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Well, girls, here's the latest, possibly the last, certainly the strangest, (though not at first) of the great drag tall tales from Leigh. As always, your comments, good or bad, are solicited. PROMGIRL (Part One) Copyright 1990 by Leigh De Santa Fe It was probably the most nerve-wracking night of Stephen's life. For two weeks he had suffered and agonized over the decision to ask Francesca Esposito to the Mushroom Prom. She had occupied his thoughts constantly from the moment he first laid his eyes on her abundant black hair and her lovely olive skin. Of course she was lovely but she was also an interesting compendium of seemingly contradictory qualities. On the one hand she was extraordinarily bright, a straight A student who maneuvered through difficult courses without any trouble and on the other she was wanton and wild, wearing the most tempting clothing and using make-up in a way that belied her years. When he first saw her it was from the back and her long curly hair fell down her back in big frothy waves which then directed his eyes to her lovely buttocks, squeezed into jeans that held her like a second skin. He followed her down the hall while she chatted vivaciously with her friend, finally turning and dazzling him with her lovely features femininely framed in soft black curls. His heart melted. She was beautiful. Finally Stephen approached her after math class. She looked at him incredulously for a brief moment and then she gave him a sly smile and said, "Yes, I'll go but I know my mother will want to meet you before you take me out. Can you come by next Wednesday night around 4:00 or so." He was ecstatic and this simple hurdle was an easy and even joyful undertaking. He would get to spend even more time with the radiant Francesca. As he approached the house his heart was dancing under his tongue. He would be near her and away from the cruel peers that shaped their rigid roles in school. Now he could show her himself and she would revel in his intelligence and quiet wit. He knocked and after a long pause the door opened a crack. Francesca's face appeared out of breath. He began to sweat and his mouth went dry. "Can you wait for a moment," she said coyly, "I'm not dressed." He blushed and she laughed and disappeared behind the closing door. A full ten minutes later she opened the door and let him in. She was wearing a pink sweatsuit which she managed to turn into a ravishing garment. "I've been trying to sew my dress for the Snowball Prom," she explained. "It's so hard to know when things are the right length unless you wear them and so I've been trying the dress on and changing the hem and trying it on again and well, I never seem to get it right." "It's hard I guess," his sterling tongue divulged. "Hard isn't the word. It's impossible." She looked at him and smiled. He looked down at his feet. "Say, I have an idea," she laughed. "Are you very brave?" "Brave? I guess . . . I don't know." "This could take some bravery." "Sure, I guess. What is it?" "Could you try the dress on for me. It will only take a minute. All I have to do is put a few pins around the hem." "Put the dress on? Oh, I don't know . . ." "Oh come on," she laughed and pulled her hair up behind her head. She was so enchanting. "You're not afraid of being a sissy are you?" she said disdainfully, still toying with her bounteous curls. "Oh, no. I don't think so." "Oh good. Okay, here's a bra and petticoats. Go upstairs and take off your clothes and put these on." "Wait a minute . . ." "You can't put a prom dress on over your clothes and I can't see how it fits unless you're wearing my bra and petticoats. It's that simple. Now go on." She thrust the bra and panties into his arms and pushed him up the stairs. "The bathroom's first door on the right. I'll help you into the dress when you come down. Don't worry. It will only be a minute. Now hurry up." "What was he doing here?" he asked himself as he unbuttoned his shirt. "I didn't want to do this. Why am I doing it?" And yet he continued to undress with the vision of Francesca's beauty spurring him onward. Fastening the bra, a strapless one, took him five minutes. He wound up putting the bra on backwards, fastening it in front and then rotating it until the cups ballooned from his chest. Then he stepped into the tulle petticoats, trying to stifle the noisy rustle he knew was filling the house. But it was nothing compared to the sound as he tiptoed down the stairs, swishing from step to step in an effort to make a noiseless entrance but creating an effect that could only be called demure. Francesca sat below reading a magazine, the prom dress draped over her lap. When the rustle of his petticoats heralded his appearance on the first landing she looked up and smiled brightly. Suddenly he felt ennobled by his act of bravery but nonetheless resumed his shy descent. "You look great," Francesca said without irony. She held the dress open for him to step into, gathering his petticoats and tucking them in, then pulling the dress up over his arms and finally zipping him into the tight fitting strapless gown. It fit him perfectly. Francesca stood back and looked at him. It seemed she was suppressing a laugh but she turned around before he could be sure. "Slip into these," she said proffering a pair of shiny black high heels. "Shoes too?" he said. "Well, I can't tell how it will look in your bare feet can I?" He meekly ascented and stepped into the shoes, wobbling unsteadily. "Now stand up on the chair so I can check the hem." He obliged but only with great difficulty as the tightness of the bodice allowed him no flexibility of movement and the heels no sureness of step. Francesca steadied him with her hand till he regained his balance. Then she stepped back to look at him and smiled widely. At that moment the doorbell rang. Before he could protest Francesca had leapt up and answered the door. It was Bonnie Budd and Suzy Creamer, Francesca's best friends. They looked at Stephen standing redfaced in prom dress and heels and began to giggle. Then they laughed out loud and Francesca joined them. "I can't believe you did it!" Bonnie said. "It was easy. He did everything I asked him to." "He looks like Cinderella up there." Suzy said. Then she walked over to the humiliated boy and said, "Say you're cute. What's your name?" Bonnie had pulled a instamatic from her purse and began snapping pictures of Stephen as though he were a model. Tears welled in his eyes which only added to his dewy girlhood. The doorbell rang again. It was Nancy Kruel. "Did you bring it?" Francesca asked her. Nancy looked over at Stephen and gasped, "Oh, you did it!" "Did you bring it? Francesca asked again. "Yes, here it is," she said, handing a large round box to Francesca. Nancy joined Suzy and they began laughing all over again while Francesca opened the box and pulled out a wig. It was a long brunette pageboy, backcombed for a bouffant look and with long, thick bangs. Francesca took it off the styrofoam stand and handed it to Stephen. "Put it on, girlie." "I thought you . . ." he said haltingly. "You thought I'd go out with you! You're the school's biggest nerd. Put it on!" "No . . . I uh . . ." "Put it on or we'll take these pictures to school and show everyone what a beautiful girl you are! Is that what you want?" Stephen took the wig from her hand and pulled it tentatively over his head. The girls broke out again in gales of laughter. He didn't really look all that ridiculous. Actually the hairless youth seemed rather precious in the strapless satin gown, brunette hair curling under as it reached his naked