He knew the routine, having had it drilled into him over the years. Her doggedness was unrelenting and just the sound of her voice was enough for him to spring into the proper healthy posture. Standing up tall, he squared up his chin and drew his shoulders back. Then he thrust out his chest just as he had been taught to stand at attention at the academy. The subtle difference was the added rocking of his pelvis forward that caused his heels to rise up off the floor.
Part 2 Searing Afternoon Heat
Chapter 3
“. . . Times are dark. But every shadow no matter how deep is threatened by morning light.” D. Aronofsky
The return trip home had been unusually quiet one for the Patrick and his aunt. The course of events that day had been quite unexpected and thoroughly exhausting. Filled with twists and turns to consider and negotiate, not at all unlike the zigzagging course of the river road they followed home. Much like her nephew, Edith had much to think about as she puttered along in her old rickety Renault. Around one bend in the road she could see all the bright lights and the colorful life of Las Oasis far off on the Nevada side of the river out her windshield. Then around yet another bend there was still another view. One of scattered Oak and Saguaro Cactus and the quiet reserve of the country life that distinguished the vast Arizona landscape on this side of the river. The road wound back and forth much like her thoughts as they followed the course of the river, the only difference was at least she knew where the road was leading.
Patrick’s thoughts were of a like nature, just as you would expect after his harrowing day. From the visit to the barber to his meeting Nicky, it all had so many unexpected twists and turns. He sat quietly, his thoughts swaying too and fro with the yaw of the car as they rounded each bend in the road. Around one bend he’d see the scattering of scraggly Ajo Oak struggling to grow in the parched desert and think of his own struggle to grow up big and strong. The promise had such a strong allure he wanted to persevere, but like the scraggly Oak he wondered if he could endure the forces that would have him give up. Then around another bend he’d see the lights of Las Oasis off in the distance across the boarder and think of Nicky. Once a scraggly boy like himself, he had endured the forces and though blemished by the painted face, showed that there was hope even for him.
They returned home a little later than expected, but still early enough to see her next door neighbor, Mrs. Crawford, still tending her garden. As she parked the car in the drive she stopped to wave to the kindly old woman, a woman still rather spry for her advanced years. She was untypical of the aged who lived in the retirement enclave. Most preferred to remain inside, out of the scorching heat, cloistered away much like Patrick and herself. Then again, that’s why she chose to live here.
Tucked-away in a secluded little cul-de-sac it was quiet, small and the elderly, retired residents kept to themselves. No radios blaring, hot rods screeching or kids screaming. It was a reclusive desert paradise. That is except for the satellite dishes cluttering the landscape. Something Edith had never scribed to, nor tempted to bring into her house. Simply put, being part of the “aerial” nation was not what Edith Whipple was all about, and the solitude and the isolated suited her just find.
Exhausted from the long day they prepared a light meal before retiring to the family room to unwind as Patrick had become accustom. Set in her ways, Edith regimented the evening events with precision, seldom varied and precise as the tic-tock heartbeat of the great grandfather clock that stood beside the fireplace. They sat down to read or engage a craft promptly at six, a hot pot of tea served exactly at seven and preparation for bed always began at eight.
Those hours were a quiet time meant to help gather the inner resources after a hard days work. Where together they could share company, engage a craft or simply enjoy the solitude of the desert-scape framed in the picture window. Or if he chose, play the piano. A talent of his inherited from his mother and something he was very good at.
This night was expected to be no different with one slight exception. Knowing what a particularly difficult day it had been for her nephew she wanted to share a leisurely moment with him as he unwrapped the souvenir sent from Paris. Surely Barbara was right. It could only do a world of good for her to share these moments with him. So with a demonstrable showing of her shared excitement, she handed him the package and hugged him about the shoulders. With her head next to his and a smile to match, he quick as a wink unwrapped and then set the French magazine on his lap.
“Les Diex de la Soleil” was not entirely what either had expected, although from the look upon their faces it would have been hard to tell. Edith looked on with a smile frozen in place not wanting to be impolite. While Patrick smiled not wanting to show his disappointment as he continued to turn the pages. That is, until he got to the three page fold-out of Sgt. Rock posing in a majestic Front Double Bicep. And like all those posing in the “The Gods of the Sun” magazine, he was completely in the nude. As in barring anything other than a bullet bandoleer and a huge weapon — or two! There he paused as the big-as-life pages unfolded in his lap. Flushed red as a peony, his jaw went lax and the tremor of his hands would allow him to go no further.
As Edith saw it, it had to be that huge gun he carried in his hands. Not the Glock knife strapped to his thigh, not the snarled face shaded with black camouflage. Not even the burning village sitting in the background held more prominence than that awe-inspiring weapon now seen lax, at rest, dangling as if spent toward the ground.
“And thank goodness,” Edith thought to herself, quick to see the humor in it all. If that mighty cannon of his had been raised threateningly upright, taut and erect like the head of a viper prepared to strike, she seriously doubted there’d be enough room on the page. Just the sight of that huge weapon caused a flush, and as she fanned herself with one hand, she squeezed him about the shoulders with the other, and offered in affirmation. “My, he certainly has a big gun, doesn’t he?”
Undeniably, that 7.62mm 6 barrel revolving Mini-gun he carried was a very fierce weapon, more than a handful, or three! Then again, no more lethal than Edith’s quick tongue! Both deadly in the wrong hands, and if not careful, will quickly make a mess of things if shot off without forethought. Especially if you’re not quick enough to duck out of the way, something Patrick should have done, but failed to do. So now you’re probably wondering why he didn’t defensively duck-and-weave or just toss down the magazine and head out the door?
As to understanding the whys and the wherefores, well, that’s the subject of this story. Relationships are complex by their nature and as for young Patrick Whipple, let’s not be so quick to pass judgment, at least not yet. Or else you might draw the same unwarranted conclusions his aunt apparently had. And we wouldn’t want that. Young Patrick, our young man in the mirror who doesn’t like himself all that much and who blames himself for his failings, already has enough on his plate to deal with.
Keep in mind that much like ourselves, Patrick is not a finished product. He’s just a few days short of eighteen after all, and like this story, Patrick may yet find a way to “measure up.” Who knows, perhaps he’s destined to become the next Muhammad Ali. A man who certainly knew how to duck-and-weave then toss it all out and head out the door — Then again, maybe not.
----
So the week passed with all the routine familiarity to which Patrick had become accustom. During the morning and after school hours he remained tied to his aunt’s apron, and when not working beside her, he filled the house with the pure joy of his piano playing. By night however, things had changed - especially their after supper quiet time. In large part due to the new French magazine, but also due to his aunt’s new affability, readily cozying up to him as never before.
Once again, it was an innocent gesture, least in her way of thinking. Like everything else with Edith Whipple, you got what you saw. She was an amazingly simple woman, decent and homey. A Mother Hubbard, if you will. But there was also a painstaking sense of diligence about the woman that stood in contrast to that classical storybook simplicity. In the one hand she was wistfully doting; in the other, strictly thorough. Thorough in an excessively vigilance way, this Mother Hubbard made sure her beloved pet was never without a bone.
