I grew old.
Lots of weird thoughts go through your head when you tangibly consider your mortality. Who is going to bury you? Who is going to clean out your filthy, old-person dirty apartment or house? In the months leading up to your death, who will change your diapers, spoon feed you baby food, and wash your frequently dirties linens? Who will you talk to, day after day, when your ankles, knees, and hips are so gone that you cannot walk to the end of the garden and back? And who will still smile at you as they assist you in your everyday aching moments as old age catches and humbles you?
Who?
A loving husband, of course.
1B -- MONTH TWO -- RECOLLECT
It had been 15 years since I had last seen Gary, my husband.
Gary and I fell in love and married in our mid-20s. We were vibrant, energetic, and adventurous. We had some money. We travelled together. We worked together. We relaxed together. By any normal measure, we had it made: money, jobs, good stuff, good times. It would never end.
Well, until our mid-30s or so.
For me, it began to end as he spent more and more time in front of his computer. He often telecommuted; I never thought he was looking at porn or chatting up internet babes. He always seemed to be working quite hard at his work. But time in front of the computer meant less time in front of me. Coupled to his relatively pathetic salary (compared to mine), I very much resented that he was not paying me enough attention.
It's a slippery slope. Eventually, I resented him. Yes, that's by my midthirties, I think. Anyway, once I realized that, then it began.
Because Gary had stopped flirting with me; I started flirting with other men. I suppose I gave off some signals to other men. Regardless, in response, someone else gave me a bit of attention, a simple, kind gift, an 'aren't we naughty!' wink. I loved the game! And it so easily accelerates.
If you say you are available (married or not), then a good thing becomes easier to find, or it's easier for a good thing to find you. And I found one cautiously, then two easily, and then the third time after that was a charm. There were so many more times. Deep sigh.
And Gary became inconvenient. How do I explain my time away? How many late night, last minute jobs could I feign? It became bothersome to answer his questions; how dare he ask where I was on a weeknight at 11 p.m. His petty jealousy (so adorable when we were younger) became an irritant. His speeches infringed upon my new lifestyle; his fault. The lies, the deceit: they exhausted me, as did his flagrant skepticism when I spewed them. There came a point at which I decided that he had to be moved out of the way because of things he had done or was doing to hinder me.
I was probably in my late 30s then. Yes, 37. Starting at 37, I began his exile. I caused him to be fired from his job; with my income, we didn't need his paltry salary. And little strikes at a man's masculinity as harshly as being both unemployed and out-salaried by his wife.
Birth control pills first (he didn't have to know). An assigned household cleaning list second (a controlling exercise plain and simple). Then a bra (because he was 'found' holding one too close to his chest) with panties in aid. Then a skirt (to make his cleaning work easier). The inevitable hypnosis and deeper programming ("soothing music to lull you to sleep"). Soon after, the usual testosterone blockers and estrogen ("vitamins for your prostate").
When did I fully commit to this path? In retrospect, it wasn't the first time I saw him in panties. Or the first time in panties and a bra. I may still have had some playful doubts then. Rather, it likely was the first time I made him wear an actual dress. A normal man might perhaps possibly wear a campy one on Halloween. But no real man, no normal man, wears an ACTUAL dress. I could never undo that image. Yes, that's when he ceased to be a real man in my eyes. He said 'yes' to the dress. Once he saw himself in the mirror, his face visibly dropped. Mine lifted.
I increased our pace. I stopped calling him 'Gary'. "Sissy," I would call. "Girly-boi," I would ask. "It," I would reference him in front of him to others. And so on. I made him refer to himself in the third person; "Your sissy begs for an enema, Mistress." Fuck, that was funny. What was that other name? The constant name-calling objectified him and distanced him from his Gary ego. It also reinforced our different status and helpfully distanced me from the man I had once married and loved.
I was relentless.
The humiliations mounted: answering the door in women's clothing, tampons in the ass, eating dog food (wet then later dry), sleeping on a cot by the furnace in the basement. Cuckholding of course. Pegging. I also took great pleasure in compelling him to watch the video I had made and edited of his: 1) putting his own tiny chastity cage on his puny penis; 2) begging me to take the only key to it; and 3) giving me the key.
It's a predictable pattern, an obvious, downward spiral to an obvious, inevitable doom. Any reader of transgender fiction knows it far too well. I've been a successful businesswoman. I know a thing or two about spirals and patterns and gloom, I meant doom. Where was I?
Oh yes, by the time I was 40 years old, he was broken. For example, he no longer reacted to the video. His male ego was destroyed, his masculinity eradicated, and his entire sense of purpose in life had been re-oriented to serve me. I had long ceased around that time to even consider him to be my husband. He was a thing, a maid, a servant. An object. "It." Even his face was a picture of bland, boring, utter disinterest. Aside from issuing him a few succinct orders each day, I never talked to him anymore.
I could not divorce him; the legalities and economics would have disrupted my comfort. But our joint investments and savings plus my salary could permit me to enjoy the pleasure-filled life I had increasingly wanted.
Be assured that I never considered having him put down or thrown into a brothel in some god-forsaken place; that would just have been morally wrong. However, he had to go in order for me to live. I did some research, talked to some close friends who 'had connections', and soon enough I had found Shrublands Long-term Adult Care Facility.
They offered a variety of affordable plans that would suit my needs. I declined complete feminization because I never intended for Gary to be set feral in everyday society. I also declined intensive babyfication because the diaper stuff was simply too gross and laborious. I had to decline strict sissification because sissies have little if any redeeming social value.
You surely would agree that these fates would be too cruel, especially for an intelligent husband, who was continually befuddled without his knowledge or consent by various hallucinogenic drugs given to him by his adulterous and dominating wife and who, in that drug-crippled oblivion, was being sent into another oblivion, to wit, a mental institution.
Back then, I did have some nice thoughts of Gary in his pretty maid uniforms. I contracted with Shrublands to confine Gary in a working patient position. To significantly reduce my annual costs of his care, he would be an in-house maid for all the crazy people there. I also instructed the staff on certain aspects of his daily routine that I insisted they maintain for as long as he was there and on some other standards I expected to be achieved through the years.
I wondered what Gary would be like now. Wrong name: Jerri. I had renamed him, or her, Jerri. How could I have forgotten that? What else had I forgotten?
1C -- MONTH THREE -- RETURN
Anyway, I arranged with Shrublands the return of my maid. Not having seen her, rather, him, in 15 years, my plan had some risk. So, her return was conditional. Shrublands and I had to negotiate a contract and that took some time.
I insisted and Shrublands relented to an inspection-on-delivery. The moment they were in my home, I began to put Jerri through the 3 tests starting in my front hallway.
"Strip": all her clothes came off. I admit being shocked. The memory of a happy honeymoon couple --- decades ago, basking on a beach, dining at a resort, bonding in a bed, making love with my strong man's thick, long cock exquisitely satiating my soft, moist sex --- flashed through my mind. In contrast was the immediate sight, the jarring reality, of a tiny, puny detritus of the residue of the leftovers of the remains of it-might-haveonce -been a penis, dangling below a greying landing strip. That maid's penis could never have been my groom's cock.
At least the two butterfly tattoos on either side of the pubes had aged well; their colours were still so vibrant! I remember that party so well. It's amazing how creative a tattoo artist can be if you offer them lots of money. "Spin," and she did. Wow! I was so happy; the geisha girl tattoo that covered Jerri's back had survived the years just as well as had the butterflies. And the little red bows on the back of her upper thighs were there too.
"On your spot and stay," I said for the second test, indicating no spot at all. I wanted to see if Jerri would go to her precise spot. It was the one and only spot, the single spot on the ceramic floor to which I had long ago pointed daily and ordered Jerri daily to stand or kneel, head down, hands crossed and held at the breastbone level, and to await my return from work daily. If you looked closely, you could see the slightly differently shaded tile that the Italian contractor had laid decades ago.
Would Jerri find it after all these years?
She instantly found the groveling spot! I was so excited. My loving husband still remembered his place. I led the Shrublands delivery staff (two, strong, young women, actually) into the kitchen and offered them tea. We discussed current events and made small talk. We laughed at the stupidity of men. After 45 minutes, we returned to the hallway; Jerri had not moved.
These was one more essential test for Jerri to pass. The Shrublands staff turned away; I had alerted them what I would do. I lifted my skirt, pulled my panties to the side, and ordered Jerri to attend me. She instantly, slavishly kissed my mound. I was truly happy. I signed the papers and the Shrublands staff left.
I ordered Jerri to get dressed and to meet me in the adjoining living room in 5 minutes. I sat and waited. She came and stood in front of me. I looked her over and this is what I saw:
A middle-aged woman with a thin frame and thin features --- except those D-sized breasts. They had been my rash enthusiasm almost 20 years ago. I couldn't believe that they still retained their shape. His back must have suffered all these years. And she now weighed no more than maybe 110 pounds! The pink maid uniform matched the skin tone hose and white, hotel maid shoes. Her hair was drawn back into a ghetto-facelift ponytail. Her hair was brownish, dusted grey. His skin was youthful. Very few wrinkles for a 55-year old maid.
I felt old and very fat next to her; 'corpulent' Dickens would have written. Hack writer.
But it was her face that drew my attention. It evoked the face of Gabriella, Gary's pretty younger sister. I attended her funeral three years ago: cervical cancer. Yet that otherwise apt facial analogy failed at the eyes. Like Gabriella, Gary too had always had such bright, cheerful eyes. They had sparkled and filled me with joy. Jerri's had no brightness, no sparkle, no cheer. They were dull.
Well, at least he knows his spot.
"Follow me," and I proceeded to give her a tour of my home. I had lived there since I had married. It had been our home at one point. But that point was long gone, no matter what the title deed still said. I was well past that point too; every room had at some time during the past 15 years been redecorated to my tastes and satisfaction.
I commented as we toured. A kitchen and "I have several expectations for your work here". A dining room and "this you may recall is where you stand when waiting". Vestibule and foyer. Guest washroom. An entertaining lounge; well, it had been a family room when Gary was here, but I had it converted into a dimly lit den of lust for when I did not wish any of my lovers to see the second floor. You know, anticipation for the next time, keep them wanting more, rah-rah! Oh, those were glorious days! Maybe I'll repurpose it for my scrapbooks.
Anyway, closets and cupboards here and there: "the mops are in this one, remember?". The pantry. And so on. I occasionally glanced at Jerri who did not seem at all moved by her former residence nor its changes. It was time to go to the second floor.
I was wondering whether she would react at all to any of the rooms in the house but particularly two of them. The first was now my luggage room. When I first moved into the house, it had been one of the two walk-in closets off the master bedroom. It later became Gary's punishment room. And once he was out of the way, a luggage room it became.
The second room was formerly a small bedroom/nook for Jerri. These days, I stored old clothing, souvenirs from trips, old records, various handbags, and the such in it. I had to re-adjust the window and furnace and aircon registers before those things could go in. You see, when Jerri slept in that room, I ensured that, in the winter, the windows were locked open just an inch, and the registers were locked off. The reverse in summer. Either way, Jerri loses weight through shivering or sweating. What a subtle metabolic way to stay trim.
But she didn't react at all to her former bedroom. It might be explained it looked so different, given that I had it completely fumigated and renovated once I shooed Jerri off to the looney bin. Nor did he react to his old, personal torture chamber.
Surprising me, she stood at the foot of the king-sized bed and looked at it. The bed that Gary and I had shared, the one on which I had gleefully flown the Red Dragon into him, the one in which I cuckholded him, Jerri's first stop on every cleaning day, that old bed was long gone. Yes, the beds were in the same spot, that's all, just the same spot.
Enough of this sentimental crap. I had waited more than the few seconds the wimp's 'welcome home' party merited.
"Jerri, dinner, 6 p.m., one setting, Bach, white, fish (surprise me) and cold salad, and a warm dessert." I watched her scamper off downstairs and head toward the kitchen. That was so sweet of her; to think of preparing my dinner before even asking the conditions of her stay here. Craig would not do that. No real man would do that. But my loving maid would. And that's why I wanted her here for me now in my wrong-side of 55 old age.
Dinner was fine. You know, pretty good in a sort of everyday way. She'll get better with practice, I reassured myself. It was nice, though, not to have to clean up. For the remainder of the evening, she massaged my feet as I sipped a sherry and read the latest Harlequin Romance. Yes, they're still in business.
Then it was showtime, the moment for which I had finally felt compelled to withdraw Jerri from that depressing institution.
"Jerri, master bedroom, two occupants, overnight, bacon and eggs at 8 a.m. and orange juice too." And off she scampered, up the stairs, and toward the master bedroom. Devotion: she immediately prepared the room for me so that her cleaning up dinner would not inconvenience me needlessly. There's a nobility in her devotion.
I got ready for bed and lay in it. Once I thought the cleanup noise had sufficiently abated, I called for Jerri who confirmed that the house was clean and secure.
"Jerri, go shower in the master bedroom bathroom right now." And off she went.
"Jerri, put on the lace teddy that's on the table." And on she put it.
"Jerri, get into bed." And in she came.
"Jerri, satisfy me." And me she licked.
"Jerri, that's fantaaaaaastic!" And thus I came.