shoulders. His soft features and full red lips, always a little effeminate on his male face now seemed to glow with a correctness, as though the wig and satin dress had uncovered some deeply feminine beauty heretofore hidden by his maleness. The girls noticed it too. But it didn't stop them from their indelicate teasing. Their hilarity grew ever more boisterous as they thrust new feminine accoutrements on him. Evening gloves, a little black purse, a black silk choker which Suzy had to stand on a chair to fasten for the trembling young boy in a gown and barrettes to pull back his hair. With the addition of each item Stephen resembled less and less the timid boy that had arrived moments before or even the broad burlesque of girlhood and instead was becoming a darling doll, cute perhaps even pretty. The girls' task now shifted subtlely from direct humiliation and cruel teasing to one of Stephen's beautification and they conferred over what would be most becoming on "her." "You know I've forgotten how much fun it was to play with dolls," Nancy said as she fastened a pair of pearl earrings to Stephen's ears. Meanwhile Bonnie continued to snap pictures of the unfolding transformation. Suddenly the door opened and Francesca's mother walked in. Stephen thought, "Rescue at last," as the imposing and beautiful Carlotta Esposito walked unsmilingly over to the Cinderella's chair. Her hair pulled back severely in a bun and her eyes flared with exotic eyeliner, Carlotta needed only a mantilla and castenets to round out her impression as a haughty flamenco dancer. She stood looking up at him sternly and then at the girls. At last she said, "Where's his make up?" Stephen's heart sunk as laughter once again filled the room. It stopped abruptly when Carlotta spoke again, "You little twerp. You thought you could ask my daughter out and now look at you. You're a princess in satin and tulle. What an adorable girl you make." She walked around him, sneering at his helplessness. "You've done very well, girls. He's perfect. A perfect little girl." "He does look good, doesn't he?" Francesca said. "It's a shame we can't put make up on him. He'd really look like a girl then." "Why can't you?" Carlotta said bluntly. "Well, it's getting late for one." Francesca said. "Oh, dear daughter have you no imagination? If you dressed him today, you can dress him tomorrow and the next day and the next. You have the pictures. What can he do? Leave town? I don't think so. No, you can have your plaything as long as you want. Can't they, little darling," Carlotta said, reaching out to tweak the cups of his bra. Stephen said nothing but looked singularly pathetic as his pearl earrings twinkled in the evening sunset. A reluctant Cinderella, he seemed resigned to his dreamdate gone awry while Francesca's beauty seemed only more desirable for its inaccessibility. "I think we should lay down some rules here. First of all, shave your legs, girlie. This is repulsive." Carlotta said as she contemptuously rubbed her hand over the sparse fur on his calfs. "But what about gym class?" he cried. "What about gym class? You're a big girl. You'll think of something. Join the swim team. Then you can shave your whole body. Next I think he should meet here every Wednesday for his 'session' with the girls. The Wednesday Afternoon Girl Club. And one more thing: start growing your hair out, honey. You haven't too far too go. It's already past your ears. One more month and we'll give you a perm. Wigs are fine for transvestites but very unbecoming on real girls like yourself." Raucous laughter. That night Stephen stared up at the ceiling, Carlotta's words ringing in his ears. "Little Darling." "Princess." "A perfect little girl." How could he possibly do what she asked of him. He slept little that first week and when Tuesday night rolled around he found himself locked into the bathroom with a safety razor and a can of shaving cream. Half an hour later his legs were smooth and soft. He couldn't help marveling at how the absence of hair made his legs look . . . feminine. There was no other word for it. He ran his hands over his thighs again and again. Feeling a rough spot he applied more cream and ran the razor over it. Smooth. It was suddenly an exhilarating experience. A depilating experience. He felt his arms and without thinking began to shave them as well. He even shaved the straggly first signs of puberty under his arms. Sleep came easily that night despite the strangeness he felt as the sheets moved against his hairless body. The next day he chewed his nails through every class and tried to avoid the three girls who eagerly awaited the next Girl Club session. At lunch Nancy appeared beside him in the cafeteria and whispered, "Long sleeves for such a hot day. Did you shave, little girl?" And in math class Francesca sent him a note that read, "You're going to look good tonight. Can't wait." He avoided her laughing smile. After school he walked to Francesca's, quite conscious of his hairless body moving against his clothes. What would they do to him today? How could he escape? He knocked quietly on the door. Francesca pulled him in. She was wearing a peasant blouse, jeans and had her hair pulled back with a butterfly clip. She was beautiful. Suzy, Nancy and Bonnie were waiting for him in the livingroom. They pulled the curtains shut and turned on some lights. "Today the girl's club is going to play with their doll. And here's our doll," Francesca announced. "Oooh, he's ugly." "Yuck!" "Strip him!" Francesca turned to Stephen and shrugged, "You heard the girls. It's time to take your clothes off, Dolly." "My clothes? In front of you . . ." "What's the big deal? We're all girls here." "But I'm not a girl." "No, you're not, are you," Francesca said, placing her hands on his shoulders and then sliding them down to his shirt front where they began unbuttoning his shirt. "But you will be." The closeness of her body had the effect of a tranquilizing dart and as her hands moved quickly from button to button he felt as though they were partners in a pas de deux. Obediently he lifted his feet so that she could slide his pants off and then she began to peel off his underpants while the audience of girls watched in rapt amazement at her control of the situation. Soon he stood before them, a naked doll. Bonnie broke the silence. "Who brought the bras?" "I did," Suzy said. She opened a plastic bag full of lingerie and removed out a skimpy black bra. "That's no good. He's going to need an underwired bra with plenty of padding . . . to start with anyhow," Nancy said. "Okay what about this one," Suzy said, holding up a white longline bra whose cups looked full even as they hung from her finger. "Yeah, that's good. Hook him up, Suzy," Francesca said. Suzy approached the naked young boy as though he were prey and the brassiere were a trap. Which it was. A moment later the girls had their venus under construction wired in and cupped out. This was just the beginning, of course. Soon heels, hose and a breathtaking fanny padder were added until the ungainly princess was taking shape, so to speak, before the girls' eyes. The addition of lingerie to his limp and passive male form did more than just append a few feminine curves to his body, it gave him, even from the short distance that the girls viewed him, the look of a doe-eyed ingenue. He could have been a young model between changes, her hair tousled by the quick removal a sweater or a junior miss mannequin with the sloping posture of seductive girlhood. Francesca corrected that problem by standing behind him and pulling his shoulders back sharply which thrust the cups forward into space like white bullets. "That's better. Be proud of your assets," Francesca said, slapping his butt with the back of her hand. "I want to see him walk around in his bra and heels," Bonnie said as she retrieved the camera from her purse. "You heard her. Walk." Francesca said. Stephen took a few steps in his high heels before he tripped over Nancy's extended foot and fell. As he lay sprawled out on the thick pile carpet Bonnie began snapping pictures. "Stay there a moment. You look so helpless. I like it." Stephen turned back to look at her and caught the flash head on. It made a good picture: the brassiered boy, his padded fanny sticking up in the air, white bra straps cutting into his back, his face turned back to the camera, red with shame. Bonnie pulled his leg up so that the heel dangled seductively from his toes and took more pictures. "Smile." Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing but he managed to force his lips into a grimace that when developed later could be mistaken for a lusty leer. It was at this point that Carlotta arrived home from work. She smiled broadly as she saw the padded lad stretched out on the floor. She walked over to the Stephen and knelt down by his head, making sure that he had ample opportunity to look up her skirt, a view unfettered by panties. "Oh girls, girls, girls. You've forgotten the best part: his make up. Take him to the upstairs bathroom and I'll join you in a minute." Carlotta's decisive request brought prompt action from the girls who grabbed their hapless victim by the arms and hoisted him up the stairs. The bathroom was large with a bank of mirrors covering one wall. The girls seated Stephen on a stool facing the mirrors and Carlotta reappeared with a small tote bag bursting with cosmetics. "Oh, this is going to be fun," she said laying the bottles, pencils and jars out on the counter top. "Now I think that the look we're after here is bold and brassy," she said blotting Stephen's face with foundation until he looked like a kabuki actor. When the canvas was totally blank Carlotta began applying her palette of bright reds, vivid blacks and velvety blues. The girls watched in amazement as Stephen's frightened pallor disappeared and was replaced by an exceedingly cheap but quite vivacious mask of sensuality. When the last false eyelash had been affixed Carlotta backed away and Stephen saw himself at last in the mirror. His gasp was audible and the girls exchanged knowing smiles. He face made the strong graphic impression of wanton girlish sexuality despite the emotions of despair and terror he was feeling beneath the mask of powder and paint. The incongruity resulted in a strange mixture of sultriness and vulnerability, a mixture that excited Carlotta and the girls with its new possibilities for humiliation and torture and they hurried to complete Stephen's transformation. "It's wigtime," Carlotta said. Nancy disappeared and returned quickly with the pageboy wig. Carlotta pulled it down snugly over Stephen's head and combed it out. Then she pulled it back tightly and created a poufy ponytail with a length of pink ribbon. "That's more like it. He's a real girl now. Look at him. A ponytail princess." The male erasure was now total. Stephen stared into the mirror looking for a trace of his lost boyness but even the slightest nod of his head seemed a deeply feminine gesture. He did not seem capable of moving without a daintiness, a delicacy borne of his new feminine appearance. This wasn't an outcome that the girls or he had foreseen. However, Carlotta seemed to know exactly what was taking place beneath the crown of dynel curls. She knew that any coarse movements or gracelessly boyish gestures on Stephen's part would violate the virgin in the mirror and make her a mere cartoon of a boy in a bra when in the young man's mind she was already assuming more than the two dimensions he examined so intently in his reflection. "I think she's ready for some clothes," Carlotta said, pulling Stephen out of his revery. "Come on. Let's go into my bedroom . . . girls." The girls were eager to complete the last act of their doll's drama, and beat a hasty retreat to Carlotta's bedroom where they began to rummage through Carlotta's closets for the perfect dress. Carlotta and Stephen remained behind for a moment. His gaze was still affixed to the miraculous image of his girlishness. Carlotta spoke to him softly, "Stephen . . ." He turned to look up at her, a doe-eyed innocent in false eyelashes. "Mommy thinks your a very pretty girl. Let's go find a dress, shall we?" She took him by the arm and lifted him off the stool and they floated, like two heavily made-up angels, into the bedroom. Carlotta sat Stephen down on the edge of her enormous bed while the girls brought up sweaters and skirts, dresses and gowns for Carlotta's approval. None of the sexy outfits they selected seemed to appeal to Carlotta's exacting taste and finally she went to the closet and selected a summer sun dress with a wide skirt, puffed sleeves and a demure scoop neckline. Soon Stephen was modeling the sun dress for the girls who now sat on the bed whispering and giggling as he turned round at Carlotta's instruction. The dress, wholesome and homespun, fit perfect with his ponytail and bangs but contrasted vividly with his garish make-up and continued the conundrum of the waify looking whore. But Stephen seemed unaware now of the discrepancy between his face and the rest of his feminine form. In fact, he seemed unaware of the girls, Carlotta or the oddly poignant figure he cut as he whirled the dress around and around. He seemed aware only of the dress itself, swirling and fanning out and allowing his legs a freedom that pants never did. And aware also of the tight bodice which clung to his torso and provided a perfect debut for his virginal bust: chaste and yet unquestionably inviting. His eyes fell to his bodice with a look that appeared to combine lust and pride at his own curvaceousness. The puffed sleeves added a piquancy, arousing, perhaps, because of its old-fashioned femininity, a quality that Carlotta was surely trying to evoke in the girls' living doll. Francesca, amused at first by Stephen's emotional transformation, began to grow bored with the prissy little country queen her mother had fashioned for them. She wanted to make her pretty doll squirm in his gingham dress. She got up off the bed and began to mock his darling dance. "You think you're a girl now, don't you?" Stephen stared at her blankly and then at Carlotta who looked away. "I feel like a girl," he said tentatively in a shy little voice that slipped out of his painted mouth like a plea for mercy. Francesca was never more beautiful than when she allowed her intelligence to inform her wickedness and Stephen swooned as a thoughtfully crooked smile crossed her face. Swooned, not with desire but with envy at Francesca's malevolent beauty. "Our doll has developed a mind of her own. Tell us, sweet thing, what kind of girl are you?" Francesca said, as she lifted the long skirt and held it up, briefly exposing the newly modest parts of Stephen's anatomy. Stephen blushed deeply, a response befitting his quiet, country girl demeanor. The girls loved it. Carlotta said nothing. "It's getting warm in here isn't it, girls," Francesca said, letting the dress fall and pulling off her sweater and urging the other girls to do the same. She wore a very revealing brassiere that cupped her breasts seductively. Soon all the girls had stripped to their pretty bras and panties and surrounded their country queen taunting him with their nubile and luscious bodies. Carlotta remained on the