Whether he was in the need of a warm hug now and again, or a new blouse, her pantry was stocked full in abundance. That also applied to his therapy. If it called for ‘juicing up the bone,’ or whatever, it was her pleasure to offer that too. Of course the juiced up bone she felt obliged to feed him was not altogether like buying him new clothes. As Ms. Stanton had suggested, that required a bit more intimacy as she embraced his interest, explored his needs. Something very much on her mind when she again sat with him to share his new French magazine. “See how his clean shaven body shows the value he placed on good hygiene . . . and,” she inhaled deeply, “handsomely enhances his features.”
Well, conjure up whatever images you may. Much like the Mona Lisa’s smile, I know that not all of you will see this most unlikely picture I’ve painted in the same way. Some might see Edith’s crooked smile as a sign of hedonism, while others might see a compassionate Mrs. Hubbard. But as the picture I’ve painted of her is not yet complete, there is no way for you or I to tell for sure.
Not so with Edith however. She knew exactly what was behind her smile as she cozily snuggled up, clutched him firmly and indulged his interest in those beautiful boys. She did so with earnest in her very thorough way. Like old Mrs. Hubbard of fairy tale fame she was decent and homey. Slightly more vigilant, but in her own way you could say she added just as nicely to the reading of that classic storybook rhyme. “As she reached for his bone, she heard the dog moan, so needing relief from the tension he was prone.”
Okay, okay! I hear the squawking! There are limits and matters of civility that even I, Josie, must adhere to — and I apologize. I just thought it was important that we, together, explore the relevancy of his becoming the next Muhammad Ali. Remember? The possible future scenario for Patrick I outlined previously for you to consider? And if you should find that ducking and weaving is not his forte, then I thought I’d introduce another possibility for you to consider. One possibly more apt, but for that I’ll let you decide. Like this one you might find headlining the morning papers:
“Dateline: June 15, 2007, River Bend, Arizona - Sixty-six year old Edith Whipple was a victim of assault today in her home. Mrs. Whipple shown here with her Boater-hat and a broomstick stuck up her ass is a long time resident of River Bend and member of the Ladies Auxiliary and Lady Pioneers. The assailant now in custody has been identified as seventeen year old Patrick Whipple, a nephew and impending graduate of Dobb’s military academy. According to sources Mr. Whipple turned violent when the poor, defensive, frail old woman tried to help him overcome his addiction to a male nudist magazine. Mrs. Whipple was reported to have told authorities, “Good, you got him! Now lock the little turd up and throw away the key!”
Chapter 4
So went the week until it was again Sunday and time for his appointment with Barbara Stanton. They started out early enough to give rickety old Mr. Renault ample time to get there and time enough to indulge a favorite pastime of Edith’s. To see and be seen out and about amongst the Sunday morning window shoppers on Bancroft Lane was a must for her. With her handsome nephew in hand, she proudly strolled along the walkway as if on display, then joined the stream of early morning shoppers entering the M.J. Grant department store.
“You’re right, the light peach looks just lovely,” the elderly saleswoman who inhabited the junior wear department that day offered in opinion. “Interlocking cotton knit, pretty detailed trim . . . perfect,” the good lady beamed while holding up the short sleeve T-top to Patrick’s shoulders to assess the fit. Of course, mindful of the sale’s commission she was careful to disregard both the little lace bow on the neckline and Edith’s unusual taste in boy’s wear.
“It comes complete with matching shorts or Capri pants if you like . . .” She smiled and Edith nodded, though only listening with half an ear as yet another style outfit in size 10-12 petite had her eye at the moment.
She saw the garment on an adjoining rack, among the others found on this nebulous expanse between the boy’s and girl’s wear. That place where the mix of garments mattered only to those who cared to filter through the mish-mash of displays to make the distinction - something that wasn’t on her mind at the moment. After all, he was a difficult boy to properly fit.
Given his unusual combination of girth and length she found the boy’s sizes too short, the men’s too wide and the selection slim to none. Whereas his cadet Blue trousers and shirts were custom tailored to fit, that was far too expensive a proposition for everyday wear. Especially when so many reasonable ready-made alternatives were available if you’re willing to broaden your prospects. As a practical woman, that was something Edith had acquiesced to long ago. As for Patrick, well, the tops, shorts and stockings did fit comfortably there could be no denying that. Likewise, the smooth, light and airy fabrics conformed in all the right ways to all the right places. Not at all like the scratchy, stiff cadet Blues that irritated his sensitive skin and were so stifling in the heat. A joy he could live without, at least until he grew into the proper boy’s sizes.
All the same, even had she bothered to look it was doubtful she’d have found anything as suitable on the “Tuff-boy” display. Leastwise, nothing as suitable as the French Terry-knit outfit in canary-yellow she had her eye on. With the matching pair of knee-high stockings, she thought the delightful “Angelina” top and matching flare-leg, drawstring shorts would coordinate nicely with her floral print dress and hand knit shawl - And so it did.
The outfit was one of her favorites. Not too loud with the right touch of style, or so she believed as they made their way through the congested isles of disbelieving onlookers. Then again outside, where the glare of the onlookers was as intense as the blazing Arizona sun. No less so than when she asked her dashing young nephew to make use of his sunshade so the sun wouldn’t damage his blanched skin or burn the top of his flattop head.
Edith thought it was a great way to spend the morning. Then when later that day they walked in to Ms. Stanton’s clinic and saw Nicky, she was sure it was going to be a great way to spend the afternoon. Finding Nicky there wasn’t altogether unexpected. Still, she feigned surprise to see that androgynous man-boy again, especially in view of Patrick. Still, what pleased the aunt did not seem to please the nephew.
Not two feet in the door he was already slouched over in melancholy and Ms. Stanton’s screeching voice could be heard reverberating off the walls directing Nicky to fetch a corset. “. . . Oh, and Nicky, please find a pretty one this time.”
Of course if Edith had in mind a delightful afternoon chat with Jane over a hot cup of tea sadly it was not to be. Jane had immediately cornered her to discuss a birthday gift she had in mind and wanted Edith to accompany her to the boutique to better coordinate their selection of gifts. Then without ado she wrapped her arm in hers and quickly ushered her outside to her waiting Karman-Ghia. “Don’t worry Barbara,” she called out over her shoulder before the door closed in their wake. “I’ll have her back promptly at four.”
Ms. Stanton rubbed her hands together, beamed a grin and quick as a blink undressed Patrick to conduct her cursory examination. Nicky returned in short order holding in his hands a white silk corset swathe with pink lace appliqué. Then holding up the silken finery for Patrick to see, he fluttered his long lashes, pursed his painted red lips and blow him a kiss, “Peach’esth, it’s perfect for you.”
It took all four arms and their combine strength to get him down from his 23” waist to a trim 20”; A Herculean feat given his 52kg (114 lb), 174cm (5’-7) wafer-thin frames. Not a lot there to pare down, but enough of a struggle to leave him gasping and nearly faint. He looked to be strangled in the white silk garment, and given the unlikely contrast with his flattop he looked every bit the curious creature. Squelched by the tightness and stiff as a board, he was a pigeon-toed, sissified mannequin from top to bottom, with two salient, pink plums offering up a proud academy salute, firm and erect.
