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The Gold Digger by Debbie Cybill I have never been able to figure out why I grew up so small. My parents were perfectly normal in height, not huge, but average; my Dad was 5'9", my Mum 5'5", but I'm a mere 5'0", or to be honest 4'11", a ridiculous height for a grown man, especially since I am slight of build into the bargain and weigh well under 95 pounds. And to make it worse I have a baby-face. And as for clothes, I am quite unable to buy anything to fit except in the boy's departments of the bigger stores. No-one sells suits with a 28 inch chest for men, or pants with a 22 inch waist and 22 inch inseam. It is all very well buying boys jeans, but a business suit? It makes me look like a kid. And what is more is my name, Cyril Tallman, can you believe it.? Needless to say, with a build like that I am no athlete. At school I was always the last to be chosen for team games; I never really learned to throw a ball properly, and everyone said I threw like a girl. The other boys teased me as 'Atlas', 'Titan', or 'Ogre'. My only recourse was my books, and I achieved a reputation as a nerd, a dreadful fate for a boy at school, but not bad for future careers. At least, that was what I hoped. I was not without friends, however, for I deliberately courted the biggest, toughest boys in my class and helped them with their homework. This bought me protection and friendship of a sort with the football players and I became something of a team mascot. Mum and Dad were both consulting geologists and spent much of their time in the bush. They own their owned company, Tallman Consultants Inc. When I was younger I was rarely left alone, since one of them always stayed at home while the other was away, but once I turned 13 they would often go on a project together, leaving me alone; I am an only child, with no brothers or sisters. In this way I learned by trial and error to keep house, and I became a proficient housekeeper, keeping the place neater and cleaner, to tell the truth, than Mum ever did. Like most boys around puberty who are left alone I experimented with wearing my mother's clothes. I did not find it much fun, however, for not only were the clothes all far too big for me, but she had little in the way of what I would consider sexy clothing, chiefly her working clothes. Even her lingerie was drab cotton. I was a good enough student in my book work to enter university at the age of 17, and I chose to follow in my parent's footsteps, majoring in geology, specifically in mining geology, with the intention of joining the family company. At the age of 21 that is just what I did. I had not reckoned on the physical demands of the work. It is all very well to go down a mine and observe, but that is not all of it by any manner of means. When a lode is drilled to establish the grade of gold, for instance, the core of rock that is extracted must be examined in detail and logged. Then sections are removed, split in two, and half sent away to be assayed. That is fine for a strong man, but the core boxes weigh 80 pounds, and I could not even lift one by myself. Sure, I was tough and wiry, but still an 80 pound core box was beyond my capabilities. Even Mum could manage one by herself, but not me. Inevitably, I always had to make myself scarce when we made a presentation to a client, or he would take one look at me and say something to the effect that he did not want that kid on his site: I was not merely small, but I looked years younger than my age. So I had to rely on my parents to obtain the contracts, and just carry out those parts of them that were within my physical grasp. The worst insult came when one repeat client, whom I had never met, told my parents that if he gave them another contract he would expect them to keep their kid at home. I was 22 rising 23 when we were all three engaged on a mining contract in Chile. I was the first to descend the mine, leaving Mum and Dad on the surface to meet the mine manager and complete the paperwork. I was beginning to hate this work, thinking that I had made a wrong career decision, and this mine horrified me. As soon as I returned to the surface I reported to Dad. "This mine is a death trap, Dad. I think we should insist on better safety before any of us goes down again." "Really, Cyril? Can you be more specific?" "Firstly, this mine has been in operation for almost century and I don't believe any of the old pit props have ever been replaced. The roof is sagging in places and the pit props look rotten." "You'll often see that in old mines, Cyril, but it's rarely as dangerous as it looks." "Yes, I know, Dad, but this is by far the worst I have seen. Then the rock is badly faulted." "Well of course it is. It's along the faults that gold accumulates. You should know that, Cyril." "But at least one of these faults is active, Dad. The floor of the shaft where it cuts through it at the 3,500 foot level is covered with rock fragments and I saw more crumbling away when I just touched it with my knife." "That really is bad, Horace," said Mum. Dad looked grim. "I think you and I had better go and look at it, Jean." "I'll come with you and show you," I said. We descended in the cage, running past the other stopes without stopping. These stopes were the older shallower workings where earlier I had seen the rotting pit props and the sagging roofs. The cage stopped at the 3,500 foot level and we all stepped out. Mum and Dad looked around seeing the newer props, and Dad stuck his knife into one of them, finding it sound, as I knew he would. "You see, Cyril, there is nothing wrong with these." Dim light bulbs were strung along the tunnel at fifty foot intervals. "I know, Dad, but you haven't seen the older workings." The two of them pushed on, their helmet lamps illuminating the tunnel ahead, and I tagged along behind. They stopped at one of the faults. Dad stuck his knife into the sheared rock, "Was this the active fault, Cyril?" "No, Dad, it's about another hundred yards along." They moved on and I was just about to follow when I noticed a gleam in the fault where Dad had just removed his knife tip. I took my geological hammer from my belt and, slipping the halyard over my wrist, attacked the rock, pried out the gleaming piece and looked at it with my hand lens. It was gold right enough, a big