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A Boy's Bra Training And Discipline by Marlissa How did it happen? Gosh, it was four years ago. Well I could start by saying that I knew it would be him. As soon as he walked into my summer school class, I just knew he would be the one. Dino Fazio thought he was God's gift to women, including me, his remedial English teacher. Not that he was offering himself over. He made it clear that Meg Hardy didn't pass muster. "What was that Mr. Fazio?" I was beet red at the comment he'd just expressed loudly in the back of the room. He sat there in his leather jacket and sneered. That he was so good-looking made it worse. He wasn't tall being only 5' 6", but his dark good looks, big brown eyes, high cheekbones, long straight black hair and soft, flawless olive skin more than made up for differences in height. "I just said I don't like fried eggs." He stared back fiercely, daring me to contradict him. But that hadn't been what he had said. What he had said loudly enough to be heard by the twenty other fifteen year olds was "Check out Miss Fried Egg Tits up there." The other kids had laughed loudly at my humiliation, double so because my blush admitted that I had heard it too. Our eyes meet and I relented. "Please keep your comments to yourself," I replied. He didn't answer. Instead he looked around at his fellow teenagers, nodding as if to say that he had met the enemy and she was his. Jed Taylor and Frankie Farino, two fellow thugs-in-training, smirked back, as did Samantha King and Beth Simpson, both bustier at fifteen that I would ever be. Young Master Fazio was obviously trying to score points with the other kids and it was working. They giggled and whispered back and forth the whole class and I was too mortified to say anything about it. I busily filled the board with sentence parsing for the remainder of the class, until mercifully the bell rang. He waited till the other kids had filed out. Then as Dino passed by my desk, he leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Try a push-up tomorrow. Maybe I'll be able to figure out if you're really a boy or a girl." He uttered this trash with such steeliness that for a minute I was scared, really scared. He left without another word and I stayed in the empty classroom shaking like a leaf. When I got home I poured myself a glass of wine and thought about the problem. Here I was, my first day on my first teaching job and a boy ten years younger than me had taken control of my classroom. And I wasn't even into the regular school season yet. I had hoped the three month summer remedial classes would acclimate me to a full teaching schedule. What had I done to Dino Fazio? I wondered bitterly. Nothing. I had done nothing to this kid. He was so resentful of having to take this remedial class that he was making my life miserable-- by referring to the one area of my anatomy that I was still self-conscious of. Look, I don't have any illusions about myself. I'm not a super model. But I am good-looking. Friends tell me that if Sigourney Weaver had short bright red hair, she'd look like me and that sounds right. I have pale skin and freckles-- curse my Irish forefathers!-- and bright green eyes. I'm in good shape and stay that way by running three miles every day. And as Dino shared with the class, I'm not exactly 'built,' though he had exaggerated and turned a 34B into a 32AAA. Anyway, I know I have a lean and mean figure that, in a pair of Guess jeans has turned more than its share of male heads. Which was another depressing topic. I drank more of the wine as I contemplated my new job situation. I had tried not to think about it, but now as I wallowed in self-made misery, I rolled it over again. What would I do with my love life? This wasn't the usual self-pity single gals resort to. I knew I could go out a find a guy. The word was that there were several eligible bachelor teachers on staff at Bentson High that would be returning to the school in September. But what good did that do me? You see, I'm a lesbian. And actively lesbian teachers at suburban Florida high schools aren't very popular with school boards-- not in the land of Anita Bryant anyway. So there I was, in a strange town, already tormented by a little creep on the first day and desperately lonely for some feminine companionship. I remembered that night was the longest of my life since the death of my parents when I was a sophomore in college. I couldn't imagine how anything would get any better, ever. But it did, and not long after. The next day I arose with the determination to do something about the Fazio kid. Luckily he wasn't in class. Normally skipping the second day would have annoyed the hell out of me, but I was just grateful not to have to face him. His cohorts, Jed, Frankie, Samantha and Beth, kept their chatter down to a rude if manageable rumble. Without their ringleader, they didn't have the nerve to cross me openly. After class, I checked in with Mr. Temple, the principal. He had hired me and we got along well. I had the sense that he sort of thought of me in a daughterly way, as he had gone out of his way to help me settle in Bentson. My request for information about Dino Fazio elicited only the mildest interest. "Problem with the boy Meg?" he asked sympathetically. He pulled out the file and nodded. "Looks like he recently moved here, right after the school year was over. Was in," his eyes widened, "the state juvenile facility for carjacking!" He pulled his glasses down and looked up intently at me through his pince nezs. "Be careful with this one Meg. He's trouble." Then continuing to scan the file, he concluded "If he wants to go on as a sophomore in September, he's got to get at least a C in your remedial English class. Looks like he's stuck with you and probably resents it. Meg, he's a new kid in a new town out to score some points against a new teacher. It's going to happen from time to time. I'm sorry it has to hit you so soon. Even in Bentson, there are these bad kids." I thanked him and assured him I could handle it. I left the empty high school jumped in my car and headed toward the address in Dino's file. I didn't have a plan really, but I was curious about how this kid lived. Maybe I could talk to his parents, try to get their help in curbing him a little. As soon as I arrived at the trailer park on the edge of town, I knew my chances of getting help were far less than even. The trailer listed as Dino's address wasn't just run-down, it was filthy in a way that gives benign neglect a good name. the place was a sty. There were the hulks of at least four cars up on blocks in the front yard, piles of uncollected stuffed garbage bags, dozens of Old Milwaukee cans rolling round on what passed for a front lawn, and a huge tv antenna that sprouted from the top of the dirty white trailer. I knocked on the door. An older man in a gray-once white tee shirt and oil splotched work pants shook himself out of a one man snoring contest. He looked at me with suspicious, narrowed eyes. He weighed about three hundred pounds and reeked of beer. "Wuz you want?" he demanded. I told him and asked if I could come in to talk about Dino. He didn't invited me in, but didn't tell me to leave when I opened the fly-speckled screen door. The inside of the trailer made me long for the fresh exuberance of the front yard. The place was a dump, pure and simple. I found a perch on an ancient legless sofa. "Dino, he my neff-yew, y'all unnnerstan? His ma and pa done run off-- bills yew know. And the boy come to stay heah after he got out of the Reformatory. He come and go-- I don't care. Some day I'll get up and he'll be gone-- wouldn't surprise me. Ain't my problem. I got other problems-- I'm on the Disability." He took a draw on a can of Old Milwaukee and looked at