“Nicky, quickly get a damp towel. The dear looks near faint.”
-----
Poor Mrs. Whipple, all she got for her struggle to squeeze her portly rear in the small seat of the Karman-Ghia was a run in her nylon hosiery and a bruise on the knee. It was a heroic effort, but it still took a helping hand from Jane to free a heel caught up in the stick-shift. The poor lady was in tatters and wishing she had not volunteered to come along. Jane, accustom to the inconveniences thought nothing of it as she helped to push a foot here, pull a leg there until the doors finally closed she was able to start out. She was very proud of “her” new car and all too willing to overlook the anguish written on Mrs. Whipple’s face.
Well . . . the car wasn’t exactly Jane’s. Ms. Stanton had given it to Nicky to help him get to and from his job at the Puss n’ Poodle club. A convertible, it was brand new and quite an eye-catching vehicle indeed. Custom painted cotton candy pink with white leather interior trimmed with a fluffy, synthetic pink fur, it was a chick-mobile in the truest sense of the word. An original valley-girl’s dream machine, garish and prim, with its g-string hanging on the mirror and a one-of-a-kind perfume aerator attached to the A/C. Not the most sedate way to negotiate the quiet, tree lined streets of their small suburban community, but the perfect “gift” for the glitz and glitter across the river.
Well . . . that wasn’t exactly true either. It wasn’t a gift. Barbara said he could pay her back helping out at the club after hours. There was always an odd job or two, where a pretty boy could lend a hand, or whatever. Something Jane couldn’t have been more than happy about, or so she said as she continued on talking. It was a one-sided discussion that began when they met up earlier at Barbara’s house and continued on nonstop as they puttered down the lane. “After all, she needs all the help she can get. She’s involved with so much I can hardly see how she makes it through the day.”
Well . . . that was true. Although that wasn’t something Edith Whipple knew a lot about, but with her politeness light on auto pilot she just smiled as Jane continued to rattle on. “With so much on her plate, you know, with her practice here and the club in Las Oasis. She’s a very busy woman.”
“I can imagine.” Well . . . actually she couldn’t! Fact is, it wasn’t until quite recently Edith learned of Barbara’s other enterprise. The woman she knew was a professional practitioner of homeopathy with a little practice squirreled away in her quiet suburban community, and she was beginning to realize what she really knew about her she could fit in her sewing thimble.
“Besides, Nicky so enjoys the job and the money! Good lord, do you know that besides this beautiful car he earns two hundred dollars a night . . . plus tips!” she intentional stressed the “plus tips” with an exaggerated tone, though she didn’t have to. That kind of money was likely to capture anyone’s attention. A staggering amount when you consider a house like Edith’s cost less than twenty-thousand and earning fifty dollars a day was big money. It certainly was enough to have her ear. “My word, that’s the most generous wage I’ve ever heard.”
“Isn’t it though? And the benefits . . . Why I’m so excited about it all. You know, not that long ago I could hardly sleep at night worrying about what was to become of him. Being left to raise a boy not too different from your Patrick, only worse, he was an aimless lout destine for who knows what. And just look now. What Barbara has done for him, and how she ‘helped him find his rightful place in the world’ is beyond anything I could have imagined.”
“Find his rightful place in the world!” Jane was pushing all the right buttons, and her well chosen words sounded off like the winning payout on a slot machine. “Cha-ching!”
Edith had heard the sentiment expressed before. In Barbara’s office; and though she hadn’t given much thought to it then, it suddenly began to mean so much more. Of course, she had no reason to suspect the thought might have been intentionally planted. All she could see was the visions of her Patty driving down the street in his new pink Karman-Ghia his face glowing with pride in himself and his newly acquired affluence.
They pulled up to the M’Lady Boutique, parking in front and close enough to the window display to see the latest in exquisite lingerie. It was a place that catered to the affluent and hardly affordable on Edith’s meager budget. So imagine her surprise when Jane began pointing out a pair of gartered stockings of the finest Chantille lace as her idea of a gift - for her Patty! Beside the mannequin another wearing a shear, white silk baby-doll nightie and panty set lavishly trimmed with Flemish lace appliqué.
“That one,” she pointed to as an ideal coordinate — the ideal gift for her to buy her nephew. Edith was breathless. The mental photo she had taken of her Patty driving down the lane in his shiny new car with a big smile was suddenly shattered when she realized they wanted him to wear a painted face for the picture! Something that not only came as a shock, it also piqued her pride. She wondered what Edith could possibly be thinking of her, or her nephew.
“Jane, I think you’ve got this all wrong,” she ventured with a flush. “I’m proud to say my Patty is a young cadet and wants to join the army to serve his country with honor and dignity.”
“Yes and my Nicky is a dancer. I hope you don’t think any less of him, because I don’t.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“I’m sure you didn’t. It’s just costuming after all, nothing more. No different than combat boots and helmet with camouflage netting. Certainly no different than what you wish to make of it. Barbara has taught me that we’re all different, but equally perfect. Though I must admit the idea also seemed contrary to me at first, but where would my Nicky be if I hadn’t listened to Barbara’s advice? She knows what ails children and as it has proven out, no one could have been the wiser.”
It was the mention of Barbara that caused Edith’s retreat. Jane could see it written on her drawn face as she looked away to avert her gaze. With her fingers nervously fidgeting with a tissue in her hand, she looked as if a woman at war with herself. Inside, the battle raged between the two minds of the conflicted woman. Outside, she looked as if some dark hidden secret had just been exposed to the light of the bright Arizona sun. There was a lingering, silent pause, each waiting to see who would take the next critical step. It was an important moment and one Jane knew was going to have to work or - she had fun with the thought — they’d have to resort to Barbara’s dastardly Plan B!
Leaning in close she took hold of Edith’s hand, and without further delay went straight for the juggler. “. . . Besides, they’ll look lovely with the pumps Barbara has bought for his birthday. You wouldn’t want to disappoint now, would you?”
Jane kissed her softly on the cheek. Then after lingering a long moment she pulled away and smiled. “Come now, just for fun . . . It’s an exciting new world out there and you’ll not want to miss a minute of it.”
Poor Edith, she felt as might an accomplice who kept the car running as her partner in crime fled with the money in hand from the bank. It was a blood-pumping, exhilarated guilty flutter that left Mrs. Longing reveling in the heat and Mrs. Pride nearly faint. And calling out above the maelstrom, Jane’s resonate voice, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
So not “wanting to disappoint,” she lay down her armor, and her arms at the feet of Mrs. Longing. Then leaving her good sense to wilt in the hot desert sun, she reached for her purse and opened the door . . .
----
. . . Stepping out and closing the door behind, Nicky hurriedly left to retrieve a damp towel from the kitchen. Patrick was rendered rigid and immobile, fixed in place on wobbly knees by the corset. Barbara stood close by holding his hand to steady him awaiting Nicky’s quick return. For a moment she was sure he was about to faint, but by the time Nicky had returned with a damp towel to press upon his forehead he had already regained enough of his composure to walk him toward the gymnast mat.