nugget, perhaps two ounces, the biggest I had ever dug out. Just then I heard a rumble and the floor of the tunnel shook under me, throwing me to the ground. An enormous wave of dust overwhelmed me and I blacked out. I do not know how long I remained unconscious, but when I came to I was in complete darkness, buried in a layer of dust and debris. With considerable effort I managed to free my arms, and then struggled to sit up. I bumped my head on something, and only my miner's helmet saved me. I felt for the switch of my helmet lamp. Fortunately it was not broken, and I finally had some light, enough to see that either the roof of the tunnel had partially collapsed onto me or else I was lying on a pile of rubble and debris. In any case my whole lower body was buried. My geological hammer was still attached to my wrist by the halyard and I used it as a pick to free myself, a task that took me more than an hour. Finally I was free. There was only room to crawl on top of the debris, but I tried anyway to reach where I thought Mum and Dad might be, but it was hopeless. The available space under the roof soon narrowed to zilch, and I had to crawl backwards to get out. I walked back towards the cage as soon as there was room to stand, noting that the pit props were buckled badly, and even in the highest points of the tunnel the roof was now lower. No cage at the bottom of the shaft. And no cable either. The phone line was out too, as well as the power line. I had better conserve the batteries for my helmet lamp. I felt around for the steel guide post for the cage and hit it hard several times with my hammer, keeping the rhythm as steady as I could. I hammered, stopped to listen, hammered again, stopped again. It seemed like a couple of hours before I got any response, but my luminous watch showed that only three minutes had passed. The next time I stopped I heard an answering thumping in the guide post. Someone was answering from above, 3,500 feet away. I felt another tremor and staggered. I coughed as I breathed in more dust. I waited for the dust to settle before I switched on my helmet lamp again, and found that the tunnel was now completely sealed off. I scrabbled like a man possessed as I thought about Mum and Dad in there. I refused to believe that they had been killed. It was four hours before I was rescued and four days before the rescue teams managed to reach Mum and Dad and the miners who had been at work further along that shaft. Altogether 47 people died in that collapse. When I examined the active fault, where my parents had died, I discovered that it had shifted only about six inches, but that had been enough to start an earth tremor that was no more than about 4.6 on the Richter scale, small enough to cause little damage on the surface, but enough to kill all those people. The mining company paid the full value of our contract, as well as the indemnity called for in case of injury or death to any of our personnel, but of course that was no solace to me. When I finally returned home with the embalmed bodies to cremate them locally and to scatter their ashes in the valley that they loved, I found that their lives were insured for two million apiece. Thus this contract in Chile had earned the company over nine million but cost me the lives of my parents. We had made a bad bargain. I comforted myself with the thought that Mum and Dad had died doing the work that they loved and that they had died instantaneously with no long drawn-out illness, but that thought actually did little to console me. I somehow picked up the pieces of my life and tried to continue the business. The first task was to recruit two more geologists to replace Mum and Dad. They had to be experienced people even though they would nominally be working under me. I might be the boss, but I did not have the experience to conduct the sort of contracts that were the bread and butter of our company - my company now. Nor could I do a good job of negotiating contracts, since clients invariably treated me as a kid. Sure I had the contacts and we had all sorts of lists of possible clients in our files, but I could not negotiate new contracts, but I could write a contract: it was an easy job to adapt one that was in the computer. But I had to have someone on staff who could convince clients that as a company we had what was needed. I was never going down a mine again, if I could help it but I would conduct my work on the surface. There is no shortage of contracts in Canada for this sort of work, usually on a short-term basis. Canada still uses the old system of staking claims. A single claim is only 40 acres, making 16 claims to a square mile. To stake a claim to the mineral rights of an area all that is necessary is to buy a set of claim tags from the government office, write your prospector's registered number on them and start. The first stake must be knocked into the ground at the northeast corner, and the date and time written on the tag, and noted in your log book. Then you walk or run to the northwest corner and put in a second stake and tag the same way. The claim is completed when you have put in the third and fourth stakes and reached the first stake again, where you must write the time once more. All that is necessary now is to register your claim with a copy of your log-book entries. The fee is only $25.00. You pay no rent on a claim, but you must carry out work to the value of $400.00 each year on each claim and register it with the government office before the anniversary date of the staking. Of course if you have, for example, ten claims adjacent to one another, you may do $4,000.00 of work on just one of these claims and spread the value over the remainder. If you slip and fail to register the work by the 'filing date' - the anniversary of the original staking - then the claim is forfeited or lapses, and the first person to restake it then holds it. This where my company comes in. It was my idea when I first began working for the company, when I was still a student, to maintain a database of the 'filing dates' and owners of all the claims in northern Ontario and the Northwest Territories. Then three months before this filing date for any claim the computer generates a notice warning the owner of the forthcoming deadline and offering to carry out any necessary work under contract. This