me, clearly uninterested in his nephew's goings on. His disability looked self-induced to me, but I nodded. "Look, Dino needs to buckle down. His reading skills are below par." With that, the uncle laughed. "Dino reads alright, Missy, see hare? All them magazines he likes is all over." He pointed to a stack of glossy girlie magazines with such gorgeous names as "Bra Busters," "40dds" and "Hot Tips." I shook my head in disgust and left without another word. Behind me the fat old drunk man continued to drink and laugh. So much for help there, I thought despondently. Now what? That evening I did the only thing I could think of. I called up Diana Weston, my best friend from college. I hadn't talked to her since her wedding three months ago. "Weston residence," the high pitched voice answered, "May I help you?" Polite, respectful and demure, just the way Diana liked it, I thought. "Ginger, this is Ms. Hardy. Put your mistress on the phone." "Yes, Ma'am, at once Ma'am!" Diana picked up a minute later. Before she could speak, I complimented her on Ginger's phone comportment. "He's very sweet, Diana. You've trained him so well!" She responded with her wry low laugh. "Yes, well once George Fielding came back from the Honeymoon, he had to be taught that those dress-up games on our wedding night weren't just games-- they were the way things were going to be. Little Georgie girl here whined a bit when I made him change his last name to Weston. And he put up a fight when he was told he was going to stay home and keep house for me, just like a good lil househubby. And he needed some good old fashioned discipline when he was rechristened 'Ginger.' But he seems to be accepting his new role quite nicely now. Anyway, honey, how are you? How's the new job going?" "That's why I called. I need your help with a problem. I thought since you're in the Society--" Diana cut me off. "Please, Hon, you know all references to the Society need to be made in person. And if you're talking about what I think you're talking about, you should come over at once." An hour later I was there. Ginger Weston, nee George Fielding, opened the door. I couldn't believe the transformation. He had been the class president and head of the biggest frat at our college. At the wedding he looked every inch the man-in- control as he swept Diana away in the limo. Little did anyone know except for Meg, that Diana had very definite ideas about how male spouses were supposed to act. Poor George. Now he stood wearing a silk champagne negligee and high heeled mules, his long dyed platinum blonde hair cascading seductively over the spaghetti straps of the lingerie and his bare shoulders. His skin was smooth and made-up, as were his eyes. His long nails were painted a garish red. If I didn't know better and except for the flat chest, I might have thought that the person greeting me was George's younger sister. But of course it wasn't. It was George now transformed into Ginger. "Hello, Ginger." He looked sheepishly up. Like Diana's other close friends, we had known George before she had trained him. The knowledge embarrassed him acutely. "Hello, Ms. Hardy. Uh, please follow me." Ginger led me to the living room, where Diana was listening to music. She rose and greeted me with a big hug. Marriage agreed with her-- especially the kind she had planned on. She was comfortably at ease in a flannel gown, so unlike the sexy frilly thing her husband wore. Diana had a warm confident glow, the kind that no doubt attracted George to her to begin with. She had an angular sharp featured face that made her hard to forget, a look that was emphasized by the modish short pixie cut of her dark brown hair. Diana was thoroughly heterosexual, though of the female-controlled variety, and her looks were too hard for me, though she was an attractive woman. Since my tastes run more to the feminine, so-called lipstick lesbian range, there had never been the slightest sexual undertow in our relationship, which made it all the more comfortable. We both accepted each other's choices. "Ginger, be a doll and fetch Meg a drink." As the feminized househubby minced off to obey his mistress'es command, we exchanged glances and began to laughed simultaneously. Three months disappeared in thirty seconds. "God, it's good to see you!" I took the drink Ginger returned with and Diana gave him a pat on his butt. "Isn't he a sexy thing? Ginger, you'd be bored by all this confusing women's talk. Why don't you be a pet and go warm up our bed?" Diana winked at me. "Just think about all the things I'm going to do to you, doll face. That ought to get you hot and bothered." She dismissed him with a slap on his butt and he scampered up the stairs obediently. "Now, what's this about the Society? Tell me why you're interested in the Black Rose Society all of a sudden." I proceeded to tell her all about Dino Fazio, then as the wine took hold, I began to admit just how unhappy I was. The trickle which had begun with Dino Fazio now turned into an emotional torrent. She listened carefully and patiently. She had known about my sexual proclivities since college and if she didn't share them, she at least sympathetically. Finally she asked why I had brought up the Society after such a long time. I wondered myself. Diana had told me of her membership in this ultra-secret organization while we were in college. At first I thought it was some kind of sorority, but there was never any mention of it. Later she shared the Society's mission with me. "The idea is that women should run things, not males." "So it's political?" I asked naively. But she shook her head. "Not quite." She wouldn't tell me anymore about it but she had floated the idea once of me joining. "The sisters like you from what they can see. You know," she added pointedly, "there are many lesbians in the Black Rose Society. It's one place that prejudice doesn't exist toward your choice. Tell me you're interested and I can tell you all the specifics. The Society can be a real help when you graduate." Diana had certainly done well for herself, landing a top job at Artemis Investments right out of college. It was why she lived so regally now and could afford to keep her man at home in his feminized state. I adored Diana, but I begged off. It was all too mysterious and melodramatic. I got the impression that George's transformation was just the tip of the iceberg. And I wasn't at all sure that I approved of dominating males either. Until now. "I don't know Diana. You know my folks are gone and I don't have anyone. I guess I'm just vulnerable that's all. That punk just made it all go to my head." I put the wineglass down. "I should go." "You know, I'm sure we can find a solution to your problems. Males all provide it themselves, you know. If you're aware of the signs, you can take advantage of their own instincts to make them behave. Why, Georgie Girl was just crazy about Marilyn Monroe. Thought she was the ultimate sex symbol. All he wanted from a women was for her to be a centerfold. Fine-- I turned him into one. Find out that boy's weakness and you can do the same to him!" Centerfold! The word made me think of all those disgusting magazines in that trailer! A plan took shape. Diana could see me getting excited, then the bubble burst. "What's the matter?" she asked concerned. I looked up forlornly. "Diana, with all due respect, I think your life is wonderful. You've put George, I mean Ginger, in a unique role in your life. But you're suggesting I turn that Fazio boy into a Ginger. And I'm not a heterosexual. I'm into girls, not cross-dressed husbands!" Diana smiled. "Fine. You like feminine girls. You don't have a lover right now and you can't have one openly because you'd get fired. But what about a teenage girl, one that you would train as a lesbian love slave? You could