To say that the confining garment rid the poor boy of his slouching would have not have given the garment its due. The restricted mobility forced the subdued creature to have to walk with a mince and caused his hips and robust bottom to sway to accommodate the shortened stride. Like some iron-fisted gripe it robbed him of his breathe, and like an extension of her hand rendered the mummified boy defenseless.
All this was done with the utmost discretion of course. Ms. Stanton was the consummate professional after all and, to protect her good reputation, she told him she had his aunt’s enthusiastic and wholehearted approval to ratchet up his program. “There’ll be no nonsense from this moment on,” she warned him, and if he thought her demands were too severe . . . well, he’d just have to, “soldier-up, dig deep for some of that Sgt. Rock grit and bear it.”
This was a whole new Ms. Stanton. He could see that in the suspect glimmer in her eye when she tightened the lacing of the corset to the point of catastrophic failure. And along with that glazed look in her eyes she wore an enigmatic grin as she went about her heavy-handed ways. All far beyond even her usual level of insensitivity and seemingly quite calculated, as if part of a script she was yet to have him read.
But how could that script read any different? He had always been compliant to the nth degree. After all, he wanted to measure-up, and the determination it took to be somebody special was a man thing made of grit and bravado. He always dug deep for what it took to sustain and bear it. Even in the face of so little progress he never gave up trying, doing so with a relish, hoping one day he’d overcome the malaise that seemed to grow worse, not better by the day. If he could do more, he didn’t know how.
Surely she could see that, yet instead of a sympathetic pat on the back she gave him an unsympathetic grin becoming more strident and heavy-handed by the day. Almost as if to break his will, but why? Just trying to count all the possible reasons caused his suspicions to grow exponentially, and as his suspicions grew so did his mistrust. Where once he believed in her and all she was doing, now he didn’t.
Obvious he would've liked to slap Ms. Stanton senseless and run off to a safe place. That is, if he could. Like everything else about his life these things were easier said than done. In truth, he could no more stand up to her than he could his aunt. His aunt had surrendered complete control to her without demur, and what voice he did have Ms. Stanton heard with just one ear. The other focused on what she was bent on doing whether he agreed or not. All seemingly designed to entrap him yet further, diminish him into a little prissy, like Nicky, that paragon of manliness.
Still, not all was without hope. As is the case in even the darkest tale there was always the possibility the villain might lose the upper hand or unwittingly expose a vulnerability. Until then, he'd just have stand by and let his suspicions grow and hatred fester as he considered ways to save himself from her clutches. A resolution he made to himself, though it certainly wasn’t going to happen this day.
Nope! Today the master craftswoman and her young apprentice were determined to finish the assembly of their project in the works. All done forthright without hedging or subtlety, and began immediately the moment he began his floor exercises to firm up the flab on his chest and buttock. Exercise that only seemed to exacerbate instead of improve his condition. Punishing under any circumstance, but bound in that corset and with Nicky all over him like a tight pair of pants, he was in a constant state of swoon. The whole while they assessed, fit and hammered away on their version of the Queen Mary, and following his every move was that haunting, purrr-plexing grin, glowing pearly white against the darkened backdrop.
It was left to Nicky to pound home the finishing nail. Perched upon the white sheeted gurney head down, bottom up like a ship in dry-dock, Nicky was given the task of planting the new bowsprit — new, as in one step up the linear order! To make her point, she handed Nicky the post with all the ceremony of a sea captain inaugurating a new vessel then stepped aside to salute. But a ship he was not, at least not yet, and if they planned on turning this dingy into the Queen Mary it wouldn’t come without a struggle, or so he’d try.
A new wise saying: Be careful what promises you make, even to yourself, because the expert deck hand can right a troublesome fitting. Not so much a broken heart, but then his heart wasn’t what the heavy hand of Barbara Stanton sought to correct. A thorough job she did with it too. She had that wretched fitting shipshape and ready to do duty in less time than it took to say . . .
“You-whooo,” that would be Jane, chirpy and buoyant as a Merry-andrew returning from shopping with Mrs. Whipple in tow. “What a lovely day.”
“Ah-hu, it is indeed,” that would be Barbara, miles away in her thoughts as she attaches the second liter bag of her special substance to the tubing.
“Oh look, Miss’esth Stanton, pretty gifts,” that would be Nicky, sunny as a spring day as he fastidiously wiped his hands clean of the lubricant. “I already got my gift.”
“Yes you do. You’re giving the gift that just keeps giving,” added Barbara, reaching up to pinch his cheek in passing. Then turning to face Edith, she smiled and motioned for her to come and stand beside her. “Almost done, Edith. In all, I think our little Musclemaniac has taken the lot rather well.”
Edith joined Barbara and looked down at her nephew. She heaved a deep sigh, and then embraced his grateful smile as she wiped the glint of moisture from his lashes. Then without further ado, she reached up to turn the petcock.
Chapter 5
Monday morning 9 a.m:
“. . . Rogers, present sir! Cummings, present SIR! Donaldson, present sir! Whipple . . . Whipple?” Ssgt. Web put down the morning roll call and looked over the top of his glasses toward the empty seat that should have been occupied by Cadet Patrick Whipple. That would be S-s-g-t, as in Staff Sergeant, and Web, as in Patrick’s disgruntled headmaster. Dressed smartly in his Dress Blues, the gray haired gentlemen looked quite distinguished with a long track of stripes and chevrons down the length of his sleeves, his shoes shining with a glassy luster and on his dress jacket all the medals from his distinguished service in three wars. Standing tall at the podium, he leered with a scowl as he studied his class of cadets. All sitting stiffly upright in their cadet blues, with hands folded on top of their desk and a blank look on their faces.
“Stewart!” He barked with the ferocity of a cornered Pit Bull. “Sir!” A tall, red headed boy in the front row smartly snapped to attention and shouted his response. “It says here Cadet Whipple signed in this morning. Where is he?”
“Sir, I don’t know, sir!”
“Check the Head, quick time, boy!”
“Yes, SIR!” As young Cadet Stewart hurriedly replied, a pent up snicker rolled through the room, but quickly quieted when headmaster Web glared with a menace for signs of the culprits. The room was so quiet you could hear a cough down the hall as Ssgt. Web walked slowly up and down the isles to size up the matter. As he approached the rear of the class he heard a shuffling coming from inside the coatroom.
Although a subtle movement, it wasn’t hard to pick up on any noise in a room absent any sound other that one owns breath. Knowing to look inside he opened the coatroom door, reached in to switch on the light and quickly scanned the long line of dress coats all neatly hung along the perimeter of the 8x10 room. “Sir,” Cadet Steward shouted after again coming to attention upon his return. “Sir, I didn’t find Cadet Whipple, Sir!”
The snickering again flared up and thinking he’d have to quickly get to the bottom of this, he reached in to switch off the light. Having a problem finding the switch with his hand, he looked in to locate it and saw what had been out of his field of vision until now. In the corner and next to the light switch was Cadet Whipple, buttoned inside his coat and hanging a foot off the ground from the coat hook. The poor boy looked a scarecrow with his shoulders pushed up around his ears and his arms trapped in the jacket sleeves hanging out straight.