generated a large number of small contracts for us, work that could be carried out during the summer by student teams - third or fourth year geology students - or in the winter by more mature employees. For the time being these contracts would have to be our bread and butter. But I still needed two professionals on staff, both to meet clients and to head up the teams in the field. I placed an ad in The Northern Miner and posted it on the web, receiving over fifty applications from all over North America, and even two from Europe. I ended up interviewing seven of them, three locals, and four from other parts of Canada. Two of them told me that they could not work under 'a kid' and asked to see the boss, looking incredulous when I told them I was the boss. Two asked far too much money, one said she did not fancy spending half the year living in tents in the north. That left just two, who had in effect selected themselves for the jobs. Joe was a great bear of a man, 6' 5" at least, and, unusual for a geologist, clean-shaven. I learned later that he shaved even in the bush: most geologists grow a beard, at least for the field season. Christine was a burly woman, not unlike a larger edition of my mum. At 5' 8" and 150 pounds of bone and muscle she looked as if she would be able to throw core boxes around. They both had doctorates in geology and experience in the business of gold exploration. I engaged them on the spot. Christine was a local girl and lived at home with her parents. She told me that there was little point in acquiring a home of her own since she spent at least half the year in the field. Joe came from Toronto and so would have to find somewhere to live. It seemed ridiculous to me that he should buy or rent a house since he too would spend little time there, so I offered him my old room, as a temporary measure at least, while I moved into the master bedroom of my house. The first contract that Joe negotiated for the company was in the Northwest Territories. Our client had over 600 claims scattered around in eleven blocks, each of which needed work to be filed. That meant eleven different operations, one for each block, totaling about a quarter of a million dollars. The three of us set off up there taking with us three teams of four students each. Our principal task was to map the geology of the claims and then to make another detailed map of the magnetic field. The presence of iron in rocks leads to anomalous readings of the local magnetic field, and most important mineral deposits contain iron along with other metals such as gold. The base camp for this work accommodated 15 people, twelve students, and the three of us professionals. We had a mess tent, a tent that served as laboratory, and eight sleeping tents. Christine had a tent of her own but the rest of us shared; Joe and I had a tent between us, the students paired up as they chose, and that varied week by week. There were four girls among the students and eight guys, and so plenty of opportunity to switch around. The base camp was near the center of the largest block of claims, but it was just that, a base camp. Other temporary camps were established for work on the outlying claims, usually occupied for no more than a few days at a time, but the result was that the base was rarely full. I enjoyed watching the mating rituals of the students, none of whom had ever met before. Two of the male students were obviously gay, and they soon paired off, though they never objected when one of them was sent to one of the satellite camps. It seemed as if I was the only virgin there. I imagined that Christine and Joe had had sexual experience in the past, though neither of them seemed to be involved in any affair at the moment, but all the students, without exception, were enjoying themselves. The noises coming from the tents in the evenings gave plenty of evidence of that. But I had never slept with anyone, man or woman. And I had never even masturbated. I do not know why this was, but I never did, and instead had frequent wet dreams. Joe of course noticed; we were sharing a tent. One night - it was about our third week in camp, and half the people were away - that I suddenly awoke to a sensation I had never had before, a man's hand on my cock. Apparently, Joe had heard me moaning and seen me writhing in my sleep, and had correctly diagnosed what was happening. He decided to help me and slipped into my sleeping bag taking my cock in his hand and starting to jerk me off. I was in a panic at first, not knowing what was happening. "Ssh, Cyril; just relax and enjoy it." I tried to push him away, but I was enjoying it too much, and soon did as he suggested. After I came I just rested my head on his chest and enjoyed his warm sweaty smell. None of us bathed very much in camp, because of the general belief that old sweat deters mosquitoes that are much more likely to bite a newly washed person, so Joe was pretty fragrant. But it was somehow a friendly aroma. Joe stroked my head. "There, wasn't that better than a wet dream? There's no need to be lonely. I can always help you." I burst into tears, thinking of my loneliness since Mum and Dad were killed. These crying jags had been frequent since Chile, but I had tried to hide them until then. That was how it began; I have never had a wet dream since. For the rest of that week Joe and I slept together, and Joe jacked me off every night. When I tried to return the favour he pushed my hand away. Almost every night I cried myself to sleep thinking about my parents. That weekend Christine returned to camp and Joe took a party off in the other direction. I don't know whether the two of them had talked about me, although I suppose they did, for that night Chris came to my tent and to my sleeping bag, where she jerked me off, just as Joe had done. She seemed to have no wish to fuck me, just to jack me off. I rested my head on her ample bosom and once more wept over my parents. If anything I wept harder than I had with Joe; perhaps the release was greater. Or perhaps it was easier to let go in front of a woman. The third night that this happened Christine eased her left breast out of her flannel night dress and offered it to me to suck, like a mother quieting her child. It certainly seemed to calm me down. After that she did not even wait for my weeping, but each evening immediately