bed but after a hopeful look from Stephen, she too removed her blouse, exposing her black bra and captivating cleavage. While Stephen watched, as in a trance, she unhooked her brassiere and coyly dropped it off the side of the bed. Then, as though she had just discovered them for the first time, she cupped her breasts lovingly, pinching the nipples and caressing them with a great tenderness. The other girls followed suit and soon Stephen was encircled by a chorus of licentious nymphs each trying to outdo the other in their enticing charms. As the dance reached the apogee of lustful desire Francesca pulled up Stephen's skirt while Nancy yanked down the fanny padder disclosing the throbbing information that Francesca had wanted to extract from him all along. As Bonnie's camera clicked away and Francesca gloated, Carlotta leaned back on the bed, her long black hair undone and falling over her naked shoulders. Stephen looked tearfully at her as she mouthed the words, "Mommy thinks you're a very pretty girl." It was the end of the first girl's club. During the week following that first terrifying encounter with the power of womanhood Stephen agonized over every minute of his tormented transformation and its cruel denouement. What upset him most was not the humiliation he suffered at their hands but his surrender to his own girlish beauty. The seduction of his own femininity was far more disturbing to him than Carlotta's rejection. Not that he was aware of this of course. A searing pain that encompassed the entire event was all he felt but each night in his dreams he returned to the mirror and was served with the same vision of pony-tailed sweetness, of his own Barby doll portrait of Dorian Gray. In the morning the images of himself as a radiant teenage girl were gone and in their place only the residue of heavy guilt. The night before the meeting he found himself once again in the bathroom shaving his legs and arms. But this time his skin tingled not with the suspense of being discovered but at the sheer excitement of the act itself, the first step in a transformation ritual. As he cleaned his mother's razor and put it back in the drawer he caught himself in the mirror. He was trembling visibly. His hand went up to his face, a simple gesture which rapidly progressed in his mind's eye from merely effeminate to feminine. He stood there for a long moment in a frozen pose of coy girlishness. It was an echo of his recurring dream and when he moved again it was not as a boy but as a girl admiring herself in the mirror. He had begun casting his own spells. Despite this flirtation with the increasingly exciting idea of being a girl he was still petrified at the impending Girls' Club meeting. More so perhaps because of his late night revery in the bathroom. He now harbored a secret far more precious to him than his adventures in girls' clothing and as he approached Francesca's house he feared his budding fascination with femininity might be readily apparent to the girls, as though he had traces of lipstick on his lips or the indentations of imaginary bra straps marked his shoulders. When Francesca answered the door the next day she seemed almost bored at Stephen's arrival. She seemed to be expecting someone a great deal more exciting. "Go upstairs. Mom's waiting for you," was all she said. Stephen went upstairs and into Carlotta's room where she was laying out things on the bed for him. She looked up and smiled with mock surprise. "I don't think I've ever seen you as a boy before," she said taking him in with a long up and down glance. "You're much prettier as a girl. Go in the bathroom and take your clothes off. Then wait for me." Stephen hoped he'd concealed the lightness of his step as he minced to the bathroom. He hadn't. Carlotta noticed and smiled to herself as she finished folding the clothes. When she arrived in the bathroom Stephen was sitting naked on the stool facing the mirror. "Here put these on," she said handing him a pair of pink panties. Then methodically she began making his face up, this time taking special care to let him watch and participate in his facial transformation. It was almost a learning exercise and Carlotta took pains to praise him when he applied his false eyelashes evenly or lined his lips with the red pencil she suggested. She sensed the subtle shift in his attitude toward these girl behaviors from the quickness with which he adapted to the meticulous tasks of feminizing his features. When she left him alone for a moment to retrieve a tube of mascara from her purse she found, upon her return, that he was leaning into the mirror and daubing bits of color from a blusher compact onto his cheeks. She ran to get Bonnie's camera and snapped a picture as his stroked his cheeks with the blusher brush. He turned sharply at the flash and smiled weakly as she entered and then resumed his effort. She lavished more praise on him and suggested this or that color to heighten the effects. All in all, his look was much less tawdry than the week before though you couldn't really call it subtle. It resembled a typical teenage girls' failing attempt to resist the seductions of a department store cosmetics counter. In fact, his face resembled the masklike professional excess of a cosmetic counter girl. Of course, that was just his face. Had one stood back and observed his entire body he might have been mistaken for a harlequin in pink panties. But that would soon be remedied. "I have a surprise for you," Carlotta said as Stephen fussed with the mascara brush. He turned to her and smiled. Over the course of the hour his obvious pleasure in the transformation process could not be concealed but somehow that didn't matter. Carlotta seemed so understanding, so helpful now. "Don't you want to know what it is?" she asked teasingly. Stephen blushed. "What is it?" he asked shyly. "Something to make you twice as pretty," she said, pulling a long, smooth fall from a box. It was light brown to match his own hair. She put the fall aside for a moment and brushed out Stephen's own hair, giving him bangs that fell past his eyebrows. Then she tenderly placed the fall over Stephen's head like a crown, carefully arranging his own hair so that it met the fall seamlessly, then backcombing the fall to give it a bouffant fullness at the top of his head. Very sixties. Very sexy. Stephen was thrilled with his hairdo, turning his head to examine how he looked in profile and marvelling at the rush he got at the way the fall tumbled over his bare shoulders. He caught Carlotta watching him in the mirror and she smiled warmly at him. "Ready for your bra?" "Yes, please," Stephen said with an undisguised eagerness. Carlotta ran from the room, heels clicking on the tile floor, and returned with a strapless push-up brassiere. She looked momentarily perplexed when faced with Stephen's less than buxom chest. "We'll have to tape up your baby fat to give you some cleavage." Fifteen minutes later Carlotta was looking down Stephen's bra at an admirable pair of breasts nuzzling together cozily to create the successful illusion of bustiness. These new and significant additions to his female physique brought a wetness to his eyes and a quickness to his heart. Every minute he spent with Carlotta he became a more convincing girl. In fact, it would have been hard to believe that one hour before he had been a boy and that 30 minutes later he had become a female impersonator in transition and now an emerging teen queen with breasts that actually cast heavy shadows. As he progressed from one stage to another his excitement became harder and harder to contain, especially since Carlotta