keep her as a little pet to help pass those lonely hours at home." I was growing wet between the legs at the thought. "I love the idea, but...how? I mean how could I do it without getting into trouble? And what does having a teenage sex toy have to do with that little jerk Dino Fazio?" Diana spent the next hour telling me exactly what the two things had to do with one another. ************************ All I told Mr. Temple the following day was that I couldn't continue teaching the summer session. He was disappointed until I explained I had some lengthy legal obligations to unearth regarding my parents' estate. "I inherited a house on the shore where I'll be staying for the next three months. I'll be back though to teach in the Fall." With that promise made, he allowed me to leave my remedial English course and assigned another teacher to the class. "I hope that Fazio boy hasn't done this! If he's causing you to give up this course, I'll--" I assured him there was no connection and with a thankful handshake took my leave for the summer. I packed up a few things and drove the two hours out to my parent's old summer home on the eastern coast of Florida. Diana met me there, smiling in a very satisfied way. She handed me a keychain on which hung a small key and a black button the size of a dime. "He's in the house. He's heavily sedated and probably won't be up for a while. He's been fitted with the chastity belt I told you about. Use this," she pointed to the black button, "if he gets out of hand. It's called the Tutor. It will activate an electrical shock that affects the nerve-endings in a nasty way. I've used it once already today. Don't hesitate to use it. Remember, you need to show him who's boss. The sooner he understands who makes up the rules, the better a lover he'll eventually make for you." The whole scheme suddenly seemed unreal and scary to me. "Diana, are you sure about this? I mean, will he really turn into a teenage girl? How can we get away with this?" Diana nodded strongly in the affirmative. "Look Meg, I took care of all that. Society sisters nabbed the little brat and left a forged note for that fat uncle that said he was taking off with a gang. The uncle could care less. As far as the changes, just put him on the diet we talked about. You'll see changes at once. Within three months, your Dino Fazio will be ready to take his place as the hottest little cutie in the sophomore class of Bentson High School. Just make sure he drinks the bottled water every day. It doesn't affect females, just males-- makes them very feminine in both appearance and manner." I shook my head. "But what will keep him from telling anyone about all this? I can't be with him all the time at the school." Diana patted me on the back. "Honey, don't worry. The Society CAN watch him all the time. You'd be amazed at our presence. And what can he say anyway? That he's really a boy? He'd be mortified to let anyone know women did this to him. And even if he gets desperate enough, he won't dare say a thing." "Why?" Diana's hard eyes fixed on mine. "Because I told him that if he so much as acted like a tomboy, let alone say anything, that he'd be castrated." I gasped. "Are you serious?" Diana nodded grimly. "Absolutely. I already told him that you want him as a young lesbian lover, therefore you could care less if he has a cocklet. At least this way, he'll keep his little thing, even if it is under lock and key in his chastity belt for good. What is it? You're still doubting this can happen? God, anyone else would be thanking me. It's a fantasy come true. In three months you'll have a hot little teen queen who will worship the ground you walk on-- or else. Talk about the ultimate teacher's pet! What's the problem?" I sighed. She was right. But I still didn't believe it was possible to convert a tough talking fifteen year old bully into the soft sexy pretty young thing of my fantasies. "Well, I can see how he could be physically transformed into a girl, I guess, but can he really emotionally be turned into a girl?" Again, that Diana smile-- like a brilliant Cheshire cat. "I already have a plan for you, one that should be quite amusing. But I'll hold it for the end of August. Now go in and start training the girl of your dreams! Good luck!" Off she went, leaving me to my new charge and challenge of turning Dino Fazio, high school tough guy into my new sweetheart. Well, if you're reading this, I doubt you need to hear the details of how Dino Fazio was transformed into Stacie Fox. Needless to say the first two weeks were rough. Dino refused to accept my authority and the Tutor was employed on a couple of occasions. On the second day after all his sparse chest hair fell out, he stopped eating and drinking, but that only lasted a day. His diet of protein drinks and bottled water-- both containing a secret chemical element prepared by the Society-- brought on amazing feminine characteristics. His nascent boy beard disappeared, never to return, leaving his olive skin smooth and glowing. His body hair all fell out as well. His cheeks became more pronounced, though more delicate. Even his hands and feet grew smaller by two sizes. His nails and black hair grew at an accelerated speed too. Dino really became alarmed when his waist narrowed even as his hips expanded! He still had a boyish figure, but it was certainly looked more like that of a developing teenage girl than a boy. His new coltish prettiness really perplexed him and he couldn't avoid it, because I kept him nude now, except for the chastity belt. He finally gave up his stubborn resistance to answering to his new name after another shock from the Tutor. The beginning of the third week we had our first conversation. He hadn't accepted his new feminine fate, but the chemicals rebalancing his metabolism were causing him to lose hope. He listened as I explained to him the new challenges facing him. "Stacie, you're turning into a girl now and there's nothing you can do about it, is there?" He reluctantly nodded, though petulantly. He drew his long straight black hair back from his eyes and his full kissable lips trembled. "Well you know you have to start acting like a girl because you're going back to school in a couple of months." He looked up. "Like this?" he pleaded. His voice was a nice high soprano now, able to hit all the sweet high notes. I grinned. "Oh yes, indeed. Just like that." His blue eyes were terror-filled. "But what if someone finds out I'm a boy? Will that lady still do THAT to me?" I nodded again. "Oh yes! If anyone even thinks you might not be a girl, you'll be castrated-- understand? So what will you have to do all the time?" He squeezed his thin shoulders worriedly. I have to start acting like a girl, Ms. Hardy. Like Stacie Fox." Good. We were getting someplace. I patted him on his lovely head. "That's right, Stacie. We'll begin at once." And with that, Stacie was introduced to his new wardrobe-- a bright collection of Junior Miss fashions. It only took one shock of the Tutor to convince him that he really DID want to put on those yellow cotton French cut panties. Within a week, Stacie was wearing all the kinds of pretty clothes high school girls his age wore. Jean mini-skirts, tight No Excuses jeans, hip-hugging short-shorts, cute lace-trimmed blouses, smart black heels and girlishly pink running shoes, darling lacy socklettes, revealing stirrup pants, and more. The following week I taught him the joys of make-up and jewelry. He was shaping up so well I was caught by surprise when he tried to escape one night. Poor thing never had a chance. Stacie thought that if he could get out of my presence, he had a shot at getting some help in reversing the process I had begun with him. Though I was almost always training him on these long Florida summer days, one day I