she had tossed me off she offered me her breast. For the rest of the time of that contract, which only finished with the first snows near the end of August, I slept with one or other of my lieutenants, literally slept with them that is, in the same sleeping bag, masturbated by one of them every evening, suckling on Christine's breasts but never anything else. They treated me like a little child. After the first few weeks I finally got over my crying jags and was able to accept my parents' death more readily. I was more in need of gentle companionship and comfort than any sexual release. We completed our work on August 27, and only just in time, for the first snows of the winter started the next day. We were well north of the tree-line and with nothing to break the wind; the blizzard increased and we were not able to get out for three days. Finally we made our way south to Ottawa where we found that it was still summer. Now came the task of writing up our report on the work we had done and of filing it with the government agency, or to be precise of writing up eleven separate reports, one for each block of property. The students left to return to university, and there were just the three of us with the office manager who had been holding the fort for us while we were in the north country. The pace was punishing, especially since we had so many maps to draw, and Joe suggested that Christine move into the house with us. It seemed a good idea, but I had forgotten that when we converted the house and built an extra wing for an office we had sacrificed the spare bedroom. But we had been sharing tents for so long that it did not really matter that we had only two bedrooms. Christine and Joe got on with the map-making while I did the writing. I am actually quite good at that, and had written many reports for my parents in the past. It was no real surprise that Christine came to share my bed that first night, but a little unexpected when Joe came too. There was plenty of room for all three in that king size bed. Joe and I were wearing cotton pyjamas, and Christine had a low cut cotton batiste nightie. I nursed at her breasts while Joe jacked me off and this released a great deal of my tension. "I love nursing you like this, Cyril, but I wish you were a real little baby, dressed in baby clothes." I already knew that Christine was unable to have a baby of her own. For some reason the idea excited me, and I think she knew it. Afterwards Joe and Christine got it off together. I think that was the first time for them, for I had no indication that they had felt anything for each other while we were up north. It was three days later that Joe received a parcel in the mail. He and Christine opened it together, keeping it away from me. That night Christine produced a baby dress big enough to fit me, all white lace and ruffles. "Put this on, Cyril. I will enjoy nursing you so much more if you are dressed as a baby. I am sure you will enjoy it too." I was already in bed in my pyjamas, but I sat up, slipped off the top and wriggled out of the pants, and, in some excitement, held out my arms to her. "You put it on for me, Mommy. A little baby can't dress himself." She slipped it on, tied the ribbons and then put a baby bonnet on my head. Once more she nursed me while Joe jacked me off. As soon as I had calmed down once more, Christine said, "A baby always sleeps in a diaper. Lie on your back, sweetheart, and let me diaper you." She raised the skirt of my gown, spread baby lotion on my bum and crotch and then pinned an old-fashioned cloth diaper around me. Joe than handed her a pair of plastic pants decorated with frills of lace. The final step was placing a pacifier in my mouth. As I drifted off to sleep Joe and Christine were making out again, and I remember thinking, ::What a way to treat the President of the company.:: But I loved it. I loved it so much that I asked Joe to order me more baby gowns, bonnets, plastic panties and diapers and to charge them to my account. That became the routine for the three of us every night: Christine would nurse me, clad in my gown and bonnet, Joe would Jack me off and then Christine would diaper me, and place a pacifier in my mouth while the two of them had it off. We finished the reports towards the end of September. I asked Joe and Christine to make the presentation to our clients while I went north to the Mining Office of the Northwest Territories in Yellowknife to file the reports with the Mining Recorder. "Kid" I may be, but I could do this, but we all three thought it best if they were ones to see the client, even though I had signed the reports as president of the company. It was a two day round trip to Yellowknife and back, and I was glad to get home from the bitter cold of that northern capital. Joe met me at the airport, and drove me home where I was greeted by Christine. "I think we should celebrate tonight with a good dinner and a bottle of champagne," I said. "What a good idea! And we have a surprise for you, Cyril. I think you will enjoy it. But that can wait till tomorrow." "Why don't you book a table at the Chantilly Restaurant, Joe, for this evening while I have a shower." Christine whistled. "That's said to be the best restaurant in town. I have never been able to afford it, myself." The Chantilly lived up to its reputation. Joe and I had roast muskox, an Arctic dish that we had never eaten while we were in the Arctic, and in any case no- one up there could have prepared it as well as the chef of that restaurant did. Christine opted for grilled bison steak. The champagne was Dom Perignon and for dessert we had Creme brulee washed down with a superb Armagnac. It felt good that night to get into my baby clothes again after my trip up north as an adult. I wondered what was happening to me. The next day was a day of relaxation. I was hoping that Christine would not take it into her head to return to her parents' home now that the rush of work was over, but I need not have feared. We have remained as a menage a trois ever since. "Now what was that surprise you said you had for me?" I asked as we sat around a wood fire in the living room. "We were going to give it to you as soon as you arrived home, but changed our minds when you mentioned a bottle of champagne. It would have interfered with your enjoyment of champagne." "Well what