seemed equally delighted with his metamorphosis until they were both giggling like teenage girls at the amazing success of Stephen's transformation. "Now we come to the hard part," Carlotta said in an abruptly serious voice. Stephen's face clouded over instantly. "What?" "Deciding what you're going to wear?" she said laughing at his sudden anxiety. Then she merrily ran off to her closet and returned with a blouse and skirt still in dry cleaner bags. "Here's your blouse and skirt. But first you'd better put on these black tights and your fanny padder." Stephen unwrapped the brand new tights and pulled them on, taking care to admire his slender legs encased in black lycra, then the fanny padder and the skirt, a short and tight miniskirt that made the most of his newly curvy buttocks and finally the blouse, a white off the shoulder peasant chemise that dramatically focussed attention on his shadowy cleavage with its lacy filigree across his bodice. When all these ingredients had been assembled Carlotta led him to the long oval mirror in her bedroom, making sure that he couldn't see himself until the moment that she wanted him to. At last she turned him around to face her triumphant handiwork. He gasped and his knees gave way for a second. He had never experienced such an exotic feeling of euphoria. He had never considered that he could pass for a girl and even when that possibility had presented itself he had never imagined that he would be so captivating, not merely convincingly female but exquisitely feminine, exuding a daintiness, am allure that transcended the mere trappings of girlhood. He turned to look at Carlotta. She smiled at him like a madonna. "How do you like it so far?" she asked him, as she fastened a black silk choker around his neck. "I never thought it could . . . I never thought I could . . ." "But you can and you have," Carlotta said, turning him round to attach a pair of large hoop earrings. "Now if you'll step into your heels I think you're ready to join the other girls." Stephen shot Carlotta an apprehensive look but she was already on her way downstairs. He looked back at the mirror. The earrings and choker completed the sixties look. He thought the teased bubble of hair on top was extremely sexy. He slipped on the heels and began the descent, turning as he reached the door for one last glance at his image in the mirror. He didn't want to leave her, this girl with the light brown hair falling demurely over naked shoulders and buns straining against their skirted bondage. She was sweet. She was sexy. As he broke away from her enchanting beauty his eye fell on a picture that sat on Carlotta's dresser. It was a photograph of a pretty young girl with hair styled in a fashion similar to his own coiffure and wearing the same skirt and blouse. She was smiling at the camera in a manner both kittenish and dreamy. It was Carlotta. He took the picture back to the mirror and compared himself to it. The similarity was striking. Even the overdone eyeliner was the same. Carlotta had fashioned him in her youthful image. What did it mean? He put the picture back and headed for the stairway, once again uncertain of what was happening to him. I thought I knew what was happening when I developed a crush on Francesca. I thought I knew what was happening when she asked me to meet her mother and now I think I know what is happening as I hit the first tread of the stair, my heels digging into the carpet and pulling the threads of fabric up with a noise like distant velcro. But did you know what would happen when I hit the bottom of the stair, when Francesca spotted me in her mother's old clothes and with a hairstyle ressurected from the fabulous sixties.? Did you predict that Carlotta might turn away again at the crucial moment just when I needed to see her loving glance of approval as I displayed my new bosom for the girls, mincing past my tormentors with a demeanor that for once cannot be described as demure. Do you have a clear picture of Carlotta? An old she-wolf with a leathery neck and whisky-drenched voice? No, I don't think so. A aging bosom with spots and lips whose tiny tributaries run high with gloss? No. A mummified tart whose unrepentant long hair still bears the sheen of her wonder years? No. Who is Carlotta and why do the wounds she inflicts never heal? Why do I build a shrines to her in my sleep? To say she is severe is to say that my bosoms bud and I wobble like a fawn in my heels. Her devotion to my toilette is legendary, her wickedness convenient. But not as convenient as my mute permission to be swathed in spandex, bathed in Chanel and misted with Miss Clairol. It's not Carlotta who's the mystery here at all. We know her. She's the most familiar prop in the trunk. Auntie Stern and her fabulous wardrobe of guilt. I should have been a Lennon Sister smiling across Southern Seas. I could be one even now as I descend the stairway and glide across the set twirling a parasol with dangerous things beneath my antebellum gown and not a trace of three-dimensionality. Behold the Anti-Belle. No, Carlotta, in her leopardskin leotard, ankh disappearing in her creamy cleavage, is not the mystery woman here. It's me. It's the boy in the dress. Pale and wan with a curious lack of secondary sex characteristics. Lips: full. Hair: longish. Hips: girlish. And, poor thing, horribly mute. He suffers for his desire but keeps mum nonetheless. Keeping mum is what it's all about. Am I still descending the stairway? Or have you left me to read backwards to where my foot left the carpet and your lust was disengaged as my heel hit the clutch and we began to coast together, gliding together down the stairway while Francesca and her cardboard friends wait in aspic. They can wait. We'll put them on ice for now. Francesca's type can be reheated indefinitely. But let's glide now. Can you see us gliding down the stairs like a herd of Glinda the Goods, Anti-belles in bubbles floating down to our curious fate. Curious and predictable. I have a better idea. Let's leave the stairway and fly out of the house. It never had a roof anyway. It was just a set. Like "Father Knows Best" or "Leave it to Beaver." We be gliding Glindas now, flying out over the silent cities of drag. Our hooped skirts swing and sway like belles and our petticoats sputter like flags in a windstorm. My fall might fall but who cares, we're cruising over the world in drag below and headed for Venus. Once again. Oh, my lost little girls what happened when we strayed into Mommie's domain and watched her bend at the waist and lap the ends of her bra, watched her breasts fell neatly into the cups? Or when we saw her by the mirror, applying lipstick, turning her lips bright red or soft pink or watermelon blood or virginal peach? Did she lean over us and squeeze our cheeks or did she take the brass bullet out and rub our own tiny lips with that mutating balm. Or were our womanly synapses created in the womb? Did our mothers paw through the pink section, imagining their little girls, little replicants of themselves, growing up perfect and going off in prom gowns and getting married to Mr. Right and breaking the cycle of Mr. Wrongs. Were we to be the link that breaks the sad chain of our mother's sorrow? And when we emerged and the blue cigars were passed around, did that dream die hard? Or was it a revenge on all males that led our Carlottas and Auntie Sterns to subvert Daddy's message and replace it in the adolescent night with petticoat and periwinkle, watermelon blush and strapless bra. Stealing into our dreams and turning our shiny shields around so that we might admire our own reflections. Or was it