"Jerri, stay here tonight." And here she stayed.
It had been a few months since my last tonguing. It felt really good, endearing actually. Her again, after so long. Life's funny. I felt comforted in the embers of that intimacy.
This is how menopausal life should be. Single. Wealthy. Educated. Welltravelled. Worldly. Dominant. And some non-threatening, submissive human warmth in bed to attend to my care and needs and to clean and cook in my home. My charming, pretty husband at that too. Deep sigh.
"I love what we have, Jerri. Goodnight," I said with great satisfaction and rolled over.
"Yes, ma'am. Goodnight, ma'am."
I could listen to those loving words for the rest of my life.
PART 2 -- THE WINNER
2A -- YEAR THREE -- JANUARY 21 -- MONDAY -- EARLY MORNING
At 0500 sharp, I woke myself, slipped out of bed, replaced the bedding so Ma'am would not be cold. She was still asleep in bed, as she always was in the hours before the sun rose. I crept into my walk-in closet and dressed: some white cotton panties, a plain white cotton bra, my grey uniform, and some low-heel slip-on loafers. I scampered downstairs and headed toward the kitchen.
At 0510 sharp, I performed my morning ablutions, thanking Ma'am in my mind, as I flushed, for permitting me this specific time everyday to rid myself of filth.
At 0520 sharp, I turned on the e-pad Ma'am had given me and opened up Ma'am's agenda and my morning checklist.
At 0525 sharp, I turned off the house's security system and checked the weather settings. It was very cold outside. I looked out a window toward the garage where a light was on; there was a blizzard. Ma'am might be in danger of frostbite when she goes out today; I'll have to bundle her up properly.
At 0530 sharp, I checked the thermostat; the furnace was already warming the house for Ma'am too wake up at 0730 sharp.
At 0535 sharp, I began food preparation for breakfast for Ma'am. The two eggs were to be over easy for no more than 15 seconds, and were not to be pierced. The five pieces of bacon were to be flat and crispy, not juicy and wrinkly. The two pieces of toast were to be brown and buttered completely, especially in the corners. The five oranges were to be squeezed of their juices and chilled for no more than 90 minutes and no less than 45. The two strawberries were to garnish Ma'am's plate, each with five fanned slices. Once seated at the table enjoying her fresh coffee and paper, breakfast could be served seven minutes later.
At 0600 sharp, I wiped down and dusted Ma'am's chair and place at the head of the dining room table. I drew the curtains apart exactly five feet. I got the tableware and set the two forks, two knives, and the spoon in their exact spots. The serving plate was precisely in the middle of the mat, which of course was centred on the end of the table.
At 0610 sharp, I organized the distilled water Ma'am prefers and the Kona coffee beans from Hawaii she loves so that the brewing could commence at precisely 0715 sharp.
At 0615 sharp, I went to the front door, opened it, got Ma'am's newspaper, closed the front door, went the ironing room, and turned on an iron. I ironed the newspaper, then turned off the iron, took the newspaper to the dining room, and lay it leftmost of Ma'am's place.
At 0630 sharp, I went to the laundry room and folded Ma'am's towels. Each towel was folded end to end, then folded end to middle, with the end being short of the middle by one-half inch, and then the right side was folded upon a third of the left, which was then folded back over the remainder of the right, and then turned around so that the tag could not be seen. Her directions on towel folding had been very precise.
At 0640 sharp, I recited the Ma'am poem three times.
At 0642 sharp, I scampered to Ma'am's office off the living room, turned on the lights, opened the curtains, turned on the computer, dusted and wiped, and, as I backed out of the office, I carefully used my fingernails to fluff up the carpet wherever I had walked.
At 0652 sharp, I began to clean the guest bathroom in case Ma'am had a guest.
At 0700, I dusted under the edge of the carpet in the dining room, paying particular attention to where Ma'am sits.
At 0715 sharp, I turned on the coffee maker by pressing the button with my left-hand's pinkie finger per Ma'am's standing instructions.
At 0720 sharp, I conducted my final inspection and readiness check. I ensured that lighting pattern Alpha was activated in the dining room. Using the pinkie finger of my right hand, I turned on Ma'am's selection for this morning, Mozart. I examined the player; the volume was in fact on level three.
At 0725 sharp, I scampered up the stairs and headed toward Ma'am's bedroom. I stood, head down, hands crossed and held at the breastbone level, at the foot of the king-sized bed. I stared at my plastic watch.
At 0730 sharp, I woke Ma'am. "Good morning Ma'am. Checklist number one is complete. It is 0730 sharp on Monday, 21 January. Today's weather sees a blizzard, high gusts of wind, and temperatures dipping to minus twentyseven outside. The house is 22 degrees. You have only one appointment today Ma'am, with Dr. Rob Rideout again, at the Juniper Neurology Centre, at 0930 sharp. Matthew will be here at 0900 sharp to drive you Ma'am. May I please pull your bedding down for you Ma'am?"
Ma'am nodded as she removed her sleeping mask.
Quickly, I folded the bedding diagonally and then knelt by Ma'am's bed. I held her slippers and waited for her to sit up and flip her legs over. They appeared. I kissed her feet, left then right. I then put the slippers on, left then right. I stood up, lightning fast, and offered my hand to assist her standing up. She held my forearm and stood.
Ma'am smiled at me and said, "Good morning, Jerri."
2B -- YEAR SIX -- MARCH 21 -- WEDNESDAY -- JUST BEFORE NOON
It was getting near 11 o'clock. I grabbed my briefcase and the folio and scampered down the stairs and headed to Ma'am's office. I knocked on the door. "Permission to enter, Ma'am?" She lifted her finger; I entered.
"Ma'am, I have finished the following as you requested. First, the mailing list for Administrative Professionals Day next month. Second, reconciling the gardener's invoices with our costing. Third, if I may please sit for this one, Ma'am," --- Ma'am lifted her finger --- "Thank you, Ma'am, here are the two charts that you requested showing sales distribution and growth over the last two years."
I could see Ma'am's eyes dart around the charts. She was still so engaged! What the neurologists had foreseen, nature had accomplished. Ma'am was slowly degrading. The prognosis was grim and unalterable: an extremely active, alert mind stuck in an unresponsive but otherwise healthy, living, human body. Day by day, week by week, everything had been getting incrementally harder for her.
She could still talk, a bit she did, but not for very long, and her words and sentences kept getting shorter. We began to use a simple texting device to communicate; it helped when Ma'am was not feeling her best to talk. We also developed an increasingly sophisticated visual communication system: a wink, a nod, a tilt, a finger, and so on. I became quite skilled at anticipating Ma'am's instructions this way. And she could still walk, but the steps got shorter there too. There was no wheelchair yet. But there were some canes.
Ma'am sent me a message about one of the charts. I explained to her why the fonts used on the chart were so small. She seemed satisfied with my answer and said, "Thank you." I smiled at her and held her hand. She smiled back and, it took some time, slowly moved to hold my hand too.
"Ma'am, if I may suggest, we should be getting you ready soon for your appointment with the senior neurologists. Sally will be here in 20 minutes to pick you up and take you. And that's right! You should be smiling. This time, the doctors expect to say that your condition is fairly stabilized. I do hope so, Ma'am."
Ma'am started to speak but struggled. She texted me: "Jerri is good for my morale."
"That's right. Ma'am is best for Jerri's morale too!" I laughed and I knew that, deep down inside, she was laughing too. I helped her to her bedroom. Actually, it was more our bedroom now. I had never slept elsewhere in the house since my coming to her.
I helped her change into different clothes for her appointment. I helped back down the stairs and out to the car. I helped into the car. I waved her good-bye. "Don't worry Ma'am," I said, "this appointment only lasts three hours. You'll be back in no time at all for dinner. I'll see you in about four hours. You are loved, Ma'am." I blew her some kisses. Sally drove Ma'am away.
I went back inside. I puttered doing some cleaning. I filed papers away. I went to the bedroom and picked Ma'am's clothes off the floor. A key fell out of her oversized sweater. I picked it up. I looked at it.
Ma'am had started carrying this key several months ago. It had been in the house a long time before that: I had infrequently seen it. She had never wanted to put it on a necklace or secure it to something with a chain. It was the key to the one room in our home that I had never entered. I had seen her use it on the little door just off her office downstairs.
Come to think of it, Ma'am had not forbidden me to enter it. Moreover, much as Ma'am had given me more responsibilities around our home, it might well have been that she would have urged me to accept more
responsibilities in respect of whatever was in that room. This initiative would be another way to demonstrate my unending devotion to her. I had already completed my morning tasks. I had some free time on my hands. And she wasn't here.
I went through her office and stood by the door to Ma'am's secret room. As I walked in and turned on the lights, I received a text message from her: "Jerri have you seen a key of mine?"
Before I answered her, I looked around the room and saw many boxes and folders labelled 'Gary'.
2C -- YEAR NINE -- JULY 13 -- TUESDAY -- EARLY MORNING
I sipped my morning cappuccino by the pond. A couple of goldfish nibbled at the seed. The morning air still had that dewy feel and clean scent to it. The birds chirped. A woodpecker pecked away somewhere.
The smoked salmon eggs benedict had been delightful. I truly enjoyed cooking again. Experimenting. Ad hoc'ing. Going crazy with spices and herbs. There was a pleasure in it. And, after a pleasing meal, a glorious morning sunrise. There are worse ways to spend a life I mused. Things could be worse at 64-years old.
Yep. I guess I better get going to change the woman's diapers and give her some baby food. She'd been in her crib room now for about 12 hours. It's going to stink and be mushy. She's going to be irritable again. I wondered how she would look when I would take her sleeping hood off. It is amazing how effectively one can communicate with just eye contact.
Do not misunderstand me. I loathe that woman. I will feed her, clean her, change her diapers, wipe her down, push her wheelchair, and the such. I am not inhuman, you know. But I have limits. After her first meal (no matter what time of day it is served at), my objective was to get her into the Awake Room as soon as possible.
Its name? My reasoning was simple and I explained it to her; this was the room in which she would spend her time when awake. Hence, Awake Room.
And so it had been for three years. Long ago, she had converted my walk-in closet into a room filled with bizarre devices designed to torture me. I am calm enough today to assure you that they all worked. I remember all this now. I hadn't when I had first returned here nine years ago. There was a symmetry in using the same room for her. My old walk-in closet became my old punishment room, and her old luggage room became her current Awake Room.
I resisted my baser urges. Accordingly, my renovations were much more humane. The room got sound-proofed; she could not hear sounds from outside the room. The walls were redone in a bland beige identical to that in my isolation quarters at Shrublands. There was a single, naked light bulb in the ceiling.
Most days, after her breakfast bottle, I pushed her in there, took her hood off, left her in the middle of the room, and locked the door as I carried on with my day.
Month after month, there were so few changes to her day. She could stare at the wall all day long. Fall asleep. I didn't care. If I remembered in time, I would give her a baby bottle of some edible slop for lunch. It and breakfast left her diaper full. I often changed her diapers each afternoon; purposefully leaving it to get fuller and fuller would only punish me. And, after the changing, she'd be back in the room, locked again. Staring at an empty wall.
Honestly, I did break up that routine. I introduced Video Day. Irregularly, infrequently, I would place a screen in her room and play on a endless loop one of the videos that she had made of me, Gary, undergoing any one of the innumerable, humiliating cruelties that she had inflicted upon me. She had seven years or so worth of them; they had been in her secret room.
Thus, her entire sensory input day after day, month after month, was reduced to the following. Sleep. Diapers. In and out of a crib. In and out of a wheelchair. A tepid (maybe) baby bottle with at most five different tasting substances. A sense of movement as I would push her between the crib room and the Awake Room. Hood off. Hood on. The Awake Room. Diapers. And so on. A bland, featureless wall.
No sense of time. No meaningful human interaction (except with me, and, because I despised her, I would, generally, say nothing to her). No change of scenery. Day after day of gentle yet unremitting, relentless, continual sensory deprivation, or at least a lack of stimulation.
With one possible exception: the old videos of her torturing me. She had me confined to a mental institution for 15 years. I observed and so learnt a great deal about the human condition in that depressing hole. I stayed active, cleaning, waitressing, helping the other patients, and so on. My mind stayed active too. My imagination screamed at the daily protocols that woman had insisted be inflicted upon me: the daily enema, the daily dildo sessions, the gentle tranquilizers, and the such. And always in front of female staff. With brainwashing on top of those circumstances, you try to stay sane.
Regardless, in the mental institution, I observed that the patients who physically distanced themselves from the others were most likely to descend into some mental, solitary, self-imposed isolation. Some came out of it. Some did not (hence mental institution). The ones who did sometimes described their extreme focus, their fascination, their fixation upon whatever unusual oddity there was about the day or had happened recently. How they longed for something to think about, something to latch onto.
The very purpose of sensory deprivation is to deny that opportunity. And that is how I came to deny her as much sensory stimulation as I could, unless it would specifically cause her to be reminded of her actions, her torturing me, her degradation of me, her inhumanity. She could fixate about each video while in her wheelchair in her Awake Room or under the hood in her crib room. Now, those videos were cause for her to reflect upon her choices in life.