is it?" Christine left the room and came back after a moment with a garment bag. I was on tenterhooks. "We both love it when you wear your baby clothes in bed, at night, Cyril, and we know you do too" said the genial giant. "But you can't wear those during the day," Christine finished off. Joe continued, "I checked your size and weight against the published tables I found on the web. And I found that you are about the same size as an eleven year old girl." He waved a printout in the air. "Here, let me look at those tables." I snatched them from him. "You're full of crap, Joe. Look! An 11 year old is 4'9" tall, that's two inches less than me, and she weights six stone." "That's the average size, but look at the ninetieth percentile. The top ten percent of 11 year old girls are over five feet tall - 5' 0.4" to be more precise, and weigh almost 8 stone. That's an inch taller and about 10 pounds heavier than you." I looked again at the tables, and saw that by 11? years the average height and weight for girls were just about my size. Girls grow fast at that age. I was dumb-founded. "So we thought you might like to dress that way, Cyril." Christine unzipped the garment bag and took out the clothes hanging inside. "This is a school uniform for an eleven year old." "Do you seriously intend me to wear those things, Christine?" It was Joe who answered, "It's not a matter of our intentions, Cyril. We thought you might like to wear them, once you got used to the idea. I know it seems bizarre now, but we are rapidly becoming a family, and I would like you as my little daughter." "Me too, Cyril. You called me 'Mommy' the other day. I liked it." I was warming to the idea, though I was not going to say so. "You'd better show me what you want me to wear." I still do not know quite why I accepted this so readily, but at least part of it was that I felt it might be possible to dominate these people in a way I could not do before. "The skirt is a pleated plaid skirt in the Royal Stewart tartan, mostly bright red." Chris held it up. "It's warm enough for this weather. The blouse is white cotton, high necked with a Peter Pan collar. It's worn with this pussycat bow. That's the uniform of the Saint Andrew's Parochial Girls' School." I looked at it and found myself charmed. Christine continued, "The school shoes are sturdy Mary Janes, with a single strap across the front and they are worn with white knee-socks with lace on the turnovers." "But what about the underwear?" I asked. She could see I was becoming interested. "An eleven year old wears a training bra, and over that a cotton undervest or camisole and white cotton panties. A full slip is optional." Joe added, "I thought that your private parts might intrude so I bought you a gaff to keep everything under control. Now be a good girl and go and try everything on." A good *girl*? We all three went up to the master bedroom - our bedroom as it was now - and I stripped off. "How does this gaff thing work?" I asked. Joe showed me how to put it on, with my balls pressed back into my body and my prick folded under. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw no sign of my genitalia. Christine held out the training bra, I put my arms through and she fastened it behind me. Then I slipped on the rest of the clothes as Christine handed them to me one by one. "How did you know my sizes?" I asked as I contemplated myself with some satisfaction in the mirror. "We picked them out from the labels in your existing wardrobe of course, Cyril." "Something has to be done about my hair." They could see now that I was happy with this outfit. "And how about makeup?" Schoolgirls of eleven years old don't wear makeup - we can't go on calling you Cyril, now can we? How about Cybill?" "Sounds good to me. Now how about this hair?" Christine opened a box with a look of satisfaction on her face. "We bought you a wig, Cybill dear." It was a blonde wig with banana curls, a Shirley Temple effect. Christine put it on my head and secured it with bobby pins. I thought it looked good and said so. "I think a touch of pale pink lipstick might make you look prettier, since you are not going to school today." This was not a colour she used herself, so she must have planned this. She handed me a small leather purse with a shoulder strap. "That completes the outfit, I think, Cybill." I looked at myself in the mirror once more, turning from side to side. Then impulsively reached up and threw my hands around Christine's neck and planted a kiss firmly on her mouth. "Oh, thank you so much, Mommy darling. I love what you are doing for me." The childish expressions were deliberate. She looked at me fondly. I turned to Joe and reached up. Christine is a head taller than me, and Joe is a head taller than her, so I had to pull his head down to my level. To his obvious surprise I planted a kiss firmly on his lips too. "And, Daddy dearest, I cannot thank you enough for all the pretty clothes you have bought me." They were not to know, but I had no intention of calling them 'Mum' and 'Dad'. Those names had a special meaning to me, but 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' had an element of affection that seemed appropriate, especially when qualified by endearments. It was going to be 'Mommy darling' and Daddy dearest' from now on. "And what would our little girl like to do now?" "Why! Go shopping for more pretty clothes, of course. I can't wear my school uniform every day now, can I, Daddy dearest?" I started to transfer my wallet from my jacket to my purse, but stopped as I realized that I could not use my credit cards dressed like this. I put my pink lipstick in instead, then withdrew my billfold and both my bank cards from my wallet and added those. "Did you buy me a coat and gloves?" I asked, "Or should I wear my parka? It's a bit cold outside now to go dressed just like this." "We never thought you would go outside dressed like this, Cybill, so we never bought you a coat and gloves." Christine looked sheepish. "You expect a schoolgirl like me to stay home?" I grabbed a parka, one of Mum's tuques and a pair of her gloves, thankful that I had not thrown out all my parents' clothes. "Come on, Mommy dearest, what are you waiting for?" Christine and Joe were obviously flabbergasted at my ready acceptance of this role, and were slow in responding. They were