father's abdication in that rosy post-war bliss. To relinquish his throne for a lazy-boy and never see the boy hiding behind the ottoman peering up at his imperious invisibility. Or was the fate sealed in our stars, dear Brutus. Delivered by a mincing virus from outer space, a femme spore alighting on a pie cooling on the sill, ingested in a slice and traveling groinward where it sat twiddling its protoplasm until we reached our dresswearing years and then asserting its bifurcating demands. Oh, my mute darlings, are your temperatures rising, have I lost you entirely. Wait, wait a minute, I might yet return to Carlotta and Francesca. But stay with me a bit longer. I need your company out here in these moot and silent stars. But I see I am alone, wandering the desert at twilight in search of lipgloss, a belle still, in hoop skirts and ringlets. On the horizon a lone figure is waving to me. My petticoats gather the goatsheads as I run toward it. My heels sink into sand. The dust clings to my makeup creating the perfect matte finish at last. But the figure becomes a saguaro cactus, not arms waving but stretched skyward in thorny supplication and my perfect matte finish becomes a pilgrim's pallor, not a mask of loveliness but a vision of embalmed beauty. I turn skyward too. And there you are, my pretties, where I have left you. Checking your hems and waiting. Waiting for Carlotta's return and the fatal descent down the stairway into more familiar territory. The desert is empty, it's true. And there are no mirrors here but the air is cool and a breeze blows my ringlets gently and I have a hunger for beauty apart from my own. But there you are suspended in space above me, encased in a comforting bubble of sultry self-seduction and I must join you. On the first tread of the stair at Carlotta's, the girls thawing below, my hard-won beauty cribbed from an old Vogue, my demeanor as submissive as a scarecrow. Ready, girls? The conversational din of the teen girls came to a sudden halt as soon as Stephen's legs came into view on the stairway, and the rest of his descent occurred in dramatic silence. The skirts, the blouse, the choker, the hair. Then proud Carlotta took his hand as his heels hit the floor and ushered him into the living room where his judges awaited. "Oh, Mom, you've turned him into a Sixtie's chick," Francesca said, squealing with pleasure at their antiquated doll. Bonnie began snapping pictures one after the other. "Yes, she's cute, isn't she? An interesting combination of little girl timidity and big girl lustiness, coy little bangs and a choker from a hooker's top drawer, delicate lacy blouse and . . ." "And breasts to fill it," Suzy finished, running a finger down Stephen's illusory cleavage. "How did you do that?" "Oh, it's nothing really," Carlotta laughed. "Turn around for us," Francesca ordered. Stephen obliged and the oohs and ahs as they eyed his buns were immensely gratifying. It didn't go unnoticed. "Oh, look. He loves it when we admire his buns," Bonnie said. Francesca stood up and faced him, her hair was big and beautiful. Her lips close to his. "You like being a girl, don't you?" The blush rose from his cleavage and blossomed out beneath the blusher in his cheeks. He looked down at his shiny heels. "I can't believe it. He actually enjoys being a girl," Francesca said to her friends. "What's so odd about that? You enjoy it, Francesca," her mother said. "Yes, but . . ." Francesca smiled suddenly. "If you like it so much, you'll love going to the prom as a girl." "Yes, I think a coming out party is a good idea," Carlotta said, grinning up at the trembling boy with bangs. The following day Stephen was trying without success to concentrate on his homework but the looming prospect of the Prom filled him the oddest combination of dread and delight. He couldn't decide how he felt and the agonizing debate his mind waged was terribly bewildering. Absently doodling in the margins of his notebook he found himself drawing possible hairstyles for his prom night adventure. It was during this daydreaming that his mother appeared behind him. "Francesca's mother came by this morning," she said. "Oh," Stephen said, covering the drawings with his arm. "Yes. She had some interesting things to say about you." Her voice was flat. "About me?" "Yes, about you. She said that I might be interested in looking at some photographs she had." "Photographs?" Stephen turned around and looked at her. "They were very interesting pictures but I couldn't believe they were of you until she showed me this one," his mother said, throwing the photo on his desk. It was the picture Carlotta had taken in the bathroom as he applied his blush. There was no point in bluffing. "She said," her voice breaking, "she said that you had broken into their house and were caught trying on Francesca's clothes. She said you need treatment." "But you didn't believe her, did you?" His mother was sobbing now. "I'm glad you're father's dead. It would kill him to see these," she said throwing a handful of pictures on the desk. They were all of Stephen is various states of transvestment. On top was the picture Bonnie had taken as he had fallen to the floor. He looked particularly slutty, staring back at the camera in his bra and heels, his big pantied ass in the air. Not at all the frightened boy he really was, but more a defiant trollop caught in the midst of some disgusting sexual escapade. "But that's not how it was," he protested lamely. "How was it?" she screamed. "How was it when you were caught redhanded in panties and brassiere putting make up on like a teenage whore?" "But . . ." "How was it when your hair is teased like a girl's, when you're wearing high heels and a skirt? Maybe Carlotta could have made up a story but these pictures aren't fake. It's you. You dressed up like a girl. And not just wearing panties but everything. You look like a little slut when you're dressed. I can't believe it," her voice cracked and trailed off. "What are you going to do?" "I don't know. Carlotta had some ideas but . . ." her teary eyes went past her petrified son to the drawings on his notebook, tiny pictures of bouffant coiffures, ponytails and pageboys, bubble cuts and bangs. "Maybe she's right. Maybe she's right," she said as she stormed out. Stephen stayed in his bedroom the rest of the night and the next morning he sat silent at the breakfast table while his mother considered him with disgust. She said only one thing. "Be home by 3:30 today." He'd almost forgotten in all the turmoil that the Prom was tonight. He'd heard nothing from the girls and at school they seemed to ignore him. He did see Francesca and the others giggling by the coke machine as he walked by. It was only after he'd passed them that he realized he was carrying his books like a girl. When he arrived home that afternoon his mother was ready with her coat on and the car keys jingling from her fingers. "Let's go," was all she said. They drove in silence for fifteen minutes until the station wagon pulled up in front of "Curls for Girls," a downtown beauty salon. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Just get out of the car and come with me," she said through gritted teeth. They pushed the big glass door open and stood for a moment while a girl came up front. She was young, in her twenties with an unruly mane of hennaed hair falling into her eyes. She was grinning at them already. His mother said, "Yes, I made an appointment for my daughter Stephanie today at 4:00," she said staring at him as she uttered the words, "my daughter Stephanie." He expected the woman to balk but she merely smiled and said, "I'm Donna. Won't you come with me, Stephanie." He walked down the aisle past dozens of teenage girls getting their hair done for the prom and tongues were wagging and giggles erupting everywhere. At the end of the narrow shop she turned and offered him a seat by the shampoo basins. He stared as mother with a look of pleading as the girl dunked his thick brunette hair in the sink but she was staring at a magazine. After the shampoo, Donna wrapped his hair in big pink towel and marched him past all the girls to the front of the store. When the plastic apron was fastened she turned to his mother and said, "How does SHE want it styled?" "Like this," her mother said pointing to a magazine illustration that Stephen couldn't see. "Ooh, it's perfect," Donna squealed. An hour and a half later, after his hair had been covered in plastic, subjected to one curious torture after another, then cut, and rolled into big plastic curlers and after he'd spent a humiliating half an hour under a dryer facing three girls who sat gossiping about him, Donna took the curlers out and began a laborious process of teasing and backcoming and spraying his hair. As she worked she made sly comments about how becoming this hairdo would be on him and how luscious he was going to look. His mother sat between him and mirror blocking the view of his new hairdo. The only thing he knew for certain was that thick bangs fell to his eyebrows. Finally Donna stood to his side and grinned at his mother and he knew she was done. His mother looked down at him in an undisguised smile of contempt and then smiled as she moved out of the way so he could see himself. He couldn't believe it. Facing him in the mirror was a boy with a big bubble of brassy blonde hair. Donna had dyed his hair blonde and then teased it into an enormous ball, towering a full 6 six inches on top of his head. The bubble, smooth and round, tapered into a flip as it touched his shoulders. Thick bangs completed the coiffure. It was a hairstyle that could not have been mistaken for anything but female. And not just any female but a cheap slattern, girl of the street, a harlot hoping to hook her prey with her high hat of hair. The hairdo produced the strangest feelings in Stephen. The first thing he thought upon viewing Donna's handiwork was how odd he looked without a dress on. It had been one thing to dress up, wear make up and have his hair feminized by Carlotta and the girls but now he was just a boy, a freak with a big feminized bubble of blonde hair. Donna broke into his reverie by briskly unsnapping the apron and pulling him up out of the chair. His knees were weak as he turned toward the door but his mother caught his arm and yanked him around, pulling back down the aisle to the center of the salon. "This is Stephanie, my daughter. Isn't he a pretty slut?" she said in a loud voice. All the girls turned round to stare at the odd couple, mother and son. Stephen felt the tears welling as she paraded him around, letting each girl get her fill of his excessively femme coiffure. When he looked down at his feet her hand pried his face upward to confront the giggles and laughter from the girls he went to school with. At last, when every possible girl in the store had seen him and nodded approvingly or scornfully at his hairstyle, his mother pulled him up the aisle and out the door. "Now we're going shopping," she said with a patently false gayety. They drove downtown and parked in front of Omphale's department store. As they took the elevator up to the store his mother barely acknowledged his presence except when a pair of girls got on at the second level and she said, "Girls, I'd like you meet my daughter, Stephanie. Stephanie is a world class slut." The girls looked at each other and burst out laughing at the mortified Stephen who tried to act as normal as a boy could when he looked like Gidget in boy drag. They got off at the fourth floor, housewares, linen and women's lingerie and his mother pulled him at breakneck speed directly to you know where. Behind the counter, folding panties, stood Carlotta, who smiled broadly at Stephen's mother. "Oh, I'm so glad you reconsidered, Stella. Oh, is this our little wonder slut, Stephanie? I hardly know you. You're so . . . boyish," she said pausing for maximum sarcasm. "Yes, that's what we're here for, Carlotta. Could you find him something in a 36D?" his mother said laughing with her new found co-conspirator. "Of course, of course. Come along, girls. Let's go backstage where all the fun is happening," Carlotta said leading them to the dressing rooms. Stephen thought she couldn't possibly take him back there but the curtains parted and there they were surrounded by girls in bras and panties, girdles and bustiers. They turned round to look at him as he walked in and soon a semi-circle of girls in lingerie had formed around him. He should have known. It was Francesca and the girls. "Great hair, Stephanie," Francesca said pulling a lacquered strand into his face. "Ooh, I just love big hair." "Girls, we have a lot of work to do here," Carlotta said reprovingly and immediately they began to undress Stephen while his mother watched him with obvious amusement as the backstage comedy unfolded. Within minutes he was divested of all his clothes, including socks and sneakers. Strangely enough as he stood naked before his mother, Carlotta and the girls, he looked more like a girl than ever before. Something about the big bubble of hair, his humbled posture and sloping shoulders gave him a look of virginal naivete, a lost little girl whose clothes had been stolen by wicked men or a reluctant beauty contestant caught between the evening gown and swimsuit competition in her bashful bareness. But his exposure was brief as Carlotta began to stage manage Stephen's re-vamping. Moving with quick and silent gestures like an imperious orchestra conductor she commanded the girls as they brought forth the black bra, the girdle, the padded panties, the garter belt, the thigh-high stockings with the spider-web patterns until the poor boy began to resemble a tawdry lingerie mannequin. When Stephen was partially assembled, that is, brassiered and pantied, stockinged, heeled and gartered, Carlotta turned to his mother and said, "Stella, would you do the honors." "With pleasure," his mother replied taking a pair of prosthetic breasts out of a box and slipping them with great ceremony into the cups of Stephen's bra. He went from a 36AA to a 36D cup in a less than a minute. "How does it feel to be stacked?" his mother asked him with mock sincerity. "Oh, I remember when he was just a little girl," she said. "Now his breasts are bigger than . . . bigger than . . . mine," she said, shedding crocodile tears over her usurpment. As the girls admired their labors Bonnie snapped a few pictures of the hapless youth who more and more resembled a refugee from a beach blanket movie. Stephen now fully expected that the dress would be next but to his horror Carlotta said, "Well, I guess that's all for this department. Let's go girls." And with that the troupe of women escorted the scantily pantied lad out past the curtains and into the store itself. With Carlotta leading the way the reluctant debutante was paraded past the lingerie department, the women's wear department, the little girl's department, even the menswear department till at last they arrived at the cosmetic department, a glittering display of chrome and glass presided over by a heavily made up but very attractive matron. She wore a starched white smock that added a strangely clinical air to the proceedings. "Here she is, Diana. Do your worst," Carlotta said. "Oh, he's