“Damn it, boy!” Ssgt. Web growled as he hurried to unhook Patrick to let him down. “I can’t take my eyes off you even for a second!” With Patrick again safely on his feet he noticed that other than the ¾ waist coat he had been buttoned into, he appeared to otherwise be without any clothes.
Well . . . not exactly. It seems that once the headmaster unbuttoned his coat he saw that he was not entirely without cover. Though not much besides a short, pleated white tennis skirt and what looked like a training bra. “DAMN . . . BOY! If you’re not the most pathetic pansy I’ve ever seen,” Ssgt. Web glared down at him with his fists resting on his hips and in a rather bad mood. “How’d you get into this, boy?”
Poor Patrick, now in tears, was beside himself and to ashamed to speak. “Stewart, tell me quick boy, what do you know about this!”
“Sir, I don’t know anything, Sir!”
“Nothing, BOY?” Ssgt. Web gave him a menacing glare. “Sir, only what I’ve heard, Sir.”
“What you’ve heard . . . hmmm, well . . . What is it boy?”
“Sir, yes sir,” young Cadet Stewart replied, then lowering his voice to a barely audible mumble, “I heard some boys wanted to fag him, Sir.”
“FAG HIM . . . who did?” Web barked out now entirely pissed off. “Sir, I can’t say, Sir!”
“Can’t say BOY?”
“Sir, yes Sir, I’m bound by my word of honor, Sir!” The boy bravely replied, but fearing the worse, looked away to avoid his glare. “Word of honor my ass, BOY! Before I’m through you’ll be willing to incriminate your grandmother. So where’s his clothes?” he asked as he pulled up on the hem of the short skirt revealing a pair of shiny, white silk panties. “Holy, mother of . . .”
“Bathroom, Sir,” the boy followed.
“Well go get them and be quick about it boy!”
“Can’t Sir, they’re in the toilet and someone has used the facility, Sir.” The tittering turned to laughter. Ssgt. Web scowled in that direction then just shook his head. “Damn poor . . . damn, damn poor . . . Well, run off quick time boy and get Major Bushmire.”
-----
“Yes ma’am, they were his sister’s clothes,” replied Major Bushmire, his disgust painted on his face. Edith Whipple sat across from him dressed in a house dress and apron, her knitting still on her lap. Between them stood young Patrick still dressed in his heeler loafers and white knee socks that matched his lovely new skirt, bra and panty. “Leastwise that’s the story the boy’s are sticking too.”
It had been a traumatic day for our young hero starting from the moment he boarded the bus. Living farthest from the school he was always the last to board and like always, they were all waiting for him. He took the seat behind the driver always left vacant while the other boys huddled together toward the rear. They wanted to sit as far away from the sissy as was humanly possible, except Jeffrey Morse, one of the bad guys at school and Patrick’s worse fear. Today, Jeffery chose to sit in the seat immediately behind him.
Over the roar of the diesel the driver could hear little of the taunting, the laughter and ridicule. Or if he did, chose not to take notice. He seldom did. Not withstanding someone leaving their seat it was truly a teenage wasteland for the thirty minute ride - literally every man for him self. And if he wasn’t motivated to do anything about the boys pelting Patrick with spitballs why would he show concerned when he saw a gym bag being passed up from the rear to Jeffrey? He paid it no more notice than the roar of laughter that followed when Jeff pulled out a pair of panties and set it in a pile on top of Patrick’s flattop head.
Of course Patrick didn’t respond, but he knew what was going on. Jeffrey’s threat to fag him before the end of school had been going on for weeks, and as promised, today they had brought the panties they would make him wear. Patrick didn’t want to look or react. That would be giving them what they wanted. Still, hiding his eyes was one thing, hiding the fear and the intimidation was another. He was visually shaking as Jeffrey dragged the panties over his head and the bus rocked from the laughter.
Upon arriving at school he tried to keep his distance from them, giving sufficient leeway before departing the bus. After everyone had disappeared into the building he followed to sign the morning register that was required of all the boys who arrived early by bus. Neither Jeffrey nor his cohorts were anywhere around by the time he was through, and believing himself lucky went to his classroom to take a seat to await the later arrivals. The path seemed clear and safe enough, but as he passed the coatroom, Jeffrey, Chris Myers and Martin Philips popped out, grabbed him and pushed him into the closet, closing the door behind.
There wasn’t a lot of fight in him, though some of that might have been expected. After all Jeffrey and Martin were two of the biggest, roughest leathernecks in the school, both nearly as big as the formidable Ssgt. Web, and worse, the apple of his eye. Over the years he had been subject to untold bullying from them. And all he ever got in response when he got a knot on the head was, “Don’t be a wimp, boy,” or “Stop your damn sniffling and act like a man!”
Other than cry, he was too frightened to do anything else to save himself. There was nothing he could do at any extent, so when it was certain he wasn’t going to escape his fate he volunteered to put the clothes on without their help. It was only the early arrival of Tim Olin that saved his butt. Hearing the scuffling in the closet he burst in on them catching Jeffrey literally with his pants down.
Seeing what was going on he quickly put a stop to it. Tim was one of the few boys in school who Jeffrey respected, not so much for his size as for his ranking on the boy’s boxing team. He was also a good guy who on occasion stood up for Patrick. Though not because he was sympathetic, but because he had a solid sense of fair play. This time too, and fortunate for Patrick, he wasn’t listening to any excuses. It wasn’t that Jeff didn’t try to explain it all away, looking rather foolish standing as he was with his pants gathered around his knees. “The little fag wants it. Look he even dressed himself.”
“You’re the only fag I see you damn prick. Want to fag someone try me and I’ll see what we can do about stuffing that prick of yours up your ass.” The threat wasn’t taken lightly, and even though he was out numbered 3 to 1 the scramble from the coatroom was like an alarm sounding off in a firehouse. That is, except for Martin. Determined not to let the threat deter him, he managed to lag behind long enough to hang Patrick on the coat rack while nobody was watching.
-----
“. . . And you are sure you believe their story, Mr. Bushmire?” A shaken Mrs. Whipple asked, remaining starchy erect and unmoved throughout the exchange. Not that she disagreed with the good Major Bushmire, or would doubt his word. He was a straightforward man of unquestionable integrity, and like Barbara Stanton he was a man with a firm commanding hand. She liked that about him, but then he was a man, not a woman and somehow she just didn’t feel inspired by the same sense of awe.
For his part, Major Bushmire didn’t like having his integrity in question. If he had known better he would have let Greta Buller accompany him as she had wanted. There wasn’t much his school nurse couldn’t handle. A retired WAC drill instructor, if she couldn’t handle this hardheaded spinster no one could. All the same, he hadn’t and now he was sitting on a keg of dynamite that presented as big a challenge as any on the field of battle, the loss of which would reflect badly on the school, the careers of several young men as well as his own.
For him it was a sacrifice of one for the betterment of many. Defeat was not an option, at least not for a gentleman of his persuasion. So he furrowed his bushy brows to show his displeasure with her. Then he peered in as if to say “lady, mind your place” while his bald, spit-shined head refracted the overhead light into the spectrum of red.