But I do not know what actually was going through her mind. For all I know, she was in ecstasy, reviewing her great, noble accomplishments against her evil husband. I know what would be going through mine were we to switch places. In the Awake Room. In a wheelchair. In a diaper. Entirely dependent for day-to-day care upon an ex-spouse whom I had tortured, thrown away, and then retrieved to attend to me. I'd be fucking terrified.
However, I did not have the time to dawdle on what thoughts might be going through that imprisoned brain of hers. I pushed her chair into the room. I gently took her hood off. The light blinded her. I flatly said, "Good morning, Ma'am." I didn't have to gloat or emphasize anything; the circumstances said it all. I left her, locked the door, and scampered downstairs, headed to the garage, got the car, and went shopping.
2D -- YEAR TWELVE -- NOVEMBER 2 -- SUNDAY -- MID TO LATE AFTERNOON
I checked the mail at the county post office. It was so good to see Mr. and Mrs. Patterson there again; they had recovered marvelously from their car accident. The temporary replacement postal worker --- Sara Collins, a ghastly woman, profoundly stupid and immensely dumb --- had been utterly useless. Anyway, I had promised to meet up with Audrey later in the week at the tennis club to help her balance the end-of-season books.
There was a registered letter addressed to Stephanie. It was from a pharmaceutical company's doctor. I opened it. "Dear Mrs...., We are pleased to elicit your interest in participating in a clinical study of a new drug that the leading neurological researchers in our labs believe will...."
WOW! There might be a complete cure for her. There was a form for Stephanie to fill in, attached to the letter. She was invited to indicate her acceptance or rejection of the offer to participate in the study. There was a deadline for applications; it was six months away.
I walked back home slowly, even though it was chilly. I did pause a bit to chat with Mr. Reynolds; he was finishing his leaves. "It's going to be a tough winter this year," he said. I nodded my agreement, helped him wrap an emerald cedar, and then carried on. I saw the Weston house was up for sale again; I hope they get what they're asking for it; Bev put so much into that reno. I popped into the bakery, saw Gail and chatted about the latest cat and cucumber video, and picked up some buns for dinner.
It was getting colder. A wet snow started. The wind was starting to cut through my hiking pants. Otherwise, my Gore tex jacket, wool sweater, waterproof gloves, and ponytail beanie were keeping me warm and dry. I hurried.
Once home, I made a tea and sat down to watch the remainder of the early game. Once upon a time, I had been an avid, regular Sunday football fan. That had been taken away from me for a long time. I had it back. I never wanted to let it go again.
I glanced at the lab's letter.
Stephanie had never taken my name off the title to the house. I had taken hers off. The same could be said for the bank accounts, investments, and the such; all had been switched into only my name for a few years now. She had empowered me in direct proportion to the growth of her disability.
I had often wondered why she would do so. Perhaps she thought my lapdog destiny would forever remain unaltered; she never expected to lose her key I suppose. I never settled on any satisfactory explanation. So, I simply stopped thinking about why she had done what she had done and hadn't done what she hadn't done.
But the letter gave me pause.
It had taken time, but I had established a cozy, little life in this smaller town. Friends, hobbies, exercise, outdoor activities, clubs, and parties. I had leisure time to read novels, write third-rate, flea-ridden stories for online fiction websites, cook, paint, try mountain biking. I had a great house. Why would I want to disturb this? Viewed in this light, a healthy, recovered, active Stephanie could be seen as an inconvenience at best and a recidivistic risk at worst.
Equally, I valued my relative moral position. I had been the victim. I had been emasculated. I had lost everything. I had been committed to a nut house. I had been transformed into a maid. I had been sexually, physically, and psychologically abused at the hands of my wife. Her Awake Room and crib and hood paled in comparison to it all. Why imperil my relatively clean conscience with denying her a chance to be cured?
The first game ended. The ageless Tom Brady and New England Patriots won yet again.
I don't know why, but I slowly walked upstairs; no scampering this time. I headed to my bedroom; it had once been our bedroom. I went into my current walk-in closet; she was in my previous one, the Awake Room, my erstwhile punishment room. I undressed. I took off my light makeup. I put on for the first time in a very long time my pink maid uniform, skin tone hose, and white, hotel maid shoes. I drew my hair back into my maidly ghettofacelift ponytail. I looked in the mirror.
In the mirror was the little scrawny maid that, twelve years ago, arrived back at her family home after 15 years in a mental institution. Stephanie had put me there; I would never forget that. Yet I had never resolved my inner debates about forgiveness. I had not forgiven her but could not, for my own mental balance, shutter the possibility of ever forgiving her. What if one day, for my own sake, my own soul, I needed --- wanted --- to forgive her?
Forgiveness, however, was not on my agenda today.
I took the letter, got a few small thumbtacks, and went to the door to the Awake Room. I unlocked it, walked in, and stood in front of her. Stephanie moved her head slightly and seemed visibly shocked to see me in the maid's uniform. I kept the letter out of her sight. The break from her routine must have astonished her. And she had also not seen that uniform in years.
For a few minutes, I simply stared at her. I didn't move. I wanted her mind to digest the sight of me, Jerri her maid --- Gary her tortured husband for fuck's sakes --- freely standing in front of her. I do not know what raced through her mind. Mine was set on portraying no emotion at all. It required effort.
I tacked the letter to the wall in front of her, close enough so she could read it, and then walked around behind her, out of her sight. I gave her a long time to read, re-read, and re-re-read that letter, the details of the drug trial, the application form, and so on.
I had left the form blank.
From her back and her side, I looked at her. Old. Haggard. Completely grey. Balding too. Sagging everything. Wrinkly everything. Pale, waxy skin, untouched by sunlight for so long. And that dull, dreary, depressing beige shift. She was a 67-year-old piece of useless flesh. What did I have in common with her?
I was fit and strong for my age, outgoing, and positive about the many good things in this world. I was glad to see people in town and to learn about their lives. There's a sense of deep satisfaction in helping a neighbour fix a fence or paint a sewing room. And in having a laughing crowd around a friendly dinner table. There are some good things in this world; there are! And I like them. I want to experience them and to share them with other upbeat people, my friends.
I slowly moved back in front of her. I stood next to the letter on the wall. And I let the moment linger and linger and linger. There was no need for a single word. She stared at me. I smiled. She began to cry.
Swiftly, I took the letter off the wall, left the room, locked the door, went to undress and get back into my previous attire, then scampered downstairs and headed to the kitchen to make dinner before the Sunday night game. I left the letter somewhere in my bedroom.
I did not know what I was going to do, but I felt an exhilaration that had not caressed my soul in decades. I now knew there would be one commonality to every possible future open to me at this moment.
It would be there if I chose to stay with her, to nurse her through the drug trial as she hopefully would be progressively cured, and to try to salvage some shred of humanity from her.
It would be there if I chose to stay with her, her disability, her wheelchair, the Awake Room, and our current routine.
It would be there if I chose to abandon her to silently rot, alone, unable to call for help, in an empty house.
It would be there no matter my choice, and it pleased me quite a bit:
I had won.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
THE ONSET OF PUBERTY
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2022
Warning: If you don’t like reading fetish stories, then stop reading now.
Author’s Note: None.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
FAMILY
Jody McGuire was a 12-year-old boy. Somewhat shy, plainly sinewy, and relatively slim, he was a typical teen on the cusp of puberty. His was a friendly disposition, given to a little mischief here and helpfulness there. He had friends; his fellow students, both boys and girls, liked him. Few could be found who would say anything bad about him.
His interests? Again, typical for a boy his age: a growing curiousity and liking for girls his age, a fan of first-person shooter video games, Dungeons & Dragons, some basketball, some soccer, his bike, some flag football, and such.
He did his chores with little complaint. He did his homework in a timely manner. He cleaned (sufficiently he thought) his room once a week. He preferred jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes to anything else. All that said, every now and then, he had to be reminded by his mother to take a shower and to brush his teeth.
His mother, Karen, was a widow, her husband having died in a car accident two years prior. Theirs had been a happy marriage. The insurance payment for his death had paid off the mortgage and provided a large six-figure amount in her bank account. Jody missed him dearly, as did his mother, who had opted for a change of pace after the accident and now worked as a senior manager at the headquarters of a well-known chain of furniture stores.
His sisters missed their father too. Simone, Sylvie, and Stephanie. Triplets they were: 14-years-old, attractive, doing well at school, active at volleyball, sociable, outgoing, and positive. They were close and, insofar as older sisters could reasonably be, were nice and loving toward Jody.
Given the circumstances, the suburban McGuire home enjoyed peace, harmony, and tranquility. Though not without the usual ups-and-downs of a family in a close setting (periodic petty squabbles, minor teasing, miscellaneous but negligible acrimony), theirs was a happy house on a street in a suburb of a medium city in a smaller state.
SATURDAY --- BIRTHDAY EVE
“Jody, I’d like to speak to you a moment, please,” his mom asked him one evening in early September. They met and sat in the family room. She turned the TV off. The girls were upstairs.
“Tomorrow is your sisters’ birthday.”
He nodded. He knew. He had already prepared three identical birthday cards and wrapped their three identical birthday presents: pink sweatshirts that said, “Play Like A Girl”. He knew they’d like them; the slogan to them was a statement of pride.
“There’s going to be a party tomorrow afternoon. Now, your sisters don’t want any boys to attend. They’re inviting all their friends over; having boys over too would put a damper on things.”
“Okay, mom. I’ll give them their gifts in the morning at breakfast and then head over to Greg’s place for the day. I understand,” his light, gentle voice accommodated.
Karen sighed; he was such a thoughtful boy.
Then she drew her breath.
“Well, Jody, we had a discussion, and they would really like you there too.”
Jody looked puzzled.
“It would mean a lot to them.”
“But you said it’s going to be girls only?”
Jody sounded puzzled.
Karen deliberated to herself for a moment and again concluded that the female McGuires’ plan would be a fun bonding experience for all of them.
“What if you dressed as a girl? They’d like that! I’ll help you get dressed, and then you can sit around and enjoy their party too!”
Jody was puzzled.
“You want me to dress up like a girl and go to their party as a girl?”
He couldn’t believe it. He was a boy. He had zero inclination to wear any girl clothing: none. This was too much. He couldn’t believe his mom was even suggesting this.
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s for your sisters.”
“It’s not me.”
“It’s for them.”
And back and forth they went, Karen slowly wearing him down, gently alternating guilt, enthusiasm, love, and a tinge of disappointment.
She saw him come around to her view, albeit reluctantly.
“Okay. I’ll do it. For them. For you. But I really don’t like it.”
Karen slapped her hands on her thighs, jumped up, and said, “Wonderful! You’re such a good sport! They’re going to love you all the more!” She bent over and kissed him. He nodded half-heartedly, but dread filled his heart.
That night, his mom and his sisters led him to Simone’s room. She was closest to him in size and height.
There were a few giggles as they watched him undress down to his underwear. There were no turning heads as the women faced a wall when he took off his underwear and put on a pair of panties. Apart from one light-hearted remark as his bra got stuffed with socks (“I hope mine will be bigger!” Stephanie chuckled), there was no teasing. “You’ll look good!” they said as the paisley-patterned dress came down over his arms and torso. It didn’t fit; nonchalantly, they put another one on him.
He blushed furiously. And, no, his little man never became erect. Indeed, it shrank as though he had been dunked into a frigid lake.
Soon, their creation stood in front of a mirror. The abstract-patterned, crew neck, casual, knee length, short sleeve knit dress fit well. The necklace was modest. The several wrist bracelets and two rings glittered. Two thin bracelets wrapped his ankles. The canvas wedge espadrilles fit too.
What did not fit? His short haircut. His bushy eyebrows. His Adam’s Apple. His shorter index fingers relative to his ring fingers. His narrow hips (hence the broad, white belt). The hair on his legs.
His voice would not have fit either, had he happened to speak.
But he said nothing.
“We can fix those other things tomorrow morning when you dress!” his mom beamed.
“Not bad, bro!” the triplets in unison cheered.
“Let’s get those things off and share a movie!” his mom enthused as she and her three daughters left the little boy in a dress in his sister’s room.
Jody looked at himself in the mirror.
His face was saturnine.
He undressed and said little as the five of them watched “Mean Girls”.
SUNDAY --- BIRTHDAY PREPARATIONS
The next morning, his mom led him into her bathroom.
“I’m going to help you shave your legs,” she casually said.
“But I don’t want them shaved. What will they say at school? I can’t even shave my face yet!”
She looked at him. There were a few slightly darker hairs on his chin. Not enough to shave, not yet. Yet his daily masculine ritual would begin soon, she saw.
“It’s nothing. Your hair will grow back. Now sit on the edge of the tub and I’ll show you.” She grabbed the hot washcloth and warmed his legs in preparation.
“I don’t like this,” he quietly said.
“You don’t want to look silly wearing a dress with hairy legs, do you?”
“Mom, I don’t even want to wear a dress.”
“It’s their 15th birthday. They only have it once. I want it to be special for them. Don’t you?”
He said nothing.
In silence, she took the razor to his legs.
And finished up with the few hairs on his face.