decided to take a nap and sent him to his room. The doorlock didn't catch though and Dino's bedroom was open. Clever little thing waited for me to fall asleep, then actually made a dash out through the front door. Of course he didn't know that I put the Tutor on automatic whenever I was away from him, thus ensuring that he could never get farther away than I allowed him too. The shock hit him when he reached for the door handle. When I awoke, I found him crouched in a corner doubled over in pain. I could have let him be at that point, but a lesson needed to be taught. Suddenly I liked the idea of using physical force to teach the supple girlish boy the price of disobedience. In other words, I felt like being a bitch! I shook my head angrily and told him I was so very disappointed. "Over my knee Missy. Come on-- come get your medicine." You'd have thought all I had done to the boy would have been humiliating enough so that a mere spanking would be nothing. But male pride is a curious thing. He refused. I hit the button for the Tutor to deliver a lesson in impertinence. He threw his head up in agony. I patted my knee again, without saying a word. He dropped his head and sullenly draped himself over my knee. It was the last time I used the Tutor. From that moment on, all Stacie's 'lapses' in judgment were corrected with corporal punishment and have been to this day four years later. I still had the Tutor, but Stacie found my method somewhat more bearable. Which was fine-- I began to cast an eagle-eye for any small indiscretions that would give me the opportunity to punish my pretty pet. There were plenty, though nothing major. It was August and Stacie had come to accept at least for the moment, his new gender. He was dressing, making himself up as, speaking like, even walking like a fifteen year old girl. He didn't smile much, but I couldn't expect miracles. When Diana came up at the end of the summer to inspect my "summer project" she was pleased with my progress. "You've really taken him in hand, Meg. What a cutie you have here," she said as she watched Stacie mincing about the house. he was cleaning, a task he performed daily now. "I'm sure by now you're handling discipline without the need to resort to the Tutor." I nodded confidently. "Yes, Stacie's been behaving very adequately lately. He still gets into trouble, but nothing I can't handle," I said, tapping my palm with a hairbrush. "Good. Now that he's almost ready, we can talk about something you brought up at the beginning of the summer." I had forgotten what she was talking about. "I thought he was ready, Diana. What's missing?" She wagged a finger in disagreement. "No, no, no! Not by a long shot! Look, you have him prancing around in panties, skirt and make-up, true. He acts and looks like a girl. But he doesn't FEEL like a girl yet. Remember how I said that my Georgie-girl really wasn't tamed into being a proper lil househubby till I turned him into the woman of HIS dreams?" I snapped my fingers, realizing what she was saying. "Marilyn Monroe! Of course!" Diana handed me a small bottle of water. "Remember what he said to bother you earlier?" I took the bottle. Yes, I had. I said I don't like fried eggs, the punk had said. "And you said he had all those girlie magazines?" she reminded me. I nodded and smiled. "I understand. I know what to do." We dropped the subject, though I would ask her for advice in the matter as school progressed. Diana stayed for dinner, all the while drinking in the sight of my pretty teen queen pet. Dino shivered whenever her eyes fell on him too long. Only once did she ask me loudly and in his presence if she would need to "spay" him. He turned ashen white, waiting for me to reply. I paused for a dramatic moment or two, then shook my head. "No, not now anyway. He's really trying hard. Ask me again when he starts school though. If he doesn't pass, I'll need to reconsider it." Diana left that evening with specific instructions on how to use the bottled liquid. "Just like before, except one dose should do. Give it to the dear tonight and watch him drink every drop. In the morning he should be ready to take back to Bentson with you." I followed her instructions, and watched the skirted boy sip every drop without so much as a peep. He was of course quite used to obeying my every order at this stage and did so now. After drinking it, he fell into a deep slumber. He had grown so light-- he weighed all of one hundred-seven pounds now-- that I easily picked him up him and placed him in his bed for a what would be a very strange night of beauty rest. I knew the next day the bottled formula had worked because I could hear Stacie whining to himself behind his locked bedroom suite. "I have tits! I have tits!" He didn't sound happy about it. I opened the door. He sat on his big pink girl's bed wearing a nightie. He was holding the pink lace nightie up, inspecting what was underneath resting high on his chest. They were a smallish pair of perky breasts, about the size of cut lemons! He dropped his nightie and looked up in alarm. Tears were streaming down his dark, wan cheeks. His full lips were opened up in a silent scream. "Aren't we growing up!" I cruelly chided him. He didn't say a word, but big tears continued to fall down those soft cheeks and I left him alone to collect his thoughts. Later I realized that poor Dino's worst nightmare had occurred. It was one thing to change the shape of his body, to make it sift and acceptable to my tastes for a young, taut teen body. The long hair, the soft skin, the make-up and dressing-- that was one thing. He had never expected this though. Now he had what he had so often lusted after-- a pair of teenage girl's breasts-- except these breast were smaller, much smaller than anything that might have attracted him. I think even a whorish pair of pumped up melon-tits would have been easier to take than the tiny nipple-teats he had sprouted. For the diminutive little things my girl-boy had now were more nipple than breast. As I searched for and found the raised dime-sized nipples underneath the sheer nightie, I guessed that at most, that my teeny-bopper would wear a 32AA brassiere at most. But that was the point Diana had made. It was precisely how I would turn the half-boy into the totally girlish lipstick lesbian teen lover of my hottest, wettest fantasies. The night before school was to begin, I took Stacie home from the beach house, along with all his pretty new clothes. As I drove, I told him the story that Diana and I had worked out. Stacie Fox was my niece. HER parents were traveling extensively and I had agreed to let her stay with me for the coming school year. I would be responsible for her. SHE would also be in my homeroom class, and HER courses had been chosen by me. Mr. Temple had been informed already. Stacie listened, increasingly more depressed and withdrawn. He looked up in fear when I told him there would be some new rules to follow when we got home, rules that would be followed or else Diana would be paying him a call with a scalpel. I didn't say anything more but gave him as hard a look as I could. He squirmed and kept his full lips pursed, afraid to utter a word. The next morning I watched as Stacie Fox, my new niece, dressed. I picked out the outfit-- a pink velveteen miniskirt, a sheer white buttoned blouse, white knee socks, Maryjanes and a floppy pink ribbon to wear in his hair. Simple pink heart- shaped ear studs, pink lipgloss and pale pink nail polish completed the young lady image I wanted for him. Underneath his little flared a-line miniskirt, Stacie wore a pair of pink French-cut Hanes For Her panties. He was tucking in his blouse when he realized his breasts were clearly visible through the material! He looked up, confounded. "May I put on another blouse?" I shook my