not to know that I had already decided that dressing like this would make it easier to manipulate them and others. Joe drove my big Cadillac, and I insisted on sitting in the middle in front, between the two of them. We were able to park quite close to the entrance of the mall, so I chose to leave my outer clothing in the car. I grabbed the hands of the other two and we walked along like this, with me skipping between them like a child enjoying herself. This seemed to embarrass them, which pleased me. The first port of call was a bank machine, where I drew out $800, the maximum allowed. If I were to spend anything more one of the 'adults' would have to use a credit card and I would later repay. Next I insisted on buying perfume - Miss Dior for me and Air du Temps for Christine, who never used perfume. We left the store with both of us reeking. Next I wanted a party dress. "We can't go out to a restaurant if I am wearing a day dress," I said. Joe was beginning to fidget at this shopping expedition, but I was in charge despite my childish appearance and behaviour, and I was not going to let him out of my sight. I chose a pretty pink organdie party dress with a close fitting bodice and a flaring skirt, with a crinoline and petticoat to go under it. This necessitated a pair of pink patent Mary Janes and lace knee socks to go with it, and a pink ribbon for my hair. I was really piling it on. While I was in the shoe department I also bought black patent and white patent Mary Janes, and then on an impulse a pair of pumps with two inch heels. I take only size 2 in shoes and it was difficult for the shop assistant to find ones that fitted, but then that is nothing to the trouble I find when I try to buy men's shoes in that size. Then I had to buy pantihose to go with the pumps. At first I was all for buying a garter belt and stockings, but Christine insisted that I was 'too young' for that. Next came the lingerie. Silky lace training bras, panties, teddies, camisoles, full slips and half slips, everything dripping in lace. No nightdresses, for I intended to continue in my baby-wear at night, diapers, pacifier and all. "Now for outerwear," I said. I realize that I had already spent almost the whole $800 I had started with, so first we had to go back to the ATM and draw out another $800 from my other account. I was more cautious this time - after all we could come back another time, and I really did not want to impose on Joe or Christine and use their credit: unlike me they did not have several million in savings. But I had to have an outer coat as well as another skirt and some blouses. Christine chose the blouses for me but I selected my own skirts, one a tight leather skirt that came down little below mid-thigh. I remembered seeing young girls is such short skirts, though they looked very different on teenagers. The other skirt was more sober and girlish, but it too was quite short, a pleated powder blue confection in wool. I next looked for a coat. I should probably have added a jacket, but that would have to wait. I found a lemon overcoat with fitted bodice and flared skirt, single-breasted and buttoning up to the neck. It would do for now, but I would certainly have to have something warmer for winter. "Oh, look, Mommy darling, there's a matching hat and muff." Even with the muff I still wanted gloves, for I was determined to skip along holding the hands of both my 'Mommy' and my 'Daddy'. I ended up with a white kid pair. I was going to buy more, but I was starting to run out of cash again, and I still had one more purchase I wanted to make. I dragged them into a jewelry store. Joe was loaded down with packages now, but I still held his hand, leaving him to struggle with them single- handed. Christine too was carrying several. Here I demanded to have my ears pierced. Joe looked at me open-mouthed, but if I was going to go around as an eleven-year-old girl, he and Christine were going to have to act as my parents. I selected a pair of simple quarter-carat diamond studs and had them placed in my ears after they were pierced. These cost more than I had in cash and I had to borrow $100 from Joe. Or to be precise, I handed him all the cash I had and let him pay - Daddy spoiling his little girl. I paid him back his money the next day. I still needed several outfits, but we were all tired and I had run out of cash, so off we went back home. I was too excited to think about cooking a meal so decided to take them out to a restaurant once more. I wanted to shower, but could not get out of my bra, and had to ask Christine to help me. She showed me how to unfasten it and made me practice several times. I showered, and dressed in some of my new underwear, managing to fasten my training bra by myself, which was a matter of some pride. Then I called to Christine to help me on with my new party dress, which was buttoned down the back. She had to help me with my wig too, but I managed my own lipstick, after several failed attempts. It was harder to do than I realized. When we were all ready to go I looked at my companions, and decided that on the next shopping expedition I must buy Christine a dress for evening. Like my Mum, she was downright dowdy. I must remedy that. I put on my new lemon yellow coat and hat with the muff hanging from the sleeve. I had discovered that it had a purse built in and that was what I used for my lipstick and tissues, but I was not going to wear it yet, because I wanted to hold hands with my 'Mommy' and 'Daddy'. I handed Joe my Visa card so that he could seem to pay the bill for dinner, though I would actually sign the bill when the waiter was not looking. So off we went to the restaurant with 'darling Daddy' driving, 'Mommy dearest' on the right, and their darling spoilt daughter 'Cybill' in the middle. I don't know what the waiters thought of our conversation, for we talked shop all evening, all about magnetometer surveys, geological faults, diamond drilling and such esoterica. Some of it must have sounded strange coming from the lips of an eleven-year old girl, especially while I was retouching my lipstick at table. "You really should go to the ladies' room to do that, Cybill dear." She was right, of course, but I had not thought about using the ladies' room and I could hardly use the mens'. She held out her hand to me and escorted me there. We both sat