Later, around ten, while the sun filled Simone’s room, his sisters sat him before the vanity and hovered over him. “Close your eyes, Jody,” they asked. “Hands out,” they said. “Don’t wiggle your toes,” they required.
Blush. Eyeliner. Eye shadow. Mascara. Lipstick. Perfume. Antiperspirant. Nail polish. Toenail polish. His sisters doted on him in order to make him look pretty. His mother concluded the ordeal by fitting him with a synthetic, layered, long hair, raven-colored wig.
By eleven o’clock, they had finished.
The various compliments came: “You’re quite pretty like this,” said Stephanie caringly; “It’s all come together,” added Sylvie nicely; “Class, bro, really classy,” Simone sincerely gushed; “I’m very proud of you,” his mom said.
Jody stared in silence at the monster in the mirror.
They left him alone in the family room while they bustled about the house.
Plates on the table. Snacks on the plates. Glasses on the table. Cans of pop and other refreshments by the glasses. Stephanie turned on the radio. Sylvie pranced while placing the streamers. Simone brought in some extra chairs. Karen moved the patio table. They wanted to present to the several guests a welcoming, happy home.
Eventually, everything was ready. The family gathered in the family room.
“Thanks for being such a good sport about this, Jody,” said Stephanie. Simone and Sylvia said the same. Karen looked at her son with pride. He was being such a good sport; he was doing something special for his sisters. She felt his love for them.
The doorbell rang. The sisters hurried to answer it. Karen stood, smiled, and told Jody that the afternoon would be fun. She walked out of the room. Jody slowly got up, sighed, and followed.
SUNDAY --- BIRTHDAY PARTY
A scrum of teenage girls stood at the door. Simone, Sylvia, and Stephanie greeted their friends with shrieks and cheers. Like the sisters, the invitees too were in dresses and heels of varying heights. The giggling began at once as they admired each other. They were growing up; dressing up was something women did, and today was the first of (hopefully) many occasions in which they could celebrate their femininity.
Karen approached the foyer enthusiastically.
Behind her, Jody approached the doorway with trepidation.
Irene was the first to notice him.
“Look! It’s Jodie!” she shouted.
The others looked. Karen turned and put her arm around Jody’s shoulders.
“Yes, it’s Jody. He’s being a really good sport about this and wants to celebrate his sisters’ birthday with them. So, no teasing or jokes then, right?” She cast a stern eye at each girl. Each nodded.
Irene, Diana, Claire, Bianca, Ty, and Rita showered him with compliments and embraced him as though they were besties. “Nice dress, Jodie!”, one said a tad sarcastically. “My brother would never do something like this for me!” said another ambiguously. “Those shoes are adorable!” exclaimed a third, enviously though perhaps mockingly. There was more giggling.
Karen drew her son closer to her, bent over, and kissed the top of his wig. “See? It’ll be nice!”, she reassured him as she led him and the girls into her home.
Jody was horrified! He’d never hear the end of this! They’d tease him forever! They were going to pick on him all afternoon! Worse, Rita, his favorite amongst and prettiest of all his sisters’ friends, would never look at him the same way ever again!
He wanted to fall into a hole and disappear.
In the ensuing hours, he sat, quietly, patiently, as the girls bantered back and forth about the usual subjects: school, boys, volleyball, basketball, movies, school again, boys again, and such.
His chair stood by the fireplace. Whenever the family had a fire, he started it, stoked it, fueled it, and minded it. The chair had been his dad’s favorite chair when he, his dad, had tended the fire. He sat as his dad had sat and felt its warm, loving embrace.
He avoided conversation as much as possible. Whenever anyone needed anything, he without being requested got it for them: cookies, chips, pop, anything --- anything to get away.
No, there had been no direct jokes about him. Nor had there been any insults.
But he felt their eyes: nine pairs of eyes glancing at him, scorning him, laughing at him, mocking him. His mouth was tight, his jaw was clamped, and his attention was focused. Just one single comment, just one snide remark, just one simple joke: he would abandon ship.
Karen for the most part stayed in the kitchen away from her daughters’ merriment. She smiled to herself. It was comforting to hear so many young voices in the house and they reminded her of many fond memories of her younger years and of old friends now afar. She sipped her Pinot Grigio. She was particularly pleased that she did not hear anyone picking on Jody.
“Gift time, girls!” Karen shouted, marching into the room carrying several colorful boxes. Her daughters sat on the floor, their dresses spread.
Karen began a little speech; she didn’t want to intrude too much.
“I love you all and am so thankful that you have so many dear, close friends with whom you can share good times such as these. You’re turning 15 and that in itself is special. You’re on the cusp of becoming young women and young women deserve special gifts. Here,” she started handing out three small, beautifully wrapped boxes to her daughters, “are your first tickets into womanhood!”
Simone opened hers: a gold necklace from which hung a small pendant, shaped in the letter “S”. “Thanks mom!” she gushed hugging her mom. Stephanie’s and Sylvia’s gifts were identical and they equally gushed and hugged their mom.
Jody was glad to see the broad smiles on his sisters’ faces.
“A picture of the three of you with your necklaces!” Karen required. Her daughters stood by the window, arms around each other’s waist, necklaces around their necks. Beautiful smiles, white teeth, wide eyes, rosy cheeks: happiness.
“Your turn ladies!” Karen chortled to the guests.
The sisters began opening their friends’ gifts. A bracelet. A Goth T-shirt. An Amazon gift card. The latest FIFA video game with women’s teams. A fancy multi-colored pen set. Manga. iTunes gift cards. Things like that; things that 15-year-old teenage girls like. The hugs and tearful thanks followed.
Jody remained seated in his chair near the fireplace.
“Jody, it’s time for your gifts,” Karen merrily said looking down at her son.
The young boy in a bright purple dress turned toward the small stack of firewood by which he had hid his sisters’ gifts. His sisters and their friends looked at him.
There was a whisper. The another. Then a giggle. Hands covered mouths. Heads bent down to muffle raucous laughter.
His head swiveled and his eyes narrowed in anger as he drilled his resentment into the nine young women.
“What are you laughing at?” he snapped.
“Well, little sister, we can see your panties,” Stephanie said in a gentle voice.
Jody blushed furiously and punched the crotch of his dress in between his legs to prevent anyone from seeing his underwear. He saw Rita smirk.
He tossed the gifts to his sisters. “Happy birthday,” he said flatly.
Each opened the card taped to their respective gifts. The cards, identical, read: “Happy Birthday Sister! May you always know how much you’re loved by so many people, especially me!”
Simone quickly got up to hug and kiss her brother. The hug was not reciprocated. And his head turned from the kiss. His face was expressionless. Sylvia’s efforts were met with the same result. Stephanie’s too.
Karen detected his unease and hurried to instruct the girls to stand together for a picture.
“You too, Jody!” she encouraged.
Jody’s face fell. “No pictures,” he replied, stunned at the request.
Karen glared at him. Seething, he stood and moved next to Sylvia.
“Thank you, Jody. Big smiles! Say ‘cheese’!”
“Cheese!” the three girls cried.
Karen looked at the picture. Jody wasn’t smiling at all. She told him to smile for the next one. It was a bit better. “One more!” Better it was, although her son’s smile seemed more of a grimace.
“More snacks!” she said as she walked back to her kitchen. Some of the girls followed her.
Rita hung back. She had oft sensed that Jody’s furtive glances at her hid a young boy’s crush. He was cute, in a puppy dog way. And, unlike some of her other friends’ brothers, he wasn’t a pest. She stood before him and grinned.
“Jodie with an ‘i’ and an ‘e’? You look good in a dress, little girl!” She gave him a flashing hug and the briefest of kisses and followed the others into the kitchen.
Several minutes later, Karen heard the front door slam. Curious, she went to it, opened it, and saw Jody running as fast as he could down the street wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes --- and no wig.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, closing the door and returning to the kitchen.
A dinner for five had devolved into a sullenly cheery dinner for four. Table talk had been mutedly gleeful. The empty chair dominated the table.
-----000-----
The sun was now near gone. The girls were upstairs doing what sisters do upstairs. Karen sat on the couch by the front window watching the street. She checked her phone. When Jody had missed supper, she had texted her several neighbors asking whether they had seen him. None had.
She saw him in the distance limping toward the house. As he approached, she increasingly saw the filth on his sweat-drenched clothes and the dirt on his face. As he walked up the front path, she thought she saw makeup: he had left the house with it on! She raced to the door.
“Where have you been?” she shouted in both anger and genuine concern.
He ignored her and kicked off his shoes.
“It’s late. Where were you?” she said sternly. “What did you do? Why are you limping?”
All she got in return was a glare: a mean, nasty, evil glare. She watched him go upstairs and heard the bathroom door slam shut and its lock click. The shower ran. Soon after, she and her daughters heard his bedroom door slam shut.
They left him alone.
MONDAY --- SCHOOL
Karen left her office early: a privilege of management. She did several errands, took the car in for an oil change, and drive home. Tonight’s dinner would be cheese tortellini with wilted spinach, garlic, chopped mushrooms, smoked salmon, and cream sauce. All of her children loved it. As she prepared, her daughters came home from school.
They weren’t talking. They always talked, chatted, chittered, or howled. This time they didn’t. They went straight to the kitchen.
“Mom,” Sylvia said, “Jody had a tough day at school.”
“He’s definitely not in a good mood,” said Stephanie.
“What happened?” the distressed mother asked.
Simone glanced at her sisters and looked at her mom. “Word got out about his wearing a dress yesterday. It went downhill from there.”
Stephanie: “Rita’s boyfriend Todd started it.”
Simone: “He’s a jerk. But I’m really mad at Rita for this.”
Sylvia: “Then it spread. We didn’t see it all, but we heard about it. We tried to tell people that he did it for us just for fun. But I guess it was too late.”
Karen needed nothing but a glance to see how glum they were. She turned to stir the sauce. “I’ll talk to him once he’s home. Where is he?”
The sisters exchanged looks. Sylvia spoke for them all. “The last time we saw him, Bill Furscoe and Ed Jackson were leading him out to Henderson Park.”
Karen reacted immediately. “Finish preparing the meal. Eat if I’m not back. I’m going to the park.” She hurriedly left for her car.
Karen walked the park endlessly looking for her son. The sun was setting. He was nowhere to be seen.
Her phone beeped. A text message. From Stephanie: “J is home. Come fast.”
“Where is he?” she asked without taking her shoes off, having raced her car home. Hearing their reply, she dashed upstairs. His bedroom door was closed.
“Jody! Open the door!” she pleaded.
Silence.
“Open the door, Jody!” she insisted.
Silence.
Her daughters cautiously gathered in the hallway. Karen glanced at them --- they were frightened --- and then focused on the door again.
“Jody, open the door right now or I will break it down!” she threatened.
-----000-----
The door opened.
What she first saw was fearfully expected:
A bruise under one eye, a faint hint of blood at the corner of his mouth, the collar of his T-shirt ripped, the shirt itself scruffy and dirt-smeared, and his two hands: covered in blood, gashed, bruised.
What she then saw was completely unexpected:
Jody stood before her, his feet square to her, his legs steady, his torso parallel to hers and ramrod straight, his arms hanging casually by his side, chin up, head high, and a confidently grim, cocky, smug grin.
What she last saw shocked and frankly scared her:
His cold eyes.
TUESDAY --- TROUBLE
The police arrived at seven-thirty in the morning. “Mrs. McGuire? We’d like to talk to you about your son. Is he home?” Karen ushered them into the family room.
“We’ve received a complaint from two different sets of parents. They allege that your son Jody beat up their boys yesterday. Two broken noses. Some fractured ribs. Can you shed any light on this?”
Karen told them what she knew.
Sylvia came downstairs. “Mom, what’s happening? Who’s here?” She recoiled when she saw the two officers. She raced back upstairs and informed her sisters. They checked their cellphones. Innumerable messages from their various friends, including Rita.
“Rita’s pissed off. Jody apparently kicked Todd in the balls and the face,” gasped Simone.
Stephanie added, “Lisa texted me. She says she made a joke to Jody, and that he pushed her against a locker.” She stared open-mouthed at her sisters.
Sylvia then read aloud another text: “It’s from Christa. She’s saying that her brother got slammed against wall in the schoolyard. Jody. He’s got a concussion. Her parents have told her to never hang with us again.” She stared in stunned silence at her phone.
Back in the family room, Karen continued to relate the sequence of events of the past birthday weekend.
“Why did you put him in a dress?” one officer asked. Karen answered.
“Show us the pictures please,” the other stated. Karen did so.
“Did he say whether he wanted to be in a dress?” the first questioned. Karen explained.
“Is he upstairs in his room now?” the second asked. Karen nodded. She got up to fetch him.
“No, Mrs. McGuire. Call your daughters down and please stay here with them. We’ll talk to Jody alone thank you.” They rose and headed upstairs. Karen called the girls. They sat together on the couch as they heard the policemen identify themselves and demand Jody open his bedroom door.
Karen heard the door shut; presumably, the officers were talking to Jody.
They waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Footsteps.
Creaks on the staircase; they were coming.
Karen burst into tears as she saw her son in handcuffs being escorted down the stairs by the officers.
“Mrs. McGuire,” one said, “we’d like you to come down to the station with us.”