“I understand your concern over this, but I can’t emphasize enough that these are solid your men, outstanding soldiers, all from very influential families. If it isn’t the truth then I’m sure there would be severe legal consequences, courts, attorneys and lots of public attention with accusations of moral turpitude, or worse, charges of deviant homosexual behavior. Furthermore I must warn, you might not like the way the axe might fall,” he spit out with terseness, as if to remind young Patrick of what was at stake.
“Of course, we shouldn’t let that sway us from knowing the truth, but as he doesn’t deny it, I’m afraid I have no choice but believe the boy’s story true just as they stated. So unless Patrick says otherwise the story is that Chris Myers brought his sister’s gym bag to school accidentally believing it to be his own. He only discovered this fact when putting the gym bag away in the coatroom and that’s when Patrick unknown to anyone put the clothes on. Now, isn’t that right Patrick? Isn’t this story you and your fellow cadets told me?”
“Y-y-yes Sir,” Patrick managed to mumble after taking some moments to reflect upon the carpet below his feet. All the same he already knew the answer he had to give. No mention of the “intended” fagging, no mention of being hung upon the clothes hook was the way it had to be, and he needn’t bother lifting his tear spotted face as he drove in the finishing nail, “That’s the truth of it, Sir.”
“That’s right, son. Now tell your aunt why you did it,” Major Bushmire followed while prompting Patrick to respond with a slapped on the back. “Come now, you don’t have to be shy. Be a big boy, there’s no shame in wanting to dress in girl’s clothes. Every boy goes through this one time or another. No harm whatsoever. Just tell her the truth and it’ll all be done. I’m sure she’ll be very understanding and supportive. She just needs to know the truth, so just repeat what you told me.”
The words did not come easily. In fact it was down right gut-wrenching to have to spit out the contrived confession. It was like spitting out what remained of his manhood. All that Ms. Stanton had not yet stolen from him was now going to be finished off by the Major and his classmates, and there was nothing to be done about it. “I . . . ahm . . . I like pretty clothes.”
“Well Patty . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t know,” Edith paused, cause off-guard by the admission. She had wanted to believe his classmates were responsible for the mischief, but after her nephew’s confession she didn’t know what to think, or how she should react. She looked as if she was thinking very hard for a long minute, before her face went relax and the uncertainty in her eyes evaporated, replaced with an obliging nod and again, that guilty flutter in her stomach. “You should have told me, Patty.”
“That’s a good boy. Now that it’s off your chest I’m sure you feel much better. I know your good friends at school will feel relieved as well. Ever so, I think it would be best if you remain at home for the remaining days of the school term. You can help your aunt about the house like a good boy . . . perhaps use the time to work things out,” he hurried broke it off — and good riddance Patrick thought. However, after the major rose up from his chair Patrick quickly realized his relief was only short-lived. The Major still had one final nail in his hand he had yet to nail in his coffin.
“You know, modern thought on the matter is if you let him play out his fantasies instead of punishing him he may soon grow tired of it. Or so our school nurse assures me. She’s a very knowledgeable source in these matters and an opinion I wholly trust. Just something you might like to think about Ma’am. In the meantime you can expect me to send his diploma to you in the mail,” he finished his diatribe, happy to wipe his hands of the whole affair.
Along with Patrick’s supposed admission to his cross-dressing tendencies the school was absolved of legal responsibility. It was done, but a clever man knows not to let such matters linger in the open for to long. There is always the chance it might not hold up to closer scrutiny. So not wanting to wait around to see his good work undone, he put on his hat in haste and didn’t even wait to be escorted out the door.
--------
After supper Edith put Patrick to bed early. Again, it had been a trying day for them both, and though she didn’t want to show it, a bit overwhelming. After she was sure he was asleep, she sat in the family room in the dark with the phone on her lap. With so much on her mind she needn’t to talk with someone and thought to call Barbara.
The buying spree at the boutique and all the things Jane had told her still reverberated in her thoughts. And now with all this cross-dressing business at school, she didn’t know what to think. She supposed she should call to let Barbara know what had happened. She wanted nothing more then to share the burden to help relieve the worry, or just help clear up the muddle. Unfortunately it was also late and not wanting to disturb Barbara this late at night, Edith went to bed not knowing what she was going to do in the morning.
Edith had a short, intermittent rest and got up much earlier than expected when she received a phone call from Barbara. It was almost as if she willed it during the long night of restless sleep. Just the sound of her voice immediately eased the worry, but it did not come without a price. Along with the advocacy came the enigma that was Barbara Stanton. Listening to her was like sweet torture a masochist couldn’t do without, and it began almost immediately with Barbara’s first words. “Edith, I heard about what happened to Patty at school.”
She offered no explanations as to how she could have possibly known about what had happened to Patrick. She didn’t even bother to respond to her question about it. She just carried on, reassuring her she hadn’t need to worry. That everything was quite normal and in accordance with “modern thought” - something Edith was hearing a lot these days.
Listening to her was almost like listening to the good Major Bushmire. From her way of thinking it all made sense. It was just a silly bit all boys go through and should be free to explore as a natural course. She also sounded excited for Patrick, believing he had come upon an important moment in his young life. “Think about it Edith, all this coming about on the week of his graduation, when it was still unclear as to what he was going to do after. I don’t know if you believe in fate, but if this wasn’t meant to be, I don’t know what is.”
“Fate!” - The usual refuge of the dishonest. In truth, this entire scenario had been carefully scripted by Barbara, Jane and their well-placed accomplice. But Edith didn’t know that. Nor had she reason to suspect any wrong doing as she listened to Barbara plot a zigzag course from one point to another. She listened as if in a trance, following the meandering course almost as twisted as her logic until she posed a question that brought Edith out of her reverie. “Look on the sunny side, Edith. It’s a great opportunity. His program has been lagging of late anyway, now he’ll have time to put in extra work. No extra costs to you, so if you’ve no objections I’ll be over in an hour to pick him up.”
“Why certainly, but you needn’t go out of your way. I can bring him in this afternoon.”
“No need, Edith. I have to pick up Greta Buller anyway so it’ll be easier for me.”
“Greta Buller?” Edith echoed, uncertain as to why she should know the name.
“A friend of mine, Edith. She’s a health practitioner who will be working with me this summer to help relieve my busy schedule. So if that’s alright with you my love, I’ll see you in an hour.”
--------
Edith scarcely had time to bath Patrick and prepare a light breakfast before Barbara’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway followed by the knock upon the door. Removing her apron she hurried him along to meet Ms. Stanton, only stopping to quickly survey him to make sure every hair on his flattop head was in order. Dressed in his white cotton shorts and tank top, knee socks and heeled, buckle-strap loafers, she opened the door pleased with how smart he looked. However, she didn’t gather as much from the pained look on Barbara’s face. It was as if she expected to still see him dressed in skirt and bra.
“Morning Edith,” chirped the buoyant Ms. Stanton as she entered and affectionately wrapping her arms around her waist. “Edith this is Greta Buller. Greta this is Edith Whipple and her nephew Patty. I think Patty and you have already met.”