down in front of the mirror. "Ladies usually come here together, Cybill." Back home Christine helped me off with my dress, but I managed everything else myself and hung up all my clothes neatly, all except my underwear which went into the hamper. She showed me how to remove my lipstick with cold cream. Then into my baby gear for our usual bedtime ritual. Somehow, while my friends and employees treated me externally as a little girl, I had established my dominance over them, something I had never been able to do before. I had always been the boss on paper, and I controlled the purse strings and paid their salaries, but they both knew more than me about exploration geology and their very size had given them an advantage. Now I had turned my vulnerability into a dominating influence over them. I should always remain an eleven-year old girl, for I had reached my full development and full size. I would not grow any more and I should never be a teenaged girl. Clearly I had a great deal to learn about behaving like a girl, walking like a girl, sitting like a girl, speaking like a girl, but I had made a beginning and I was going to exploit it to the hilt in our unusual family. I thought about the future as I lay in my diapers, sucking on the pacifier. I knew what I was going to do. The next day I sent Joe off to make a presentation to a new client to obtain a contract. I had written the presentation, and I knew he would be more convincing than me, even if I had been dressed as a man. But I was never going to dress as a man again. I would always dress as a little girl. And as a baby in bed. And I was going to manipulate Joe and Christine into marriage and have them continue to be my 'Mommy' and 'Daddy'. While Joe was away that day Christine and I went to the mall once more. This time I drew $800 from each of my bank accounts and the first purchase was silk dress for Christine. She jibbed at first, not wanting me to spend my money, she said. But I could see that she had fallen in love with the dress and I insisted. I also bought her some new more feminine lingerie. We had seen each other often enough in various stages of undress for me to know what she had and what she lacked. We then bought several outfits for me, a jacket and skirt in crimson, a dress and jacket in pink wool, and then I insisted that we both go to the cosmetics counter and take lessons in makeup. I have never worn men's clothing since, though I had never even considered cross-dressing before. I am still a virgin, but who cares? I receive all the sexual stimulation I need in bed with the other two. Our three-way sexual activity has grown far more elaborate over time, and the only thing I have not done is to penetrate Christine's vagina: that is reserved for Joe. But short of that we go through all kinds of combinations, usually all three involved at any one time. As soon as my hair grew long enough I stopped wearing a wig, and now I go to the beauty salon weekly to get it tinted and set. I wear it as a strawberry blonde, and have it permed about every six weeks. I sleep with it in rollers, and I persuaded Christine to do the same. She does my hair for me each night and covers it with a baby's bonnet, one of a larger size to fit over the rollers, and I do her hair. I wear mine as a cap of curls, while Chris now had a moderately sophisticated hairdo, quite unlike her former straight ponytail. I have slowly trained Christine to dress in a more feminine manner and even to wear makeup, and in return she has helped me to find appropriate female attire for wear in the bush when we are on a contract, such as jeans of old- rose denim. I offered both of them partnerships in Tallman Consultants Inc., provided Joe would change his name to Tallman. I knew that Christine would be called Tallman too once they were married. Neither of them yet knew that I intended that they should marry. It took Joe a couple of weeks to make up his mind to change his name, and I had to tell him, "If I can dress like this to please you and Christine it's the least you can do in return." We have expanded the business enormously and now have a branch office in Vancouver and two overseas offices. I do not often go into the bush on contracts any longer, but I do visit our branch offices frequently, always in company with either Joe or Christine. I have changed my name legally to Cybill and that is the name on my passport, so I can travel in my normal clothing. No, that is not quite true, since my passport gives my true date of birth, so I have to dress in a somewhat more adult fashion, as a woman rather than as a girl. Changing my name was surprisingly simple. All that was required was that I appear before a citizenship judge and present a petition in writing. For the occasion I chose a business suit with pantihose and two inch heels. I sat across the desk from the judge who read my petition, stamped it and started to make out a new certificate of citizenship. She looked up at me, "I suppose you want your sex entered as female?" That shook me for a moment; it was something I had not considered, but with almost no hesitation I answered, "Of course!" The judge entered the change of sex in the computer and finally printed out a new citizenship certificate and a laminated purse card with the same information. "All you have to do now is to present notarized copies of this certificate to your bank, to the Motor Vehicle Office and to anyone else who may need it to make the necessary changes." "Would it be possible, Judge, for you to prepare notarized copies for me? I shall pay of course." The judge looked at me, summoned a secretary and asked her to make the copies. While we were waiting she said to me, "It's no concern of mine really, but I am a little curious. Would you mind telling me why you decided to become a woman. You don't look like a transsexual to me." "I'm not a transsexual," I answered, "Just a transvestite. I have a full set of male parts under my skirt. But why do you say I don't look like a transsexual?" "I see a fair number of transsexuals in my business, and most of them wear too much makeup and dress provocatively. You are dressed as a demure businesswoman, with a minimum of makeup, and to be honest, I would not have known you were not a woman if I had not studied your file in the database." "The reason I decided on the change," I