WEDNESDAY, FIFTEEN YEARS LATER --- REMEMBERING
Karen sipped her morning cappuccino at the kitchen table. She read the news on her tablet.
The usual partisan venom still grieved the country. The war in Ruritania was still ongoing. Another school shooting: Seattle this time. A Florida teacher had been arrested for having sex with several of her male teen students. Runaway electric cars mowing shoppers down. The Chinese moon mission was---
Punched by a sudden realization, her eyes darted back a couple of pages.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
She put the tablet down, put the cappuccino down, and put her hands down.
She stared out the window.
Stricken.
And she remembered.
-----000-----
The interview at the police station. Jody being let off with a very stern warning and a requirement to perform fifty hours of community service. His running upstairs once they returned home. Karen’s deep apologies to the injured boys’ families; Jody’s ignoring her when she told him he had to apologize and his refusal to even attend when she did.
The innumerable calls in the following years from his school informing her of his various scraps, his bullying other students, his several unsportsmanlike conduct penalties on the football field, his ejections, his dropping marks, the few but ominous harassment complaints made by some girls, the dozens of phone calls from his trashy girlfriends’ irate parents, and such.
And complicating his behaviour was a tremendous growth spurt.
By 13, he had lunged into sports, especially football and its weight room and had soared to rival his sisters’ height. By 14, he towered above them and could likely have beaten them up (he never did though) --- and no one at school dared try to beat him up. By 15, he weighed 165 lbs, stood 6’0, and was the school’s pre-eminent middle linebacker, a prototypical nasty one. By 16, girls swooned over him. By 16-and-a-quarter, he was, Karen learnt, discarding them, used and now boring, one after the other, an endless litany of names. Hence the phone calls. By 17, he had become a state football champion; but she only learned of this because her daughters told her. There had been no invitation to attend his award ceremony.
Above all, she remembered his silence once home.
He never spoke to her again. Nor to his sisters.
Dinner? He’d just make a peanut butter sandwich or take some leftovers from the fridge while the women ate; he ate in his chair by the fireplace in the family room. A dirty shower? The girls skreiched and were disgusted; he nonchalantly walked naked to his room. Where did he get his money? Karen knew he regularly ransacked her wallet and purse.
The four psychologists couldn’t succeed where she and his sisters had failed. He never opened up in any meaningful way to them. “You couldn’t get into medical school?” he was said to have sneered at one. “You’re a fat, out of shape slob,” he apparently had insulted another. The worst had been the poor female psychologist: “Trailer trash MILF,” were it was said his lone words to her.
Night after night, year after year, he had sat in his chair by the fireplace and stared blankly at either the fire or out the window at the setting sun. When anyone else sat in the room, he ignored them --- completely. He slept in every Christmas, never gave any gifts, and snubbed --- his could be an arrogant look, Karen thought --- any gift offered to him. His birthday didn’t exist to him anymore; if it did, then he utterly ignored it.
The girls rarely brought their friends or boyfriends over. They couldn’t risk something untoward occurring when Jody was around. Even their apprehensive boyfriends acknowledged that Jody McGuire was “not one to fuck with”. Karen’s heart had sunk at that. The girls fled the house as quickly as they could upon being accepted to university. “We can’t stand the tension anymore, mom,” they confessed.
One day in late May one year, he had left a note on the kitchen table: “Family room. 7 tonight.”
He sat in his chair. She sat on the couch.
“I’ve graduated early,” he said to her, speaking to her for the first time in years.
She again saw those cold, hard eyes.
“I’m leaving and I'm not coming back."
Stunned, Karen tried to compose herself. Like her daughters, she too had felt the tension, the pressure, the volatile, dark cloud that inhabited her home. Truth be told, she had known her life would be less stressful upon his departure. Equally, she had feared that she would never see him again.
And that pained her to the core of her soul.
He spoke before she could reply:
“I’ll never forgive you,” his deep bass voice growled.
He rose, looked at his chair --- his dad's chair --- one last time, and left.
She jumped to the window and watched him walk down the front path. His short haircut, his T-shirt, his jeans, his running shoes, his back.
-----000-----
Yes, Karen remembered all that now.
She cast her eyes again upon the tablet.
The news. The war in Ruritania. The American troops deployed there. The shelling. The IEDs. The suicide bombers. The casualties. The dead. The obituaries.
The obituary for Staff Sergeant Jody Adam McGuire, 33-years-old, killed in action.
She stared at the picture: a headshot. A sandy beret. A short haircut. A muscular neck. A confident grin. A lean, chiseled face. A warm and manly gaze. Her heart had for years longed to see his face again, to cup his cheek, to give him a caring hug.
She broke her trance and read the obituary once again.
Today? Today!
She hurried to get her purse and to get changed. She called her daughters as she dressed.
They were devastated.
As she put on her coat in the foyer, she glanced at the empty chair by the fireplace.
She wiped her tears and locked the house. The car wouldn’t start the first time. She swore. It started. It raced down the street toward the highway and the Special Forces base not twenty miles from her home. He had been there all that time! She looked: enough gas. It rained. She sped.
The car was left parked, on an angle, on two spaces, at the military cemetery. Karen saw a small crowd dispersing.
She was late: the funeral was over, and the undertakers began shoveling the dirt back in. Uniformed soldiers drifted across the freshly cut grass. The military chaplain loitered near the site, talking to fewer and fewer attendees.
Her face wet from the rain, the dreary clouds hanging over her, she briskly walked toward the headstone.
No, please God, no.
But there it was on the granite headstone: "Jody Adam McGuire". His name. His birthdate. His rank. His honors. His...
Gone.
Motionless, she wept as she solemnly watched the last shovels of dirt cover her baby boy’s casket. Her eyes looked to the heavens. She sobbed uncontrollably. The rain poured.
“Ma’am, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay.” The grey-haired chaplain exuded care and compassion.
“My son,” Karen struggled to say.
The chaplain looked surprised. “Ma’am, perhaps you may be mistaken. Staff Sergeant McGuire’s only family is over there.” The chaplain tilted his head toward a small gaggle of small people walking away. He passed her the funeral pamphlet.
Before he could say anything else, Karen dashed toward that gaggle.
“Excuse me!” she shouted. She wanted to run to them. Her body just couldn't.
The woman leading the gaggle stopped and turned. She’s beautiful, Karen saw. And so are the...
Oh my God! she thought amidst her shock.
“Yes?” the woman asked.
Karen arrived breathless and took a few seconds to compose herself. She fought to obtain the necessary focus; it eluded her.
“I’m... I'm... Jody’s mother,” she hoarsely sputtered.
Pause.
“How dare you! How fucking dare you! My husband’s funeral and some wacko like you pops out of the woodwork claiming to be his mother? He had no mother! How fucking dare you!
“He was an ORPHAN!” the woman yelled.
The chaplain raced toward them as quickly as he could. He was old.
There was young wail.
One of the little girls grabbed her mummy’s hand and looked at Karen suspiciously.
A second little girl tugged at her coat: “Mummy, why are you screaming at that old lady?”
Some uniformed soldiers started walking back toward the disturbance, their eyes targeting Karen.
A third little girl tended the wailing baby in the stroller and whispered, “Shh, quiet, Jody. Mummy’s alright. We’re going home.”
Karen gasped.
The chaplain grabbed Karen’s arms and tried to bustle her away.
The beautiful woman shot her a withering look, turned, and led her three little girls and baby boy to a black limousine.
Karen watched this stranger, her son's wife, her daughter-in-law, leave.
She watched her granddaughters leave.
She watched her grandson leave.
As the chaplain held her, Karen sobbed and howled:
“Never put Jody in a dress! Never! Do you hear me? Never!”
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2022
THE SLUT
BY JANICE
Note by Rhayna Tera:
Janice’s ‘The Slut’ is found on FictionMania’s website. It appears to have been added there on 2009 June 25. Janice’s synopsis reads: “Three teen age girls exact revenge on the older brother of one of them, who is obnoxious to them, with dire results.”
I have not found ‘The Slut’ here on BCTS. The story is one of the saddest tales on FM. Nearly all reviewers wanted a sequel. Janice never wrote one.
I have (fanfiction) and will publish it today on BCTS.
I am publishing Janice’s ‘The Slut’ on BCTS for two reasons: 1) it’s a damn good story; and 2) to make it easier for you the reader to read it before reading my unauthorized fanfiction sequel ‘Aftermath (The Slut)’. I have not found any prohibition on cross-publishing with attribution.
The story and characters and copyright belong to Janice. I have made zero amendments to her story except by adding ‘End’ at the, yes, end.
RT
THE SLUT (by Janice)
Paul was fifteen and a real pain in the ass. He would tease his sister and her friends mercilessly. He was the guy who would put itching powder in their sleeping bags when his sister had a sleepover; things like that.
The girls wanted to get even with him but had no idea how, so they just took all his teasing. The last straw, the thing that changed it from teasing to cruelty, was when he cracked raw eggs in her brand new high heel shoes. They were very expensive shoes; she had saved her baby sitting money for weeks to buy them.
Their parents were getting fed up with his antics and were on the verge of having him sent away to one of those boot camps for troubled teens that they had heard so much about on TV.
One weekend the parents went away and left the two teens alone. Paul was fifteen and his sister Nancy was sixteen; old enough to stay alone. It turned into a weekend no one would soon forget.
Nancy and her friends planned their revenge for two weeks, since they were told that their parents were going away.
Thelma, one of Nancy's friends' father ran a drug store and she was able to get what was needed.
The parents were gone; Thelma, Nancy and another girl planned to have a sleepover at Nancy's house; that was part of their revenge. The three of them were in Nancy's room waiting for the right time. Paul was watching TV in the family room. The girls had everything they needed ready. They looked at each other, "It's now or never." Nancy said.
Thelma opened the can of ether that she had gotten from her fathers drug store and poured some on a rag. They snuck up on the unsuspecting Paul and covered his nose and mouth with the rag. He only struggled for a few seconds before he was completely under the ether.
The three girls dragged him to Nancy's room where they planned to carry out part two of their plan.
They stripped him completely naked. "That should be called a peanut instead of a penis," the other girl, Shelly said. They laughed, more to release the nervousness in the room than the humor. They had all seen boys naked before but this time it was different; they were going to do things to this boy that they had never done to a boy before or had heard of it being done.
They planned to dress him in Thelma's older sister's clothes, she was twenty, and take him some place; while still unconscious of course, and leave him there to get home with no money or cell phone.
Thelma had made it a point to get the skimpiest and sexiest things she could get. They guessed he would be under for about a half hour but kept the ether handy just in case.
The first thing they put on was a pair of black lace panties which barely covered his "peanut". They were able to get a pair of black fishnet pantyhose over his legs and hips, it was difficult because, being unconscious, and he could not help. A Pair of black hot pants with scalloped lace at the legs was easy. They put on a strapless bra and filled the cups with foam rubber that Nancy had formed into a set of passable breasts. For a top they put on a purple sweater with a big enough neck that it fell off his shoulders.
They put a belt around his hips and some trashy jewelry around his neck and wrists.
His hair was long enough for them to brush into a feminine style. All that was left was his make up and shoes. Nancy had an old pair of cross strap high heels that she no longer wanted so she strapped them to his feet. A final touch was a white fur like purse, empty of course.
They fixed his make up sluttish but not bizarre. He was ready and still unconscious. Now came the hard part; they had to get him out to the car without waking him. Thelma held the ether moist rag over his face again to keep him under.
With the three of them working they got him to the car and in the back seat, it was a convertible and the top was up so it would be easy to get him in and out.
Thelma; who was the oldest and the one with a license drove to the park. To an observer it looked like a car with four girls driving around on a warm night.
They were looking for a bench not too far from the road and secluded so that they would not be seen lugging him out of the car and sitting him on the bench. They found one and got him seated. They sat with him until he started to stir a little as he came out of the stupor he was in; they hopped into the car and drove home.
They laughed all the way home. They figured he would wake up, see how he was dressed and get the hell home; it should take about fifteen or twenty minutes.
Was it Burns who said, "The best laid plans of mice and men (or in this case, women) go astray," or something like that? This was a typical case. Things went wrong, so very wrong.
At the same time the girls took off Paul started becoming aware of what was going on. His head was resting on his chest and he saw, through his still foggy eyes, a pair of breasts and below them, a pair of legs incased in black fishnet hose. His mind, still foggy, couldn't make sense of it. The last thing he remembered was watching TV.
At the same time a car with three teen age boys in it came down the block and saw a girl sitting on a bench, she seemed to be nodding. They stopped and watched for awhile.
Paul suddenly realized the breasts and legs were his. Startled, he jumped to his feet and almost fell off his high heels. He was able to see that he was dressed as a girl. He had no idea how he got into girls clothes or how he got to the park. It staggered him for a second. The boys in the car saw what looked to them as a sexy looking woman who maybe had too much to drink. They were looking for a good time and maybe a little sex. They got out of the car and walked toward the woman, who was Paul.
Paul was still a bit foggy but aware enough to realize that he might be in a bit of trouble. The boys stood around him asking if she was working. He said nothing being too scared to talk. He just shook his head no.