head firmly. "No. You look very pretty in that blouse and you're going to keep it on." He bowed his head, then gathered all his courage up. The moment he ashamedly made his shy request, his bra training had begun. "Then may I have a bra to wear, please?" "Why do you need a bra, Stacie?" He blushed. "Because you can see my breasts through my blouse, Ms. Hardy. Maybe I could borrow one of yours?" he pleaded softly. I laughed. "There's no way. You couldn't fill it out by a long shot. Besides you need a special kind of bra. The kind girls wear when they start to get their little breasts. What kind is that, Stacie? What kind of bra do you need?" He looked at his Maryjanes humbly for a moment, then forced the answer out. "A training bra, Ms. Hardy. I need a training bra." I nodded approvingly. "That's right, Stacie. And I bought one for you-- just for your little breasts." I pulled it out of my briefcase and handed it to him. "Go put on your very first training bra Stacie. We're going to be late for our first day at school." Stacie took the packaged training bra, the tag still hanging off it. The disconcerted expression on his prettified and softened face told me that it would take my Stacie a while before he would comfortably accept the unfamiliar feminine garment's new role in his teenage world. I could only look forward to his journey toward girlhood with pleasurable anticipation! He returned, ready for the drive to school. I noted with approval that Stacie had donned his training bra quickly and without questions. Good-- he could dress himself without questions. I could clearly make out the training bra underneath the sheer white material of the blouse. It was a darling contraption made of soft snow white cotton, with wide straps and full chest covering cups. It was almost a half- chemise, with pretty white lace trimming that gave only the barest hint of budding breasts under the too-generous cups. In fact, the training bra didn't even hook in the back, but was worn by pulling it over the head. The whole effect was to announce that the wearer was ready to begin her real girlhood, but still underequipped for the new stage. Stacie scrunched his shoulders, his fingers constantly straying to position an errant strap or scratching his back where the big backstrap offered unneeded support. It was so cute! As we drove, I informed Stacie that he would be expected to obey certain private rules I had already formulated. The reason for this was that I needed to be convinced that Stacie was being a very good girl and therefore didn't require my brand of discipline. As I told him the first rule, he turned pale. He looked up at me, a nervous wreck. "Oh, must I, Ms. Hardy? Shan't I be drawing attention to myself?" I had taught him to speak as a properly brought up young lady over the course of the past summer and to always use a frivolous charming turn of phrase. "That's the point, Stacie. You'll do as I've instructed because it is important that everyone be aware of your concern for your appearance." I added, unnecessarily, that he knew what would happen if he didn't obey this rule. He gave me a short nod, though his full lips were tightly shut. Stacie was surprised as I assigned him a seat that was surrounded by his former summer school chums-- Jed Taylor, Frankie Farino, Samantha King and Beth Simpson. He must have hoped against hope that the four would recognize him, but I watched that hope die as the kids looked him over as dully as they did their required reading. It was as if they had never known him at all. I knew that Stacie was reeling at the shock and was pleased. I wanted my darling girlie Stacie Fox to understand that Dino Fazio may as well have never existed. I introduced Stacie to the class, though made no mention of our relationship. I had suggested to Mr. Temple that if the other kids knew Stacie was my niece they might suspect me of favoritism. Stacie was so informed as well and told to keep the relationship secret. Samantha and Beth couldn't have taken cared less about the new "girl" but I saw a brief predatory leer from the Stacie's two male neighbors, Jed and Frankie. All was preceding normally when I decided to cue Stacie. I had told him the signal would be my taking off my glasses and putting them in the breast pocket of my jacket. To the rest of the class, this would be a meaningless gesture, but to Stacie it would begin the most memorable era of his bra training. At first his frightened expression concerned me. My back-up plan would be to activate the Tutor and he knew this, which was probably why he grudgingly raised his hand. I stopped my lesson, a discussion of grammar rules, and recognized him. "Yes, Stacie?" I asked archly, acting annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of my discourse. His pretty made-up face blushed a crimson red. He opened his wide lipglossed mouth and spoke demurely. "May I be excused to go to the Girl's Room, Ms. Hardy?" I hid my smile. "And why, Stacie?" His face darkened in shame, but he knew he had to continue. He had no choice. "I must adjust my training brassiere, Ma'am." As the class erupted into laughter, I couldn't help but join in. "Yes, Miss Fox, you may go adjust your training bra-- by all means, young lady!" Beth and Samantha were doubled over in chuckles and Jed and Frankie gave Stacie cartoonish "hubba hubba" looks. All the girls in the class were healthy sixteen year olds with nicely shaped chests and the request only emphasized how flat Stacie was compared to them. That a sixteen year old girl still wore a training bra absolutely shook them into gales of derisive laughter-- a laughter I freely shared. Stacie scampered out of the class, completely humiliated and returned a few minutes later. As he resented himself, careful to keep his skirt close to his legs, Jed stage whispered "All set, Dolly Parton?" and the class broke into chuckles all over again. Stacie sat and kept his head bowed down. That was the beginning of the bra training I subjected Stacie to. He was required per my rule to utter the phrase "my training brassiere" at least once a school day for two weeks. He had to say it in my presence at my cue loud enough to be heard by the entire class. After the first time, it was up to him to come up with ways to use the phrase that made sense. To be honest, his ingenuity impressed me. The next day, at my cue, he raised his hand. We had been discussing adjectives. How would be make a connection between his training bra and adjectives? I recognized him. "In a way, adjectives are things that make others things pretty, is that right, Ms. Hardy?" "How do you mean Miss Fox?" He blushed again. "Like my training brassiere makes my figure prettier? Like that?" Again, the class broke down. And it was like that for the next two weeks. Every time Stacie raised his hand, the class began to get the giggles, though by this time the girls were getting disgusted. Stacie had no self-pride to keep bringing up her small bust, they said. She was clearly doing it to get the attention of boys in some weird way. But the boys thought the whole thing was hilarious. Another affect of what was seen as her odd behavior was that Stacie was unable to make any friends. The girls thought she was too strange and the boys couldn't care less about a girl who thought so little of herself, though Jed and Frankie seemed to have a private joke about their feminine classmate that made them eye her with special interest. In any case, Stacie was isolated which was precisely what I wanted. I hardly needed him getting chummy with some boy or girl and sharing the story of his ongoing training, let alone his biological sex. Two weeks had passed and Stacie had obeyed my rules thoroughly. I complimented him at home, though he responded only with a wan sad smile. I knew he dreaded getting