said, "Has nothing to do with sexual satisfaction, but more, I fear, with filthy lucre. I guess you could call me a gold digger - literally." The judge raised an eyebrow. "I am in the gold mining and exploration trade, so I dig for gold. But you see how small I am, Judge? Small even as a woman. I take a size 2 dress but I usually must have every dress or suit altered. This suit for instance, that I am wearing at the moment: I had to have the skirt shortened and the back of the jacket made narrower." She nodded her head. "My size is that of an eleven year old, so you can imagine what my life was like as a man. It's no real social disadvantage to a woman to be petite, but for a man size seems to be paramount. As a man nobody would take any notice of me, and I was unable to make a go of my business. I was staring bankruptcy in the face. But I am now a successful businesswoman. My company made several million dollars in billings last year and my personal income was almost half a million. I expect to double that this year the way things are going." "You look very young for that kind of income." "I am older than I appear. That is another thing that made it difficult to succeed in business as a man. Everybody took me for a kid." I paused for a moment. "Shall I tell you what I wear for leisure clothing when I am not in a business suit?" "Since you seem to be a compulsive transvestite, I suppose it is some kind of women's outfit." "Not quite. In fact, I cannot even wear teen clothes; they are too big for me. I dress for leisure in the clothes of an eleven-year old girl." She handed me my certificate and the copies and wished me luck. I have started to take hormones, not so much to feminize myself more, but more to reduce my beard growth and make my skin smoother. They have had little effect on my male organs: I am perhaps a little slower in getting a full erection, and I am less liable to get one while out and about, but that is all. An eleven year old has no figure, so I do not need to wear a waist cincher, except when I am traveling overseas as an adult, but I have started to develop breasts. I now take a 28A bra, about normal for an 11 and half year old. I am thinking of having my beard removed by laser electrolysis. My 'baby-face' is now an asset instead of the liability it always was before. I finally managed to manipulate Joe and Christine into getting married. Christine at first did not want a white wedding, since she was no virgin, but she was afraid of her mother knowing that. Just fancy! At her age! I was flower girl at the wedding; Christine's mother thought that her daughter was marrying a divorced man with a daughter of his own - me!. They both insisted that I accompany them on their short honeymoon, saying that they would not feel comfortable making love without me in the bed as their baby. I gave them ten percent of the shares of Tallman Consultants for a wedding present, and the titles of Vice President (Geophysics) and Vice President (Exploration). Tallman Consultants Inc. now has three directors - but no outsider would ever guess that the eleven-year old girl is the boss. Christine is Chair of the Board, but always defers to me, the president and CEO. During the school term I regularly wear my school uniform, so that if I go outside during the day no-one will ask me why I am not at school, but during school vacations I dress in a more casual, and even younger-looking style. Except for my night clothes I wear nothing that must come from a specialty store, but simply wear what any eleven-year old would wear. I dress in a rather old-fashioned manner, always in dresses or skirts; no jeans or sweat shirts for me (except when I am in the bush), always the daintiest and most girlish wear. I am not actually a compulsive transvestite, though I do take considerable pleasure in dressing, but the main reason is that it enables me to control other people in a way I could not do before. I have taken some trouble to learn how girls of 'my age' walk, talk and behave, their gestures, their enthusiasms, their ways of sitting. Not of course the commonalty of young girls, but rather the upper class children, those who might attend the sort of private school whose uniform I wear, the girls who sit with their knees and ankles pressed together, with their skirts smoothed under them, not those who sprawl in jeans like a boy. I try to be as feminine as possible in a 'well-brought-up' manner. My behavior now would put to shame that sort of girl! I always call Christine and Joe 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' and try to use the vocabulary of a young girl - everything is sweet, cute, darling or precious. Or 'gross' or 'yucky'. I also use the exaggerated gestures of an exuberant pre- teen girl and even bought myself a skipping rope (fluorescent pink nylon) since I had to find some way to keep fit without working out at a gym. We share a single large office with three desks, but that is private territory for the three of us. No-one else is ever allowed in there except our secretary. We conduct all interviews in the boardroom. Depending on the nature of the interview I often allow either Mommy or Daddy to conduct it alone or together, but quite often I sit in on an interview myself. On such occasions Christine (or Joe) will say, "I hope you don't mind if my daughter sits with us. Now go over there, Cybill dear, and play quietly with your dolly." I sit quietly on an upright chair swinging my legs, which do not quite reach the floor, holding a doll in my lap and listening intently to the interview. And hoping the doll does not slip off because I am paying no attention to it - that has happened. I know what I have accomplished by this masquerade. I love my life as a perpetual young girl, one who will never grow up, with a delightful Mommy and Daddy (whom I can twist around my little finger), but full of interesting work. I can understand what Christine gets out of it: she cannot have a child of her own, and I fulfill her fantasies of motherhood both in my nighttime persona as her baby and in the daytime as her little girl. But I have no idea what Joe receives from our relationship, and yet it seems to have been his idea in the first place. Still, like all of us, he enjoys our unconventional life. I don't think I could ever sleep now without a pacifier. (the end)