The three boys realized that this was no woman before them but a guy dressed up like a slut...and that they knew him. He was Paul Sanders; he had teased or tormented their sisters at one time or another.
"Hay guys," said one of them, "it's that wise ass Paul from our school."
Paul was fully awake now and knew he had to do something so he started to run, in high heels; the outcome was that after four or five steps he was on his knees.
The boys stood in a circle around him. "Well, our little lady must be looking for a good time, shall we accommodate her?" one said.
"Sure. Anything to help a lady." Said one of the others.
"No...wait. You don't understand. I don't know what is happening. Someone did this to me." Paul sobbed.
"Hold her arms." Said one of them. One boy grabbed each arm and held it out and back so Paul had to bend down a bit to keep from being hurt.
"The lady looks like she wants some fun, we'll give her some, said the boy in front of Paul. He opened his fly and pulled out his prick and waved it in front of Paul's face. "OK little lady. You know what to do."
"No, please. Don't make me do this. It is all a mistake. I'm not queer." Paul begged.
The boy, whose prick was rock hard by this time paid no attention to him and held his prick on Paul's lips. Paul was not going to open his mouth so the boy could stick his prick in it. The boy reached out and grabbed a handful of Paul's hair and pulled until Paul opened his mouth, in a second he had a mouthful of prick.
"DO IT!" The boy yelled. Paul started sucking. He did the best he could under the circumstances, never doing this before, it was disgusting and he was in fear of his life. He knew the boys and was fearful that they would spread it all over school that he was in the park dressed as a girl and that he had sucked one of themes cocks. He, wisely, decided to cooperate and not resist.
After his mouth was filled with the cum that he had teased out of the prick in his mouth, he swallowed. "Please guys. Don't make me do this. I'll do anything. Don't tell any one."
The first boy was putting his dick back, "That is a contradiction of terms. We won't tell on you but you have to do what we want."
"And what do you want me to do?" said Paul who was still being held on his knees.
"You have to do my friends here." Said the boy.
"Please don't make me do this." He whimpered.
"Would you rather we told everyone at school what you just did to me? We have a camera and can take pictures of how you like to dress like a slut and prowl the park; would you like that... Pauline?"
He walked around and grabbed Paul's arm from one of the boys who took his place in front of Paul. The second guy had his prick out and as soon as Paul saw it he had it in his mouth. This time it was not as hard, I mean difficult. Paul still had the taste of the first mouth full of cum in his mouth when it was filled with the second.
Another switch and Paul had his third mouth full of prick. The first two had taught him a little about cock sucking so this one was better for both Paul and the third guy. Paul sucked and licked until he felt the cock stiffen in preparation of losing its load. Paul did not pull out so fast this time, savoring the salty, sticky wad in his mouth; nor did he swallow so fast. He held it in his mouth for several minutes before swallowing.
The hardest thing was that he was still being forced to kneel on the hard ground with his arms spread out behind him. He wondered if he could do a better job if his arms were free. "What the hell am I thinking?"
"OK. Let the bitch up." The one who seemed to be the leader said. "Bring her over to the car."
"Are you going to take me home?" he asked hopefully.
"In due time but we still want to have some more fun." He said.
"Are you going to make me suck your cocks again? I think I can do it better this time." Paul whined.
"Not exactly." The leader said. They reached the car. "Lay face down over the hood." He said pointing to the car.
"What are you going to do?" Paul asked fearfully.
"Whatever we want. Will we have to hold you?"
"No. I'll cooperate. You did say that you will not say anything to the kids at school...right?"
"Right. We don't want anyone sharing our bitch. Now... get over the hood."
He lay over the hood as he was instructed. "Are we going to have to hold you down?" the leader asked.
"I don't think so. I hope not. That is so emasculating." "like sucking cock isn't"
He lay face down as he was told. Someone pulled his pants, pantyhose and panties down to his knees. The leader again had his cock out. He bent over Paul and whispered in his ear. "This may hurt a bit but you will enjoy it, I can almost promise." He spit on his hand and rubbed the spit on his cock. Paul knew what was coming next. He first tightened his anal muscles then relaxed them. He felt the cock entering his ass. At first he thought it would never go in, then, after a few seconds of almost unbearable pain, it slipped in. the boy started pumping and Paul, after a few seconds, matched his rhythm. A few seconds later and Paul was enjoying himself. He had never had a feeling like this; it was wonderful, he never wanted it to stop. Soon he felt wetness in his ass and the boy pulled out.
Paul felt the juices running down his cheeks and ass. The other two boys had their turn. When they finished he pulled up his panties and saw the blood and cock juices smeared all over his upper legs. He was sore, and who wouldn't be after having three cocks up his ass.
"Will you please take me home now? I did what you asked." He pleaded.
"OK. We're finished for tonight." The leader said. "But you will be on call whenever we want you, and be dressed like you are tonight, right Bitch."
"Yes. I will." Paul said. Then everything hit him at once. He was dressed as a woman, he had sucked three cocks and had taken three up the ass and he was destined for more of the same whenever these three guys wanted it. He was scared and disgusted with himself.
He sat in the back of the car with one of the boys who made him jerk him off. A few blocks from home the boy kissed him, deeply. He felt his tongue enter his mouth and allowed him to be tongue fucked, needless to say that Paul had a hard on, he had one most of the night. The boy grabbed Paul's dick through his pantied crotch and jacked him off. Paul had ejaculated several times that night and his panties were absolutely ruined, not that he cared about the panties, it was the constant emasculation that was eating at him.
All three boys walked him to his darkened house and kissed him goodnight.
The girls had gone to bed hours ago and fallen asleep. They slept right through him coming home. He went to his room and removed his soiled clothes. They slept through his going to his mother's room and getting one of her sexiest peignoirs. He put it on after washing his face which was covered with cum. He filled the built in bra with the stuffing the girls had used in his other bra. They slept as he fixed his make up as well as he could, never have done it before.
They slept as he passed their room and went to the kitchen. When he went to the cutlery draw and took out a sharp serrated stake knife and climbed up on the table to sit cross legged; and they slept as he severed the arteries in both his wrists.
They slept as the blood poured all over his lap and the table top. They woke only when his lifeless body fell from the table to the floor.
"He must be home; I hope he enjoyed our little joke." Nancy said, and rolled over and went back to sleep.
END
THE THING (2020)
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.
Author's Note: A silly, cheeky tribute to John W. Campbell, John Carpenter, and Bill Lancaster. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to them.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
START
"Who could that be?" asked Norris.
He and the others watched the red car race toward the mansion. It veered crazily along the narrow driveway. Suddenly, it smashed into a large oak tree. Flames flickered. The tree started to burn. The lawn started to turn brown.
"The magnolias!" cried Clark.
"Holy shit!" yelled Childs.
"Get the fire extinguishers!" shouted Blair.
"Magnolias? There's a burning car and your thinking of the fucking magnolias? What about the lilac tree?" shouted Fuchs.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the kitchen.
-----000-----
"Mac, it'll be ok. Nothing to it. The clouds will clear up a tad," said Bennings.
Mac looked out the window at the blue sky. It was sunny and a pleasant 20 degrees Celsius outside. Mac looked at Bennings who shrugged his shoulders.
Mac said, "Fine. You say the car came from that dark, creepy, strange mansion on the other side of the evil-looking, imposing, and really high mountain. I'll check it out. But I'm not taking Dr. Cooper with me!"
Dr. Cooper looked at Mac bashfully. "You don't have to, Mac. But I really do like riding in that big F150 with you.... You know." His voice was meek: just like, he thought, Mac had always liked it.
-----000-----
The front doors of the grim-looking mansion were open. The two men entered. What they saw staggered them.
There was the usual detritus of a Bacchanalian femdom fest. Empty champagne glasses. Chocolate wrappers discarded carelessly on the floor. A stray pink stocking. A broken fur-lined handcuff. Soiled panties. A large dildo under a couch. Helium filled balloons stuck to the ceiling. And Celine Dion playing in the background.
"Where is everyone?" Dr. Cooper asked to no one.
"Fuck," said Mac.
"Not yet. There's more searching to do here," replied Dr. Cooper to deny himself immediate gratification. Mac looked at him in astonishment.
The two men proceeded upstairs.
"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried. "Look!" He pointed to a large, humansized wardrobe filled with French maid outfits. On the sides of the wardrobe was stenciling. The stenciling was in script, human script, not alien script. The script was in all caps, bold, underlined Arial 256 font and spelt: 'Harkton Maids Academy No. 2871-F'.
"Whatever it was, those dirty dozen doms let it out," Mac muttered.
"Pardon?" asked Dr. Cooper.
"Are you wearing your hearing aids?" Mac asked with exasperation.
-----000-----
"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried yet again. "Look!" He pointed to a small, frail, tiny, puny, scrawny, skinny French maid sprawled on a child's bed in the maid's room.
"This stinks!" Mac observed.
Dr. Cooper nodded his agreement. "Chanel No. 5," he opined.
Mac looked around and found what he was looking for immediately next to him: a switch. He lightly hit the French maid with it. Nothing. He hit the French maid with full force. The French maid whimpered in delight.
"Now what?" asked Dr. Cooper.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"We found this," Dr. Cooper said to the assembled others once he and Mac returned.
Mac flung open the wardrobe doors. There were gasps and cries of horror as he unveiled what they had brought back.
All the other men stared in astonishment at the wide variety of exquisitely sewn, lace trimmed, satin, nylon, and light cotton assortment of French maid clothing. And the dozens of 6-inch heels. And the many varied hosiery: sheer, control-top, toeless, opaque, matte, sheen, and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.
"We also found this," Mac declared, as he turned on the video and streamed it on the big screen that was awesome for watching football, soccer, and basketball (but not golf...).
The images were unusually disturbing (except on SissyFictionWild websites): dozens of French maids cleaning the other mansion, from top to bottom, from head to toe, inside and out, from left to right, and there and back again. Vacuums. Swiffer dusters. Javex. Cleaning rags. Brooms. Mops.
"I need to study this," Blair quietly said as he gently fingered the wardrobe.
-----000-----
"This," Blair pointed to a large, heavy, metal bolt on the doors of the wardrobe, "is masculine. All of us understand it. It's large. It's heavy. It's metal. And dark grey; don't forget dark grey. Masculine.
"But what we have here," Blair said to the others as he opened the doors and pointed to the contents, "is not masculine at all."
He paused because he knew that pauses in short stories --- like pauses in novels and literature, like pauses in plays and movies, and like pauses in life, real life --- served no purpose except dramatic ones. Here, he simply wanted the attention that a drama-seeker like himself deserved. Rightly deserved. Despite what his overbearing mother, his loathsome older sisters, and his despicable ex-wives had told him.
"That's sissy," he softly whispered in his professional opinion as he slowly wrapped a garter belt around his wrist.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the basement.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"Hey! Everybody! Get down here fast!" Windows shouted at the top of his voice. The others raced into the room. They let out a collective gasp: several of the French maid uniforms, pantyhose, and heels were missing.
"Who had the key to the wardrobe?" shouted Garry.
"You were the last one!" retorted Palmer.
"No, he did!" yelled Norris, as he pointed to Blair.
"That stuff wouldn't fit me even if I wanted it!" countered Blair.
"The best outfits are gone!" shrieked Fuchs. Everyone shut up at his remark and stared hopelessly at the cedar-lined, spacious interior of this delightful Baroque wardrobe.
-----000-----
A few hours later:
"This is a big fucking problem," Mac forcefully said in his baritone voice as he surveyed the horror.
Everyone had gathered yet again in yet another room in the mansion. There, they had seen with their own eyes the immaculate, shiny floor, the polished veneer furniture, the dust-free bookshelves, and the shining windows.
"There's a sissy on the loose," Mac said grimly. "And it's cleaning this place. Pretty soon, our very masculine manly of most masculinity manliness weekends for men only is going to be sissified."
"I think we should call our wives and ask them for help," begged Herbert who was not a character in any written, staged, or filmed production of 'The Thing'.
"Are you fucking crazy! They'll never let us live this down if we do that!" shouted Garry.
"What if you're wrong?" countered Childs.
"Then you're wrong! Again! You're always wrong. You've been wrong since high school," said Dr. Cooper, remembering that sordid incident with Childs back in grade 10 behind the boys' locker room.
-----000-----
"Look here," said Blair, holding up a pair of frilly panties. "I found these in the hamper. Very mysterious. Very mysterious."
"They belong to my wife. She wore them yesterday before she and the others went to the City for the play," remarked Norris.
"Oh, sorry." Blair's comment was a meek excuse.
Norris knew that he had just caught Blair in a sissy act, but he didn't want to alert him to his suspicions. Not yet anyway. It could wait until night. With a smoldering fire. With fluted champagne glasses. And Celine Dion playing in the background.
-----000-----
"Noooooo!!!" The loud cry pierced the tranquility of the lovely mansion. Everyone raced to the source: the kitchen.
"Fuck!"
"Oh no!"
"I don't believe it!"
"Will this horror ever end?"
They gazed upon the disaster.