stunning. Love his hair. What kind of a look are we aiming for here?" "Prom tart," his mother said matter-of-factly. "I see. Lots of make-up, crudely applied." "Not too crudely." "Of course not. Say six on the slut scale?" "Seven," Carlotta replied. "After all, we do want him to get laid tonight." The girls giggled at this remark but it sent Stephen into a tailspin of fear, a fear fused with a great deal of excitement. This mixed reaction wasn't lost on his mother who waited a moment and then pulled his panties out and looked in. "Oh god, he's a queer on top of everything else," she said verifying Stephen's libidinous reaction to Carlotta's offhand remark. "Let me see," Carlotta said moving quickly to look into Stephen's panties. "Oops, all gone. Early bird catches the worm. You have to move fast to catch those rising occasions, I guess." "You little minx," his mother said, grabbing his crotch, "no daughter of mine is going to get laid on her first date. Do you hear me young lady?" she yelled in a mock petulant voice. Stephen could hear her and everyone else in the store seemed to as well. In fact, all the women within earshot of the cosmetic department, and there were several, had gathered around to watch Diana's creative endeavors. Starting with a canvas as plain as a white wall, she drew oohs and ahs from the audience with her bold strokes of color, her quick redefinition of jaw and lips, her imaginative use of shadow in the eyes and the total transformation of Stephen's not unpretty features into a enchanting display of the art of cosmetics. When she finished Stephen was not only a convincing girl but a surprisingly seductive tart. This, in spite of his submissive manner and obvious discomfort with such a public transmutation. When the final stroke of azure pencil had been applied and the last lash glued in place, Carlotta spun the stool around so Stephen faced the crowd. A deliciously feminine hum of approval buzzed in the air, a cooing noise that Stephen found soothing. It was as though they had all come across a baby bird or a puppy or something equally deserving of their patronizing affection. And this was odd because Stephen hadn't been transformed into a puppy. No, the heavy black eyeliner that curled up at the corner of his eyes with an oriental flourish wasn't exactly cute. Nor were the thick false eyelashes or the dramatically irridescent eyelids that seemed to make his eyes flash when he blinked. And certainly not the blusher that stroked his cheeks like red wounds, stigmata of the third kind. Carlotta loosed his hair from the black ribbon Diana had employed to tie it back and the gesture produced another public swoon as the gentle flip barely touching his shoulders worked the magic of nostalgia on the audience of promgoers past. Francesca, ever the spoiler, grew a little jealous of Stephen's admirers and stepped forward, "You know, he's not really a girl," and then with her usual flair for the dramatic pulled the ever-pullable panties down once again. The buzz this time was overwhelming, spilling over into spontaneous applause. An elderly woman with vivid blue eyeshadow and apple doll cheeks came forward and said to Stephen, "Don't worry honey, with your hair, nobody's gonna care what you've got down there." The chorus of approval was the only mirror Stephen had had since Diana's handiwork had been completed and now as the crowd dispersed he turned eagerly to look into the chromium edged cosmetic mirror on the counter. He himself gasped at the effect. A picture he had seen in the Sunday supplement came to mind. It was an ad for a glitzy Las Vegas casino. He looked like a showgirl. Totally prefabricated, totally fake and totally fascinating. "Does my little girl like her make up?" his mother voice intruded. "Oh, mommy," he said gasping for breath. "Oh 'mommy?'" she mimicked. "Oh mommy. I look so . . ." "So what?" she asked impatiently. " . . . so cheap," "You are, Stephanie, you are. You're my cheap little hussy whore harlot," she said in a babycoo voice. "You forgot daughter," Carlotta corrected. "I didn't forget. Of course, you're my daughter. My daughter, the little slut who likes to dress up like a girl. Well, you've got your wish. How does it feel, little girl? How does it feel to be such a gorgeous . . . whore?" Stephen turned away but Francesca's hand turned his head back to face her, "But we're not done yet, little girl. We haven't gotten to your pretty little dress." The girls laughed ominously at this. "Yes, we couldn't leave the store without a dress for Stephanie, could we? Let's go girls," Carlotta said once again, leading the queen and his entourage back past all those departments with all those curious and leering clerks feasting their eyes on the pale prince in panties as he heel-clicked by them, his blonde pouffy do bouncing merrily with each step. Carlotta stopped the parade at the Pre-Teen Department and immediately began pawing through the racks of lacy pastel dresses. "I believe this is what you're looking for," a salesgirl said, handing Carlotta a big white box tied with a yellow ribbon. Her grin betrayed her as another partner in the grand conspiracy of salesladies. "Oh, thank you, Bettina," Carlotta said, slicing the ribbon with a swift movement of her sharp red nails. She pulled out a dress much like the frilly little dresses on the rack but obviously made with Stephen's dimensions in mind. She held it up to him and nodded approvingly. "It's perfect, Bettina. Where can he try it on?" "Right here's fine," she said, taking the garment and enlisting Bonnie and Suzy's aid in pulling it over Stephen's head. Bettina was a pretty redhead in her twenties and her peculiar eagerness to dress Stephen was particularly disconcerting. "It fits perfectly," she said with a voice containing a motherlode of irony. Indeed, the dress, a pink pullover with puffed sleeves and a scoopneck, did fit in some ways. The bodice was clearly designed to accommodate a bust and the shoulders were broad enough for a boy to wear comfortably but its length fell considerably shy of his knees. In fact, it billowed out and surrendered at mid-groin. And although it was a definitely a duplicate of the scores of preteen dresses that surrounded them, on Stephen it seemed to define the word "babydoll." With his long black stockinged legs materializing beneath the pink mirabou hem, the big beachball of blonde hair atop his head and his garish "make me an offer" make up, he hardly resembled a little girl. The effect was nonetheless touching because it was clear that Stephen himself was closer to a little girl spiritually than he was to the blonde bombshell he resembled or the teenage boy that he was. "Oh, that's much better. Such a good, darling, little girl," his mother cooed. "Maybe we should get you a pacifier to suck on or is there something else you'd rather suck on . . . Stephanie?" "The girls have to go get ready for the prom, Stella. I suppose we'll see you two later," Carlotta said with a sinister smile. "Oh yes," his mother said. "Let's go home, Stephanie. You still have a big evening ahead of you." What do you think? Isn't Stephen's mother the cruelest Auntie Stern you've ever seen? Even Carlotta the Wicked takes a back seat to her. She'll probably oversee his cocksucking adventures later on this evening. And provide the cocks as well. Stephen, remains an enigma. Though it is clear that he enjoys his humiliations to say so would be to spoil the entire game. And to have him protest meekly in that submissive whiny way is a bore. So he remains mute. Beautifully mute and quite one-dimensional. Were it not for his burgeoning bust he'd be as flat