Indeed they had, and perhaps if he knew she would be standing at his door he would have found a way not to be. Greta was the school nurse affectionately called “The Bull” for her unsympathetic, bullying tact. Patrick had been in to see her often over the years and he was not a happy camper seeing her once again. It was like a punch in the gut that immediately had him looking up for his aunt’s intervention with his pleading eyes, only she wasn’t looking. She was too busy sizing up the Bull.
While Patrick knew her, Edith did not. Tall, lean and fifty-something, she looked quite formidable, almost manly given the figurative sense of the word. With her pug nose and thick brow she looked like a Pit Bull terrier, and dressed in a khaki green army dress she looked like one on a search and destroy mission. She didn’t think much about the prospects of leaving her nephew in the hands of this woman, a health professional or not.
However, wrapped up like some captive prey in Barbara’s arms, it was a bit difficult to speak her mind, especially after Barbara looked sternly into her eyes. “Rest assured, Edith. She’s very authoritative and quite abreast on the issues. She’s a longtime associate and confidante, and her skill has helped many a misfit boy find his rightful place in the world. All of them are now happy, vital and much sought after I can assure you.”
After a promise to have him home before super, Edith watched them drive off with a teary-eyed Patrick squeezed between them. She tried to think of it as seeing him off to school. To be schooled in what she didn’t know exactly, but she didn’t want to dwell on that. No, she couldn’t-wouldn’t allow herself to believe wrong of Barbara Stanton, and too proud to admit it if she did.
Instead she chose to think of it as his being in Barbara’s capable hands, believing she’d do only what’s best for him. She went back in, but before closing the door she chose to take a final glimpse of the shiny new Mercedes before it disappeared round the bend. She looked back but suddenly found herself blinded by the high morning sun. Like a sudden, intense flash of a light in a darkened room, it momentarily obscured her vision of the car and washed away all remaining thoughts about her teary-eyed nephew. Only the thoughts and the vision foremost in her mind remained. Those that permeated her existence like the air she breathed — those images of Barbara’s striking beauty and those thoughts of her arresting poise and grandeur. Then suffering those feelings too shameful to own and too prideful to admit she heaved a big sigh and closed the door.
-----
Edith was looking out the kitchen window watching some sparrows feeding from the satellite disk in the Crawford’s backyard. The thing was an eye sore, in total disrepair, dormant, and facing straight up toward the heavens to nowhere. It served only as a bird feed now, collecting sand and rain water after the occasional desert storm in its grotesque concave bowl. Although it hadn’t always been so.
For many years it also served to support a clothesline and during the Holiday Season the Crawford’s had made it a habit to decorate it with Christmas lights. She hated it and thought it had finally reached its demise when Christmas last old Mr. Crawford went up on a metal ladder to replace a bulb after a rare rainstorm. The cheap Chinese made fixtures had a defect that only came to light (no pun intended) when submerged in the pooled water. The shock sent him flying across the yard breaking his arm in the fall and permanently straightened what was left of his naturally curl hair. It also shorted out half the houses on the block and the home owners association quickly put the Kibosh to that. She hadn’t seen him but once since the electrifying experience, but she could see that he carried off the new Einstein hair style well, due comeuppance she thought. Still the dish stood there eye sore that it was, serving as their bird feeder. Of course she wanted to see it physically brought down, often scheming on ways that might be done. But she was just an old woman after all, and her Patty, well . . .
-----
“. . . Why Patrick, I didn’t know you could warble in such a lovely soprano,” Barbara spat out in a rather vulgar voice. “A rather high soprano I might add.”
“Sounds more like castrato if you ask me,” Greta curtly followed.
“Hmmm,” Barbara carried on with her play on words. “Well, not yet, but I know inside every toughie there’s a caged tweetie just waiting to be set free.”
“Well now, ain’t that a fact! The cockier the bird struts, the higher he sings. A bit of pretty primping always raises a tenor up the scale a step, or two. Then tart-up the brisket and the tail feathers and Wall-ah! You’ve got a sashaying, warbling tweetie that could raise the dead and heal the sick with a simple swish of the hips.”
Barbara’s sly grin mirrored Greta’s as she watched the scene play out from the bathroom door, marveling as she applied her craft. No doubt she was in a league of her own. With Patrick bottom up and draped over her knee, she was diligently working the new blue — as in boy - appliance assuring a comfortable fit. And given the magnitude of this precedent setting event, Greta couldn’t have been more pleased. Still, having to take into account the need for Patrick to catch his wind every now and again did make it a very measured process.
It was also a very emotional process. In fact, you could say Patrick was stuffed to the gills with just about every kind of feeling at the moment — and in more ways than one. Actually there were two, as in the two forces that seemed to be pushing and pulling on him at the same time. Pulled on by the feelings of guilt over his failing, believing he had only himself to blame for still not “measuring up.” And pushed by his need to prove he was that “special boy” his aunt and Ms. Stanton believed him to be. This push and pull was a boy thing made of bravado and grit, and all pushed home by Greta’s firm hand and pulled out by Ms. Stanton’s cruel, nonstop cajoling.
The creation of Barbara’s one-of-a-kind quality product was now in Greta’s capable hands, and from an observers point of view it made for quite a show. Barbara thought this scene alone was worth the cost of admission and Greta’s grin, well . . . priceless! All this and they still had the better part of the afternoon to go.
When all the preparations were finally done, Greta turned the petcock and looked up toward Barbara with a gleam in her eye that could have lit up a city block. “You know Eric has been saying he found it as easy as slicing a knife through butter.”
“Is that right, Patty? You relaxed nicely for Eric but not for Greta?” What’s that tell you, Greta?” She asked, her words spit out like venom from her smiling red lips. Patrick just shook his head as if somehow that could negate the lie. He would have liked to do more to express his outrage, but at the time anything more than a grunt a bit hard to come by.
“Dunno,” Greta replied, “maybe I should pretend I’m Eric.”
“Hum, that might be nice, better yet, Nicky!” laughed Barbara before turning to check the time . . .
-----
. . . It was five o’clock when Edith set aside her knitting to finish preparations for dinner. The roast nearly done, she returned to her kitchen to turn down the heat when she heard Barbara’s car turning in the driveway. She hurried out to greet them as Barbara escorted a decidedly different Patty than the boy she sent off in his smart boy clothes some hours before. Gone were the crisp new shorts and tank top.
In their stead he wore a pair of brief, skin-tight shorts and a ribbon-strap halter that exposed his midriff. Across the front of the halter it read “Puss E Willow” in sequins that refracted the myriad of colors in the sunlight. And between the large capitals “P” and “W,” two discernible and no longer deniable peaks wobbling ever so slightly with each hip swaying, high-heeled step. That’s high heels, as in pumps, white patient leather with narrow three inch heels. Though quite apt at walking on his toes, it was still a short, cautious, heel to toe stride that took a firm grasp of Barbara’s hand to steady him as she walked him to the door.
Edith greeted him with a warm smile and a hug, her hand pressing his face to her bosom. Then after a long moment she pulled his face away and held him at arms length thinking she needed to have a better look at him. At least that’s what she thought she needed just to make sure the sun wasn’t playing tricks on her. After all, mirages were common place in this part of the world and it was a hot sun over head.