All the chips, peanuts, cashews, Doritos, chicken wings, French fries, doughnuts, coke, beer, vodka, whiskey, Scotch, marijuana, THC, CBD, and brownies --- all the good food --- was put away neatly in several boxes. The boxes collectively were squarely lined up with the tiling on the floor. Precisely centred on top of each immaculately taped box was a piece of 8.5 x 11 paper with one inch margins. On each piece of paper were listed in an unknown sans serif 14 pitch font the box's contents.
Worse, on the kitchen island were several trays of washed and sliced vegetables and fruit, recyclable bottles of sparkling mineral water, and low calorie biscuits.
"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the garage.
-----000-----
"I've devised a cunning test to find which of us has turned into a sissy," Mac said.
"What's the test?" asked Garry.
"Does it hurt?" asked Blair.
"Oprah is on in 15. Will we be done by then?" Bennings asked.
"Shut up! I'm about to tell you all about the test. Now fucking shut up!" Mac was getting mad. He started pacing around the room. "Sissies like to clean. Real men have wives for that. Real men don't clean," he began.
"I have a Filipino maid and no wife. Where does that leave me?" Palmer asked.
"Shut up and smoke some more shit," Mac replied. "So, what I figure is this test by which we see a sissy forced to come out of hiding. To reveal themselves. To show themselves. To demonstrate---"
"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.
Mac moved to the door to another room. "I reckon a sissy can't stand a mess. A sissy can't help but want to clean up a mess. It's in their nature. It's who they are. It's what they---"
"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.
"So, I created the biggest mess possible in this next room," he pointed to a door, "and left some vacuum cleaners, brooms, mops, feather dusters, rags, and buckets --- and Lysol for COVID-19 --- all over the place in that room. And I left the TV on the NFL channel. I figure no sissy can resist the temptation to clean the place and to switch channels to the Shopping Network."
He looked at each of his friends in the eye. Several of them looked back at him. With anticipation. With hunger. With lust. Frankly, it started to creep Mac out.
"Anyway, we can't have any sissies in this group. We all wear jeans, plaid, baseball caps, and work boots. No sissies." He grew serious. "We all watch football." He grew even more serious. "We eat greasy pizza."
He opened the door.
-----000-----
All his friends threw themselves into the room and picked up some cleaning utensil or tool and started sissy-handling the chaotic mess straight away.
They were done in minutes.
Mac stared at them. He was flabbergasted.
"All of you?"
They collectively shrugged their shoulders and murmured: "sorry, bud,"; "it's just that way,"; 'easy and quick actually if you put your mind to it!"; "my wife is happy when I do it,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.
"For how long?"
They collectively grunted and groaned: "wedding,"; "moving in together,"; "after I met her mother,"; "third date,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.
Mac hung his head. He kicked the floor. He sighed.
He stood defeated, alone, surrounded by his friends.
"Is it any fun?" he asked, resignedly.
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020
THE VALEDICTORIAN SPEECH
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019
Warning: Attempted humour.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
RT
NICE GUY
Eric was a nice young man from a humble, hard-working family. They lived in a middle-class part of town. His dad worked in construction. His mom worked in retail at the mall. His sister Roxy was 16 and in high school. Eric was 18 and had just graduated high school. He thought of himself as 'normal' in just about every possible way: sports, hobbies, school, friends, girls, etc.
His family was not rich and that posed a challenge. Eric was smart and had been accepted into a prestigious university. The family's non-poverty circumstances precluded Eric's being awarded a scholarship. So, he needed some money to pay for his tuition and books, let alone residence.
"You could always give my sister a call," his mom jokingly said to him one day. "She always seems to be bragging about her successes in business. Maybe she could get you a job that pays good money." Eric's mom didn't really like her sister Nadine and was glad that she lived three thousand kilometres away. She did respect her sister's apparent business successes but didn't actually know what they were.
To Eric, Aunt Nadine was somewhat of a family mystery. He had always been fascinated by her vitality, exuberance, and flagrantly, brazenly zestful embrace of life and passion. And he now needed money and she might be able to provide it. He called her.
"Eric, no problem," Aunt Nadine cheerfully said. "There's a variety of different jobs that pay varying amounts. We'll decide upon one that is suitable for you and you can enjoy a debt-free first year at university!" Eric packed for the long bus trip to spend the summer at Aunt Nadine's.
FIRST SUMMER JOB
"How are you doing, sweetie? We're almost home." Aunt Nadine's voice punctured Eric's sleep. He struggled to sit up. He was shocked to see his Aunt drive in the direction of his house. "Where are we?" he asked. Nadine pulled the Audi over to the side of the road.
"Sweetie, look at me. Eric is a little, silly, pumpkin-alligator-toothpick-koala." She smiled.
Eric suddenly remembered his summer. It had been fantastic and exhilarating, demanding and rewarding. He knew he had made lots of money through hard work, worn industrial clothing, used a framing hammer, cut wood with a circular saw, and carried boxes and other heavy things hither and thither. He knew he had cleaned himself diligently each day after work and had shaved all his body hair off in order to minimize the risk of workplace accidents. He knew he had reveled and caroused many weekends and late nights with Aunt Nadine and her raucous circle of fun-loving, industrial worker friends.
He was a bit troubled that all of the details of his summer seemed, at best, vague and, at worst, ersatz, but he could not deny that he felt great!
They arrived. His Aunt did not attempt to go in. She waved and drove off as his mom came out the front door. "Why did you shave your head bald?" she asked.
"Workplace safety," he replied honestly and trod up to his room. He checked his on-line banking. He gasped: he had amassed just over $45,299 in three months! He soon recovered from his astonishment and paid his university bills.
He spent a few days helping his dad with house maintenance, his mom with housecleaning, and his sister Roxy with house partying, Eric felt rooted at home and refreshingly ready to start first year university. Even his hair was starting to grow back. He hadn't a care in the world.
FIRST SCHOOL YEAR
School started. He made friends fast, mainly because he was nice, likeable guy. He became known as a good friend to many. He also judiciously, subtly, evenly helped his less-wealthy friends: a coffee here, a snack there, $15 toward a needed textbook, and so on. His shoulders for crying and ears for listening were also valued. His common-sense advice was often heeded, and his sound, modern morals gave others a clear, sincere point of reference. Eric was someone they could rely on.
The best university experience a student can have is a debt-free one. Eric had no debts. He could and did focus on his courses. He studied (and helped tutor some of his friends). He had more time because he didn't need a part-time job. His past summer's job gave him this privilege, and he knew it. His marks were superb: Dean's Honours List. He felt truly grateful to his Aunt.
Toward the end of his first year, another student whom Eric knew slightly sat down in front of him at the usual cafeteria. Mitchell was a kind, caring, sensitive, gentle, delicate, young man; he hadn't a single evil atom in his body. "Eric, if I may please ask you a question."
"Go ahead, Mitch. What's up?"
"Eric, do you have a small beauty mark about two inches under your left nipple?" Mitch nervously covered his mouth with his pale, fragile, left hand.
Eric was surprised. He did have one exactly as described. He scrambled to think of where Mitch may have seen it and why he was asking about it. "That's a bit of a bizarre question, but to answer, yes, yes I do have one there, Mitch. What's up?"
Mitch's eyes brightened and he smiled warmly. "Gosh, I don't know what to say! I just truly admire you and think that you are wonderful!" Mitch quickly stood up, and raced away, giggling like a little schoolgirl who has just confessed a crush.
"What the hell was all that about," Eric wondered. Thus ended his first year at university.
Once back home, he raised the idea of again working with Aunt Nadine with his parents. They offered no objections; Eric had seemed perfectly happy and healthy after last summer. Maybe, Eric's mom thought, she had been unfairly judging her sister Nadine all these years.
"Eric, that's fantastic," Nadine gushed. "Another year means more experience and more money. I'll pay for your ticket and fly you out here. This is going to be the best summer ever!"
SECOND SUMMER JOB
"Eric, sweetie. Wake up! We're almost home. We're gonna land in 15 minutes!" Aunt Nadine's voice again punctured Eric's sleep. He struggled to sit up in his first-class cabin seat. He was shocked to see that he was wearing a three-piece pinstriped suit, a white dress shirt, cufflinks, a modern tie, a Rolex Submariner (stainless steel, black face, no date), and black Oxfords.
His Aunt looked at him, softly grabbed his lapels, and pulled him toward her. It would have been a sultry gesture except that she was his Aunt, so it, like, wasn't.
"You have so much to be proud of. Eric is a little, silly, juniperWestphalia -aardvark-asteroid." She laughed.
Eric suddenly remembered his second summer. It too had been fantastic and exhilarating, demanding and rewarding. He knew he had made lots of money through hard work, worn office clothing, used a calculator, made PERT and Gantt charts, prepared speeches about stuff, and set bland agenda for whatever meetings this day and that day. He knew he had cleaned himself diligently each day after work because of office air quality conditions and had shaved all his body hair off in order to minimize dry-cleaning costs. He knew he had soireed the reception circuit and had fraternized many worknights in smoke-filled, wood-panelled boardrooms with Aunt Nadine and her serious-minded executive and law firm partner friends.
Again, he was somewhat disturbed that the details of his summer experiences seemed weak and pale. But --- again --- he could not deny that he felt great!
At the airport, Aunt Nadine said her farewell. "I've got to make my connection to the Bahamas. There's a baccarat game I can't miss tonight at the Nassau Casino. Love you, Eric. Toodles!"
Eric's limousine arrived at the family home. Eric got out, regretting that he hadn't been more careful to avoid spilling the Taitinger on his pants. It was a small spot but nonetheless...
His dad was impressed. "At this rate, my boy," he beamed, "every top-notch business will want to hire you. You're doing us proud, son."
His mother moved closer to him and studied his face. "Have you been wearing eyeliner?"
Eric knew he had been wearing it. He answered her as honestly as he could. "Mom, a lot of trading on the exchange floor is done by eye contact. Raise an eyebrow. Wink. Double-blink. By wearing eyeliner, other traders could see me better, raise or lower prices, buy or sell, swap or short, more easily. It's a normal thing in most stock exchanges, eyeliner is. Eyeliner and eyebrows; all eye communication. Eye shadow too."
Up in his room, he turned on his laptop to check his banking. He collapsed on the floor: $348,261 and growing as he watched. Deposit after deposit. Two hundred and fifty dollars now. One hundred and forty-one dollars ten minutes later. He was absolutely flabbergasted. Just what had Aunt Nadine got him into this past summer? Was he really that successful wearing eyeliner on the trading floor selling swaps and shorting derivatives? That is, after all, what he knew he had done.
Feeling a bit disoriented, he quickly changed back into his regular jeans and sweats and went downstairs. For the next few days, he assisted his mom in her women's league rummage sale, assisted his dad in finally repairing that old '57 jalopy in the driveway, and assisted his sister Roxy in selling cookies for her soccer team. Spending time with them kept him grounded. He felt their love and reciprocated in kind.
He knew he would be ready for school again. Apart from a slight regret that his hair on his bald head wasn't growing back faster, Eric was uber-relaxed and mellow.
SECOND SCHOOL YEAR
Eric's second year was in many ways better than his first. He kept his old friends and made many more new ones. Three of his friends would have dropped out but for Eric's discreet financial assistance. "I'll pay you back," each of them said, but Eric would have none of it. He insisted that they consider his gift just that, a gift, no strings attached. Others he helped in other low-key ways.
His reputation grew campus wide. People saw true leadership and appreciated it. His volunteering and other charitable work gained the admiration of many. His humility and sympathetic manner were considered exemplary.
And with his soul and conscience clear and with his financial position secure, Eric could again focus on his studies. He made Dean's Honours List --- again.
That said, however, there were a few unusual moments during the year. Consider the following example.
Eric started dating a young philosophy student named Mei Ling. By the middle of their first date, they advanced from holding hands, to kissing, to petting, to mutual masturbation, to 69, to mish vaginal sex, and finally to 'anything goes' sex. Eric loved Mei's wanton sluttiness.
On their second date, Mei Ling tried to shove three fingers up Eric's bum as he was humping her. He moved her hand away. She moved it back. Away. Back, Away. Back. He finally moved himself away from her, and his rigidity faded to black. "Mei, what the fuck are you doing? I don't like that."
Mei Ling flashed her teeth, hissed, and spread her fingers like a cat ready to pounce. She screamed, "Come here, sissy boy! Let me fly the Red Dragon into your ass!" She lifted up a massive (red) dildo; attached to it was a strap-on belt. Eric fled.
But Mei Ling was not an isolated case. Not always a Red Dragon, just always something bizarre. Eric had no interest in wearing diapers (Cheryl), being a French maid (Vickie), wearing a corset (Allison), nor receiving enemas (Marylou). Eric fled them all.
Consider another example. Mitch kept sitting near him or next to him. Eric did not mind Mitch at all. Yet it struck Eric that Mitch seemed to shadow him almost everywhere. And Mitch also roped some of his equally soft and delicate friends into the Follow-Eric-Everywhere-Club. Eric sometimes felt a tiny bit irritated by their groupie-like presence (but only just a tiny bit because Eric had a good soul and was generous in understanding others).
Mitch covered his small Cupid's bow with his gentle, tender, right hand and gushed at Eric. "It's so admirable what you are doing. To be out there. To be seen. To be heard. It's your voice and your body and you are so proud of it. You're my hero!" Mitch giggled excitedly.