up in the morning, hated being put in such humiliating situations constantly and that school for him was more literally a prison for him than any of his classmates could imagine. But regardless of how I knew he must feel inside, I could find no fault whatsoever with his behavior. He dressed in his schoolgirl wardrobe without so much as a cross look. His walk was graceful in his Maryjanes and saddle shoes and his makeup applied ever more expertly as days progressed. No-- Stacie was acting like the perfect little lady at Benson High. And that was why I decided to reward my little Stacie. Sunday evening I told him I wished to speak to him. He put down his Glamour magazine (he was responsible for reading at least one fashion magazine a week now) and looked up demurely. By now he had learned the tricks of the teenage girl of how to look pretty without too much work, which his casually ponytailed black hair demonstrated. He looked up, not directly at me, but down at my shoes-- an acceptably respectful demeanor. "You've been a good girl, Stacie." He continued to look down, but I saw the wince. He still didn't like being referred to as a girl, even though he made such a convincing one by now. "Good girls get rewards." He looked up hopefully now, batting his lashes excitedly. Then he saw what I had in my hand and all his anticipation collapsed. He took the gift pettishly, his brown eyes clouding in pouty anger. "What do you say, young lady?" "T-thank you, Ms. Hardy." There was a trace of hurt in it but I let it pass. He held the garment doubtfully. I instructed him to put it on. Sluggishly, he pulled off his pink blouse. Without effort he slipped the training bra off over his head. But now his hostility was softened by curiosity. He shyly toyed with the soft wireless cups of his peach colored cotton bra. "It's a Missy Petite, an Olga For Girls, size 32 AAA-- the smallest they make. But it is a real bra. What do you think Stacie?" His curiosity was winning the better of him. "It has a hook in the back, Ms. Hardy-- not like my training brassiere." He was fingering the soft cotton, playing with the hook. I nodded. "That's right, Stacie. You'll have to hook it in the back. Put it on." I watched as his trembling fingers drew his small bare breasts into the snug comfort of the new bra. Unlike the training bra, this one gave his small bust small but visible shaping. He now looked like a girl- a flat chested girl, but definitely a girl with a pair of petite breasts! Almost instinctively, he slipped the bra on, hooking the bra skillfully in the back and pulling the thin shoulder straps up to give his boobs a tiny shelf-like look. Against his will, I could tell he enjoyed admiring the new figure my gift gave him. "Better than your training bra, hah?" I teased. He gave me a sphinxlike smile and a pretty little nod. "Good. You'll wear your new bra from now on. You may retire your training bra to your undies drawer. We'll keep it-- and if you ever start to act like a little girl, it will go right back on." He blushed and I continued. "But for now, your behavior has earned you the right to wear a real bra. In fact, you should be so happy about your new bra, that you shouldn't hesitate to tell everyone about it." Stacie's face fell. As he must have suspected, his gift would have strings attached. "So tomorrow in class, I'll expect you to follow a new rule." As I explained the rule, he grew more despondent. I left the room, leaving him to think about how he would follow the new rule in school tomorrow. As we drove in, Stacie remained silent, though he offered a smile now and again. He had clearly reached some decision as to how he would fulfill the new rule I had laid down the previous night. As he took his seat, I saw the boys that sat next to Stacie were looking over with new interest. I had dressed Stacie to draw this kind of attention by putting him in a cute red form-fitting bolero top over a ribbed white shirt and a matching red skirt. For the first time Stacie had a bust and the boys noticed right away. I was dying to see how my teen pet would obey his mistress' new rule. But throughout the class, he remained demure and quiet as always. Finally I knew he needed a push. And I gave it to him. "all right class. Let's use some of the vocabulary words in real sentences, shall we? Use the work 'exquisite' in a sentence. No who haven't I heard from today?' I paused and searched around the room, my eyes landing on Stacie. "Stacie. Stand up and use the word 'exquisite' in a sentence." He looked up, his courage screwed to the highest pitch. Without missing a beat, he skipped up on his heels. "Yes, Ma'am." He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, then said "I look exquisite in my first real bra." The class again broke out into uproarious laughter. As the students bellowed, I could see it was taking Stacie all he had to hold onto his composure. Beads of perspiration were forming on his smooth forehead and he patted his black bangs down nervously, until I told him to sit down. "Fine, Stacie. And thank you for informing us of your new bra." And so it was that Stacie was required to use the phrase "my first real bra" every day in front to f the class just as he had been required to say "my training brassiere" the previous two weeks. By now he had figured out a way to do it, slipping the humbling phrase in whenever he could get away with it. He obeyed the new rule with complete resignation now, enduring the laughs and jibes of the other kids without a word. But Frankie and Jed were eyeing him now in a way that made him uncomfortable. He brought this up as we drove home one night. "They both look at me, at my breasts! I hate it, Ms. Hardy! Please move me to another seat!" I shrugged. "Please, Stacie! As a pretty young thing, you'd better get used to the stares of boys. With such a small chest, you think you'd be happy to attract them. Why Beth and Samantha are even getting a little jealous!" He looked at me with frightened eyes. "But I'm not a girl! I'm not! I don't want them to like me that way! I'm not gay!" I looked him over. "Really? Well, what are you then?" "I'm a boy!" he claimed in his squeaky-high soprano voice. But the absurdity of that concept was obvious even to Stacie and he looked down at his shiny Maryjanes in deep depression. I let it pass for a moment. "You're a boy?" I pressed. "Really? You know how I feel about lying. Thank about that before you answer me Stacie!" He pursed his lips. "Well, I may not be a boy anymore but I'm not gay. That's for sure!" he seemed so proud of this complex thinking. I smiled. "Fine. You don't like boys. Do you like girls?" He shook his head, his long black tresses shaking wildly. "Oh, yes, Ms. Hardy!" "Tell me why." He fell into a rhapsodic explanation of why he found girls attractive. "Girls are soft and sexy, so smooth and pretty. They have such nice curves and they're so much nicer that boys. So much more attractive. They wear the prettiest clothes, the most precious make-up, the sexist perfume. They're just so dreamy!" I let it go at that. I was pleased that Stacie was so in love with his budding femininity. That he had no interest in males was perfectly fine-- I wanted Stacie as my lesbian lover, not as a plaything for the teenage boys in my class. And he was developing so nicely, which made the next new rule even more fun. As we drove home, I explained to Stacie what was expected of him next. I handed him the tiny ruler he would need. "But why?" he demanded shrilly, though taking the ruler obediently. "Do I have to?" "As if you have a choice, young lady! As for why, it is important that we track your development. Perhaps you're just in a holding pattern and your growth may kick back in. You never know at this age. And stop acting as if your small breast size doesn't bother