However, her second, closer look had proven the sun wasn’t that hot. At least not hot enough to explain the scalding vision that loomed at arms length. His flattop, short on the sides and high and flat on top stood in stark contrast to his sumptuously sculptured face. With a hint of blusher on his cheeks, blue mascara and pink painted lips he composed quite an imaginative, though delightful work of fiction.
It was an interesting bit of work to say the least, but it was his clothes that truly tilted the composition to the extreme. Especially the crop top with its ribbon thin shoulder straps that hung just low enough to honorably cover the twin jut peaks. Further down the heels lifted and fluffed up his bottom like two plump, form-fit pillows. The shorts too were a bit of a meager peel, scarcely able to contain the ripe fruit beneath. Given the contour of their low, hip-hugging fit and the high upward arc of the leg-cut, the skimpy cover exposed a bit too much cheek by any standards. That is, unless . . . ahm, unless he just happened to be dressed to kill for some girlie-boy strip show at a Las Oasis City casino.
Like the ingredients that make up a pie offer little until combined, you had to see it on him to see how well it all worked together, especially those shorts and heels. Like lemon and meringue, a pretty pie topped with a small pearl in just one ear, and a hint of candy cane pink on his lips. The very same shade of pink lipstick that matched the pink smudge mark Patrick had left on the white lace covering Edith’s bosom. “Sorry about that Edith,” Barbara giggled, “I should have warned you. Don’t worry I’ll have that cleaned for you.”
Poor Mrs. Whipple, the woman looked bound hand and foot and even to find the mechanism to respond seemed a labor. Tongue tied and shell-shocked, she flushed a beet red and behind the white of her rapt brown eyes the battle raged. The two sides of Mrs. Whipple were fighting it out, each vying to see who would fill in the void and the voice of the routed Mrs. Whipple. It was war, and when done, there would be blood on the tracks. And while there is nothing amusing about the chaos and disorder in a bloody fight-to-the-finish, quite frankly, the state of the battle that raged within Mrs. Whipple was so palpable you could almost “hear” her buckle and cringe.
In a scene that could have been plucked from the pages of a Marvel comic, “Kapow . . !” Mrs. Stubborn Pride took a left directly on the chin from Mrs. Wistfully Longing. “Ooomph!” grunted Mrs. Longing as Mrs. Pride fired back with a right to the solar plexus.
Of course, we already know what side of the fight Barbara was pulling for, and wanting to tilt the battlefield in her favor she thought the time right to bring out the heavy weaponry. “The lipstick goes well with his outfit, don’t you think? I had it lying around and thought why not a bit of dress-up fun. You know, to indulge his fancy a little and add a bit of sweet flavor to the session. Given “Modern thought” and all, I thought it only best. I hope you don’t mind,” she feigned her patented wide-eyed ‘innocent’ pout before coming around behind her to again wrap her arms around her waist.
It was a glorious moment for Barbara and her satisfaction was written across the length of her smile. Then as she leaned in to whisper in Edith’s ear, she could no longer mute the glee that bubbled up and took on a life of its own. “Like the name on the halter, Edith? I chose it just for him - after that pretty Willow of yours around back!”
“Kaboom . . !” she had Mrs. Pride doubled with the body shot.
Resting her head on Edith’s shoulder she was eye to eye with Patrick and blew him a kiss. “Patty darling, why don’t you run along to the car and get your lipstick from my purse. Oh, and some tissue, you can use a touch up.”
Together they watched him gingerly waddle his way back toward the car, looking not unlike a young girl’s first day on skates. “Hmmm, now that he’s off and busy tidying up let’s go see what we can do about that stain on your bodice?”
“Pow . . !” another right landed square on Mrs. Pride’s jaw. Picking herself up off the floor (figuratively) she soon found herself in the bathroom, alone with Barbara, the door closed behind. “It’ll be easier to clean if you take off the dress, Edith.”
“Whap . . !” a follow-up left jab that had Mrs. Pride on the ropes. In a daze she tried to fight back, but no longer having the upper hand she soon found herself succumbing to Mrs. Longing and handed over her dress, only her undergarments remain.
“Oh my, but your undergarments look to be such a comfortable fit,” she beams her radiant smile while fondling Edith’s sagging, rotund globes. “I always have the most difficult time buying the right one, what with one breast larger than the other and all. It’s not easy being a bit lopsided you know. Here . . .” she carries on as she continued to intimately caress the old woman, “. . . Let me show you.”
“Wham! Pow! Ker-ploosh!” Mrs. Longing followed with a rapid fire combination of jabs that left Mrs. Pride reeling.
Breathless, Mrs. Pride could scarcely stand as the object of Mrs. Longing’s desire stripped off all but her panties and asked her to have a closer look. “See the lines where the elastic binds and chafes here and here too . . . ” Barbara purred between sultry pursed lips, her hands lifting up her heaving, massive breasts until her nipples fronted the old woman’s face. “Please, give it a feel and let me know what you think.”
“Zwapp . . !” went a right cross to the temple of Mrs. Pride. Staggered by the blow to the head Mrs. Pride’s defenses where shot to hell, and with her vision still a bit hazy there was not a lot she could do. Sensing the victory close at hand Mrs. Longing went for the kill. She took hold of Mrs. Pride’s hand and placed it on her breast so she could examine them more closely. Which Mrs. Pride did, to soothe the savage beast least she be pummeled again. “My panties too . . . I always pick the wrong size, or material, or whatever. Here sit down on the toilet and let me show you.”
“Ka-Boing!!! *~*!!!” was all she remembered thinking when the knock out blow to the jaw finally came. With Mrs. Longing’s clean shaven pubis posed inches from her face the world to her was cut off, the voice above only an echo careening down the empty halls once occupied by Mrs. Pride. “I know it looks smooth and satiny, but feel it . . . it’s so hot to the touch. Can you soothe it for me please? Perhaps just a little moisture will do the trick . . . Oh! Yes, my little minx. Reach further, deeper . . . please, or Mommy will have to put you over her knee and give you the spanking you deserve . . . Oh! Ummm, that’s it . . . don’t stop . . . my pet, or . . . ummm . . . it’s over Greta’s knee … ahhh, or my kneeeee . . . ummm . . . right now, ahhh . . . to spaaan, ah . . . spaa-ank Greta’s lil’ pet . . .ummm . . . mummy’s lil’ girl . . . ummm . . . oooh! . . . you naugh-teeee lil’girl!”
-----
As the interminable week wore on Mrs. Longing took charge as the victor and Mrs. Pride was no longer anywhere to be seen. Rightly or wrongly she now paid homage, while over at the Homeopathic center Greta applied her new shaping gadgetry and exercises to pry and prod, mold and form Patrick into an even more remarkable looking creature each and every day. Just as “modern thought” would have it. Whereas in the Whipple household bathroom, the shrieks and the moans and the growling at Mrs. Longing’s stiletto heeled feet could be heard reverberating off the satellite dish in the Crawford’s backyard.
To Be Continued...
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