Eric was a bit puzzled. "It was just a 5 minute presentation to the history seminar on William the Conqueror. It was nothing that deserves any hero worship, Mitch."
Mitch giggled tremendously. "Oh, you slay me! Alright then, we'll just keep it our secret. I love secrets. And Tinkerbelle loves secrets too!" Mitch's last sentence was accompanied by his pointing at Eric.
Eric got up. "I really have to get going to my advanced calculus class." As he left the giggling Mitch behind, Eric wondered to himself what Mitch was so giddy about. And what the fuck was that Tinkerbelle shit?
School over, he went home.
His marks for second year were phenomenal. His parents thought the world of him. Stellar student. Ace friend. All round good fellow. Humble too. "You're the best of the best, young man," his dad said.
Eric checked his bank account. He had started second year with just over $360,000. It now contained a little over $829,241. He quietly paid off his parents' mortgage ("a bank sweepstakes" their banker told his parents). He bought his sister Roxy the cute, little, cherry red Mazda that she had wanted ("It's too dangerous for you to be taking the bus," he justified it to her).
It wasn't just family. A local drama group got some money for a summer production. Eleven kittens that were to be euthanized were given a reprieve because of Eric's small donation to the humane society. All (except the tiger-striped one) were later placed in new homes. These and others were the beneficiaries of Eric's sincere goodwill. Eric had well learnt the lesson that a little money could go a long way to help many.
Not long after finishing his second year, he called Aunt Nadine and expressed a desire to go back to work for a third summer.
"Eric, are you sure? I'd love to have you out here again. But, sweetie, remember there's more to life than work. You don't need the money. Why not enjoy a last summer before graduating by, say, touring the truffle fields in Europe or swimming with the dolphins in Mexico? Also, since you've done blue-collar and white-collar jobs here, perhaps there's not much more for you to do."
Eric detected a slight degree of reluctance in her voice, but he brushed the thought of it away. He answered with enthusiasm.
"I've done so well with you each summer, Aunt Nadine, that I really feel that I want to push myself as far as possible to see just how far I can go in business. There's still the executive levels in your companies, right?" Eric took confidence in his accomplishments the previous summers and in his standing at school. He could do it. He would do it. It was thus almost already done.
Nadine was so obliging. "Yes, executive levels, that's what we'll call them. Okay then: I'll give you every opportunity to go as far as you can in the time that we have, my beloved nephew."
THIRD SUMMER JOB
Several weeks later, Nadine jostled Eric awake in the Learjet. "Eric, it's wakey-wakey time. Eric is a little, silly, bubblegum-apple-zebra-polygon." She grinned.
Eric suddenly remembered his third summer. It had been awesome and inspiring, rewarding and spectacular. He knew he had made lots of money through crafty negotiations, had dressed in ballroom tuxedos as a matter of routine, used a conductor's baton, placed bids at auctions at Sotheby's, and drafted nuanced provisions in merger and acquisition documents. He knew that he had scrubbed himself clean to remove all of the toxic dust that plagued the city this past summer each day after work and that he had shaved all his body hair off in order to mitigate the effects of dry skin. He knew he had mingled gracefully many times with Aunt Nadine and her distinguished circle of witty, erudite friends.
Of course, all of his memories were just a bit vague. But he was past the point of worrying about that. He felt great!
He was dressed immaculately in a Hugo Boss designer suit. His brogues glistened. His Omega shone. His fedora covered his shiny, bald head. He got home and his parents were astonished by his magnificence.
"We're so immensely proud of you," his dad said. His mom's concern about the multiple piercing holes in his ears were allayed by Eric's honestly held explanation that these acupuncture holes mitigated the risk of brain cancer from cell phones. His mom seemed somewhat satisfied with that answer.
He sipped his Grand Marnier as he checked his bank account: $2,459,386 and growing. He put on his jeans, sweats, and runners. He cut the lawn for his dad, he did the washing for his mom, and he taught his sister Roxy basic calculus. Eric was a wonderful human being.
LAST SCHOOL YEAR
But school began awkwardly this third and final year. Most of his longtime friends seemed a bit distant. "Hi, sorry, I was kinda busy and forgot." That sort of distancing. "Oh yeah, sure, lunch next week sometime, maybe." That sort of stuff. Nothing blatant. Nothing obvious. Just a little drifting, easily coupled with a tad of avoidance. Eric sensed that his friends were dropping him. He did not know why.
It wasn't just his closer friends; it was acquaintances too. As an example, he offered Sara Collins (a ghastly woman) tutorial assistance for their Renaissance Italy course. She desperately needed it; she was profoundly stupid and immensely dumb. But she surprisingly rejected his kind offer. "Don't you dare touch my panties and bras, you fifi," she said, storming off.
He also soon found that he could not get a date. There was mostly, "I'm doing my hair that night." One girl declined his offer, saying she could not compete with his growing celebrity. "But it was just a picture in the neighbourhood newsletter of me handing the daycare centre a small cheque for $200 for their Valentine's Day party," he honestly countered hopelessly. The worst was the time another young lass told him, "It's really brave what you're doing, but I think you need professional help. Bye-bye." Eric had no idea what she was talking about.
And thus he one day found himself in the usual cafeteria contemplating life. His grades were excellent. Rumour had it he was going to be selected Valedictorian. Yet socially, well, most things had fallen apart this past year. He did not know why.
Mitch sat down with him. Mitch often just looked at him with some degree of amazement, hero worship. Eric was at his wit's end.
"Mitch, be honest with me. Why do people try to engage me in sex talk all the time? Why is it that every single girl I ask out wants to take a laser to my pubic hair or whip me on a cross?"
Mitch laughed. "Tinkerbelle!" he shouted gleefully.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Eric was slowly stewing and was at risk of possibly perhaps maybe blowing up and smashing Mitch's face inside out.
Mitch saw his reaction and cowered a bit. "Seriously? Are you shitting me?"
Eric stared at Mitch. "I have no fucking idea what you are talking about. And now I will kill you if you don't talk and tell me."
Mitch gulped and told Eric to calm down. "Eric, you are a dead ringer for the namesake star of a subscription porn website called 'Tinkerbelle Tranny' that started about three years ago. Most of the videos on that site have been illegally copied onto PornHub and all the other major porn sites. They're out there forever now. And the star of all the videos on that site looks like you. Exactly like you. Scary exactly like you.
"You do have a small birthmark high on the inside of your right thigh, right?" Mitch knowingly glanced at Eric's groin and smiled.
"What the fuck is the website's address?" Eric whispered in horror.
THE INDELICATE MEETING
"You fucking cunt!"
Eric raged at his Aunt. He had chartered the Airbus to take him to his Aunt's luxury island in the south Pacific. His separately transported Mercedes had raced to the cliff-top villa. The sun blazed off his Patek Phillipe as he stormed through her first living room and down the marbled hallway.
The maids stood silently in the shadows of the gilded hall.
Eric and Aunt Nadine stared at each other, he with anger, she with amusement. The Dom Perignon he brought her was perfectly chilled. They each held their Waterford crystal glasses at perfect waist height. The caviar and crisps lay on the silver platters.
"Oh, Eric, lighten up. So what? We put you under a wee bit of hypnosis, with some serious drugs in aid, from the moment you got here each year. Yes, we gave you bullshit memories about bullshit jobs that you never did.
Eric would not have it. "The first year you had me be a webcam solo sissy slut! I never asked for that."
Nadine brushed his concerns aside. "Look, you can't hypnotize someone into doing things that they don't really want to do, you know that, right?" He stared at her. She waved her hand and continued. "Or you could say that you established a name and a market for your looks. And 'SleazyBlondeNomad96' remains a great brand name. Just spin it, baby."
Eric fumed. "Aargh! SleazyBlondeNomad96 was shoving dildos in and out of her orifices all summer long! And I didn't even know it! And that crazy electric blue wig! And that disgusting violet mini-skirt? I looked like a prehistoric whore from a psychotic Barney dinosaur movie!"
Nadine smiled and answered: "The Red Dragon piece was a big hit too, especially in Japan. It's a cash cow! You cleaned up on the licensing rights to it. That's what I mean about multi-pronged marketing. Frankly, though, me and the crew didn't think you could take it all; you really surprised us that day." Her pride in her nephew was evident on her face.
Eric glared at her.
"The second summer was just straight babyfication, sissification, and feminization videos! I fucking hate diapers! How the fuck do I explain these sex scenes to my mom --- your sister? I've now eaten so much cunt and so many dildos that I can't stand the smell of salmon or trout or silicone! And what if my sister sees me in that yellow outfit with the saffron hair and the bonnet? I am so fucking ruined!"
Eric sat down and looked at her accusingly.
"And the third summer? The full-length movies? 'Caligula Goes to Sodom & Gomorrah'? 'The French Maid's Fetish Fantasies'? 'The Deepest Throat'? What were you thinking of? You're my Aunt!"
His face was filled with despair. Eric felt lost.
"I have to deliver my valedictorian speech tomorrow. Half of my friends have disowned me. The other half soon will. The Dean is trying to get me off the stage, I think. Everyone sneers at me. I'm never gonna get any sort of respectable job. My reputation is in tatters. My life is over."
Nadine tried humour and spritely said, "At least your tramp stamps always came off!" He looked at her aghast.
Nadine looked at her nephew. She did like him very much, in a healthy Aunt-nephew way. She had seen that he had had a financial problem and had taken measures to help him overcome it. She soothed her own soul, thinking of the many forms he had signed consenting to undergo anything she had arranged. True, she forgot he had signed them under her hypnosis.
But, anyway, she believed he now needed to learn a lesson and to grow up.
"Eric, look at me." He looked up at her. "Life is an exercise in discretion. You choose red or blue, or A or B, or left or right, or up or down. You then live with the consequences of your choice.
"Look, I chose left and I have this, this, this, and that. Your mother chose right and doesn't have this, this, this, nor that. You're just 21 for fuck's sakes. You flew down here on an extravagance, on a chartered plane. You could have phoned me or video-conferenced or something. But no, you chose a luxurious way to get here. You now have worldly choices that few others do."
She paused. She stroked her chin. She continued:
"Spend your wealth; you earned it. Enjoy life. Only you and I know the 'unknowingly' earned it aspect. Correct, you did not choose to earn it that way. But that's water under the bridge now! Let it go! Everyone else thinks Tinkerbelle is intentional, the real you, or part of you at least. And Tinkerbelle is a financial success. At 21."
She looked at him fondly.
"Eric, you can run from this or you can own it. You can expose me, have me arrested, and so on, and also distance yourself from SleazyBlondeNomad96, and you would certainly lose an aunt who loves you. Alternatively, you can seize, own it, and proclaim it. And you can explore the world and life through the lens of luxury and with a settled mind."
"What's done is done. Just, please, please, please, think about whether you want to control your life or to have it controlled by others. Think, Tinkerbelle, think." She chuckled at the last sentence. Eric stared daggers at her.
THE SPEECH
"I'm going to tell you why I am this university's valedictorian, and why you are not. How I could study at leisure for classes to get A pluses while you were sweating away in some shitty part-time job, not learning, and getting just Cs and Ds. Why I am graduating with a Mercedes in the parking lot and a Beamer in the garage, and why you take the bus. Why I am going to retire now, and why you are just starting to slave away at your pathetic proletarian life of the next four decades. Why I already have more money in the bank than any of you will ever earn in your lifetime.
"The salacious rumours about me are true. And if it took me a fuck, a bang, and a blow to get ahead on this planet, then so be it; I've got the biggest head start in history. I'm 21: envy me.
"To all of my so-called friends who have been laughing at me these past few months, go fuck yourselves. Never ask me for anything ever again. Don't expect anything from me either, except scorn, you wretched, poverty-fated scum.
"And you, Dean Dickhead, look at your socks. They have holes in them. You're a Dean for fuck's sakes; can't you afford a new pair of socks, you cheap, stupid bastard?"
And so Eric's speech went on. He proudly claimed his sissified, cum slut web identity, described it in detail, and then smeared it and his business acumen in people's faces. Why? Because he had the luxury of choice, of unfettered discretion. And because he was comfortable enough in his heterosexual skin to do so.
He closed by telling everyone to fuck off and die.
"Thank you," were his last words.
Silence ruled. His parents were mortified. The faculty was stunned. His fellow graduates sat there ashamed, emasculated, neutered, valueless, impoverished. They railed with despair at the truth, the prescience, of his prognostications and their dismal, inevitable, grim destinies. People recalled the speech years afterward, getting most of the details right because someone posted the entire video of it online and it had more than fifteen million views.
Roxy loved it.
She had always admired her big brother. A leader, a true leader. He was always there to show her the better way, the better path. He was so normal, a stand-up fellow, one of the best ever. Her shining star. Her heart raced. Her breath was short. Her body was electrified. And, because of his stirring speech, she knew how she could pay for university (and satisfy her teenage loins).
She hurried her phone out of her pocket.
"Hi! Aunt Nadine? It's Roxy! I'm going to university this year, desperately need money, am over 18, and was talking to Eric..."
END
By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2019