you-- I know the boy and girls make fun of you, don't they?" He nodded, a teardrop descending down his soft made-up cheek. Just that day, Stacie had returned to his locker to find written on it in indelible ink, "Stacie Fox is a carpenter's dream-- flat as a board." Before this his breasts had been so new to him that he couldn't have cared less about size. He had resisted accepting that he even had breasts at first. Then he had grown used to them, his attitude swinging between indifference and curiosity. But now the constant comments had driven him to a self-consciousness that was almost painful to watch. He had begun to examine himself so critically as he dressed in his girl's clothing with such eagle eyed attention to his appearance that at first I thought he was beginning to enjoy his new clothes. It was only when I noticed how much time he spent on his tops and arranging his bra that I knew he was finally growing embarrassed about the small size of his bust. The kids' comments and my rules had at last caused him to crack. The next day Stacie put up the chart I had made him draw up. It was a big piece of paper which he taped to the inside door of his locker, with a big calendar on it. It was labeled "Stacie's Bust Size" with two columns: "Measurement" and "Cup." He put it up furtively between classes but the subterfuge couldn't last for long. That was because he was expected to measure his chest in the girl's lavatory after lunch with the micro ruler I had given to him in full view of the other girls. I gave myself an excuse for going into the girl's room to make sure he was doing as he was told. Sure enough, there he was with top and bra off, placing the micro ruler against the small puce boob as he looked redfaced into the mirror. The girls had been laughing when I entered the room but quieted down as I walked in. I looked oddly at Stacie, shrugged my shoulders and walked out. As I did, the laughing began again. Three minutes later, Stacie, fully clothed again though still redfaced, gave me a pouty look and walked to his locker. Opening it quickly, he took out a big pink marker and jotted in the first chart entry: "32 AAA." Poor Stacie hated this part of the day. I think he would have preferred to have returned to the verbal humiliation than undergo this new daily ritual. But even as he followed the new procedure, I noticed him growing more anxious about the possibility that in deed his breasts would grow. He often asked if I thought his breasts might grow and I assured him that anything was possible. I was very pleased that he now wanted his breasts to grow-- even though there was no way I would allow that. I liked his tiny breasts, the girlish buds. I had long ago decided that I would have the womanly breasts and my teen pet would have to do with his pretty juvenile bumps. I thought it only emphasized his girlishness rather than subtract from it. I don't want to make it seem that Stacie's life was all about his breasts or lack thereof. Actually, he was becoming quite a proper young schoolgirl. His oddness to the other kids prevented him from forming any friendships so he spent most of his out-of-school time devouring the romance novels and teeny bopper magazines I limited him to: Teen Beat, Cosmo, Glamour, Seventeen, Redbook and the like. As I corrected papers, he was allowed to watch soap opera after soap opera, drinking in the daytime dramas that glamorized the ultra-femininity I wished Stacie to strive for. And he was, with every day that passed. Gradually he had stopped fighting his training, and as days passed, was grudgingly coming to accept it. His make-up skills were improving dramatically and he now needed virtually no coaching to put on his face in the morning. Ditto for his long straight black hair. At first I put him through a series of daily style changes, styles which were featured in his fashion magazines-- one day a pretty French bob, the next day a throwback Farrah look, the following a "big hair" mall walker look. Finally we discovered his prettiest look-- a simple ponytail, his long black hair tied up high in the back and swishing gently over and down his shoulders. An unexpected spanking one morning convinced my little male missy to keep his legs and underarms smoothly shaved and he remembered the lesson because I never had to remind him after that. No pantyhose was allowed-- his legs were too sexy. I gave him another dose of the same medicine when I saw that he had been biting his nails. That spanking was a great deal more severe but when it was over my sissified boy swore in tears that he'd never ruin his nails that way again. To make sure this was the case he presented them every morning for me to examine. His raw fingers were then quickly transformed by the long red polished nails he soon grew. His clothing never became an issue because he had no choices as to what he might wear, at least for the first couple of weeks. Living in Florida was a luxury for any smooth, long legged beauty like my Stacie so I constantly kept him in outfits that would show them off. "Small breasted girls need to depend on other assets to catch an appreciative eye," I explained to him as I'd pick out a flirty little miniskirt or a pair of short-shorts. From time to time, I'd put him in a tight pair of Chic jeans which really showed off his shrinking waist and curvy backside, but generally I liked him to feel the air between his legs-- I liked this reminder of his essential feminine vulnerability. Plus it forced him to walk with the grace of a cat lest he reveal a flash of the panties underneath. Tops were bright colored, often midriff, t- shirts or tank tops. I liked him in his Maryjanes with a pair of lacy socks, but I permitted him to wear a more mature pair of pink flats. Increasing I had him to slip on his pair of red three inch heels which he disliked. Underneath Stacie of course wore his original soft cup Junior Missy Olga bra, though he now had a choice of a peach, pink and yellow colored bra in addition to his original white bra. His panties were all cotton in the French-cut bikini style of the Hanes For Her brand. They seemed made for him the way they clung to the sinuous curve of his hips, disappeared snugly down and between his legs, only to emerge in a jealous vee of bright cotton to hug his tight, cupcake buns. Readying for bedtime meant slipping on a lavender cami top and a clean pair of panties. The stainless steel chastity cup flattened out his midsection so securely and thoroughly that the merest bulge remained as a clue as to his original gender. I had to remind myself that the teenage beauty, whose sexuality was only emphasized by her self-consciousness, who dressed so shyly in front of me every morning as she jumped up and down in front of the mirror to shoehorn herself into her too-tight designer jeans-- that this girl was REALLY a boy. I talked to Diana about how easily he was softening into a little teen queen. "It seems so much easier than I would have thought." "Not me, my dear," she replied archly. "But Dino Fazio was the toughest, wisecracking bully I've ever bumped into, Diana! And he's been turned into a fluffy headed, house-broken kitten!" "Yes, but," she reminded me, " take the bully out of Dino and see what was left? Just a disobedient child longing for discipline-- which you are providing. Stacie now knows that someone cares enough about him to punish him if he's misbehaved. As much as your 'niece' acts as if he doesn't like to be told what to do, he's growing so used to obeying orders that he'll be petrified to think or act on his own. A perfectly appropriate state for your young missy to be in." When I told my Stacie that I wished him to try out for the Bentson Bunnies Cheerleading Squad just to see how feminine he was really trying to be, I was pleasantly surprised by his reaction. He didn't throw out some lame protest. He wasn't happy about it but he didn't have a choice and he knew it. "O.k. Ms. Hardy, I'll try-- if you think I have a chance." I think he was excited that I thought he DID have a chance. The next day he took an extra ten minutes just making himself up and brushing his hair. This morning I didn't pick out his wardrobe but had him choose his own outfit. His pouty red lips parted as if surprised at this, then closed. Without further instruction, he picked out of his dresser his clothes and slipped them on, hesitating as if I might tell him to substitute one garment for another. But there was no need. His outfit was darling, especially for a cheerleader try-out. He slipped on a pair of bright yellow panties and matching bra, a yellow cotton mini-skirt, a black midriff tank top, a yellow bow around his ponytail and his pair of black and white saddle shoes. The colors of Bentson High were yellow and black. Later that day, as we were driving home, I asked him how his try out had gone. He stared out the window, sulking. "I didn't make it. I didn't get picked." He was trying to sound natural but I detected some bitterness. As if he was upset that he hadn't been chosen. "And why was that?" He bit his lower lip, then answered. "The coach said she wanted her girls to have lots to cheer up the boys with and that I should try again next year." "Why next year?" He was trying to sound so nonchalant about this. He looked into his lap, inspecting his nails. "She thought I might grow out more by then." The he looked out the window so quickly I almost didn't see the tear that was forming in the corner of his eye. Suddenly he blurted out, "If I have to be a girl, why can't I at least be a pretty girl? It's unfair!" I suppressed a smile. "Oh, you are pretty, Stacie! Don't say that!" He looked at moppily. "But I'm so flat! I just hate being so flat!" He made two small fists and hit his bare knees in frustration. "Just like my locker says-- Stacie Fox the carpenter's dream!" He brooded, his brown eyes flashing in anger. "I hate being a girl!" I didn't say a word. I pulled the car into the driveway. "Follow me upstairs, young lady!" I commanded Stacie. Immediately he realized he had crossed a line and he was going to pay for it. He minced behind me in trepidation as I headed for his bedroom. Picking up a copy of Seventeen from his night table, I rolled it up tightly and swatted it on hard against my palm. I seated myself on his bed. "Off with your shoes and skirt, young lady. DO IT NOW!" He shivered and knelt to quickly untie his saddle shoes. Then he stood, avoiding my fierce gaze and his dainty hands disappeared behind his back to unzip the skirt. It fell around his bare ankles and he stood in front of me in his clingy black tank top and yellow panties, head bowed. I cracked the rolled up teen fashion magazine against my palm again. "So you hate being a girl, Miss Stacie?" His full lips pursed stubbornly. He was afraid but he wasn't going to deny the truth. "I'm supposed to be a boy Ms. Hardy!" The usually demure docile teen was in full rebellion now, the soprano voice full of sassiness. "You made me into a stupid girl with little boobs to get back at me! But I'm really a boy! And I hate having to dress up and put on makeup and act like such an airhead bimbo! I want to be a boy again!" The failure to be chosen for the cheerleading squad had evidently made my Stacie think about his life. He had become so het up that he had forgotten I could use the Tutor on him anytime I needed to. But I didn't. Instead I answered my Stacie with firmness. "No, Stacie. You're not going to be a boy again. Ever again." I let that sink in and continued. "You're a girl for now on-- a very pretty young lady. And yes-- you do have to wear cute clothes and make yourself up. Otherwise how will you keep yourself pretty? Being pretty is very important for a high school girl, isn't it?" His lips were pursed again but he nodded reluctantly. "That's right. And you'll continue to keep yourself as attractive as you can be. Or you'll be punished. And as far as acting like an airhead, let's face it Stacie-- teenage girls like you aren't exactly know for their IQs. No one expects you to know too many three syllable words as long as you keep yourself looking so adorable. And about acting like a bimbo, you should understand that showing the world that you like being pretty and showing yourself off is completely natural for a girl like you. No one would expect you to act any differently-- you're a healthy red blooded American high school girl with a pretty face, long legs, a nice butt and you know it. People expect you to put yourself on display for them." The feminized boy listened to all this, delivered by me in a concise no-nonsense tone that brooked no objections. As I went on, he began to realize this would all end in a spanking. "Now, is that all clear missy?" He nodded submissively now. "Yes, Ms. Hardy." "Good. Over my knee girlie." He dropped himself delicately over my knee. I slipped my fingers under the elastic of his panties and drew the soft cotton down. "Bad girls get bare bottom spankings," I explained grimly. He swallowed hard as I smacked the rolled up Seventeen on his squirming buttcheeks. He yelped and began to whine as I landed smack after hard smack on his rear. After ten swats, I told him to go stand in the corner. "I want you to think awhile about how a good girl acts. And if I ever hear about you wanting to be a boy again, you'll get double-- understand?" "Yes, Ms. Hardy-- I do now," he practically whispered. "Good, now pull up your panties. After you've thought about things for awhile, we'll talk again." I left him in the corner for a solid four hours. From time to time I would peek in to make sure he was standing only to find him looking at the wall, face as devoid of expression as he could make it. Clearly he was afraid I might find an excuse to tan his hide again. And to be honest, he was right! At last I called for him. He scampered over to me, eyes clear and skin goosebumped from standing in the cool still air for so long. "Have you learned your lesson, missy?" He nodded, his ponytail bobbing up and down fervently. "Yes, Ms. Hardy!" I sneered. A good spanking was the a terribly effective attitude adjuster for little Miss Stacie Fox. "And what do you have to say for yourself?" He looked down sadly then made himself continued in that darling submissive soprano. "That I'm a girl, Ms. Hardy." I folded my arms, giving him a searing look. "Oh? I thought you were really a boy!" He shook his head, terrified. "Oh no, Ms. Hardy! No-- I'm a girl!" "And do you like being a girl?" He shook his head. "Oh yes, yes, yes! I do like being a girl!" I pretended to be unconvinced. "Why do you like being a girl so much, Stacie?" One of his manicured hands leapt to his hair and the other to his hip. "Oh I like to make myself up with makeup, to fix my hair so everyone thinks it looks sexy! And I just love to dress up in all my gorgeous clothes! And being a girl is fun because you get so much attention! All you have to worry about is how you look and having a good attitude! Not being uppity or anything! Before I was being uppity and such a little bitch! But I won't act that way anymore! I'm just so grateful that I can be a girl from now on!" His eyes were wide and begged for approval. I nodded, a small smile on my face. "Fine. That's an acceptable attitude, Miss Stacie. You may get ready for bed now young lady and go to sleep with the knowledge that that's all you're ever going to be from now on-- a girl." And with that Dino Fazio truly became Miss Stacie Fox, legal ward of Ms. Meg Hardy. True, SHE would give me trouble from time to time and spankings would be required to keep my Stacie properly discipline