Consequences III So Damn Unpretty
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Sittin' Pretty free porn video
Based on the 1945 James Thurber short story "The Catbird Seat"
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Sittin' Pretty
By Pretzelgirl
Mr. Mendelsohn bought the pantyhose and make-up one Monday evening in
the busiest convenience store he could find. It was rush hour after work
and a half-dozen harried men and women stood ahead of him in line. The
cashier didn't even look at Mr. Mendelsohn's face. Had any of his
co-workers at S&F seen him purchasing nylons, concealer, lipstick, and
eyeshadow they'd have been flabbergasted, for Mr. Mendelsohn had a
reputation of being lifelessly dull. None spotted him.
Seven days ago Mr. Mendelsohn had decided to delete Ms. Ursula Beckett
from S&F. He felt pleased with the word "delete," as it suggested
nothing more than erasing a useless computer file -- something he did
routinely as systems administrator for S&F. Mr. Mendelsohn had planned
and plotted his scheme nightly and now took advantage of the brisk walk
home to re-examine the plot for flaws. He admitted it held a dangerous
element of risk. The unpredictable margin of error was inevitable in any
such bold endeavour. But therein lay the beauty of the plan; unless
actually caught red-handed, no one would suspect the cautious, timid
hand of Allan Mendelsohn in such an outlandishly daring scheme.
His boss, Mr. Fielding, had once quipped: "For results, I'll take predictable
Mendelsohn over any flashy-pants show off!"
At home, while slipping into a black vinyl mini-skirt, Mr. Mendelsohn
again mentally argued the case against Ms. Ursula Beckett. Her obnoxious
manner and harsh laugh first disturbed the halls of S&F on March 7, 1998
(Mr. Mendelsohn was good with dates). The old head of personnel, Geoff
Richards, introduced her as Mr. Fielding's new special adviser. She
instantly appalled Mr. Mendelsohn, but he carefully kept his opinion
silent. Instead he had politely forced a smile and shook her hand.
"Well," she had laughed. "You've got the limp-wristed handshake of a
little girl, Mendelsohn! It's a good thing we've got you on the
computers and not in sales."
Recalling her brazen remark brought a hot flush to Mr. Mendelsohn's
cheeks again. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers across the black,
satin bra he wore, and silently recited the natural logarithm to twelve
places before feeling calm enough to continue. Her crimes lay not in her
abrasive personality but rather in her machinations as Mr. Fielding's
special adviser. Mr. Mendelsohn sustained the objection; he would judge
her actions, not her incessant baiting. For the past two years, he'd
endured it in the elevator, at the water cooler, in the corridors...
"You seem giddy as a schoolgirl, Mendelsohn!"
"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Mendelsohn!"
"You sure are sittin' pretty, Mendelsohn!"
Jimmy Hale, one of Mr. Mendelsohn's assistants, picked up on that last
phrase and echoed it ad nauseam.
"Boy, once we get that new system installed, we'll all be sittin' pretty,
Mr. Mendelsohn!"
Soon everyone on Mr. Mendelsohn's floor was making remarks about "Pretty
Boy Mendelsohn." He reflected it was nothing more than the irony accorded
a tall man nicknamed "Tiny". It had been annoying, it had driven him
near distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved to murder by
anything so childish. Fortunately, Mr. Mendelsohn was a rock and
impassively withstood the juvenile remarks of Ms. Ursula Beckett with
polite tolerance.
He maintained the ruse so perfectly, Ms. Pear, his other assistance, had once
remarked: "Why, I even suspect you're secretly in love with the woman!"
To his credit, he merely blushed and said: "No gossip, now. Let's just
do our jobs."
Mr. Mendelsohn was known for his strict adherence to professional
standards.
Shaking his head to clear away these irrelevant facts, Mr. Mendelsohn
pulled on the newly-bought pantyhose across his freshly shaven legs,
smoothed the fabric on his thigh, and discreetly adjusted his manhood
to a more comfortable position in the cramped, size 6 nylon panties he
wore. Wordlessly, he resumed the trial of Ms. Ursula Beckett. She stood
accused of the wilful attempt to undermine the efficiency of S&F,
particularly Mr. Mendelsohn's own department.
Ms. Pear had been the one who told him the whole story. Relishing in her
gossip, she explained how Ms. Beckett had met Mr. Fielding during a
cocktail party. She said Ms. Beckett had rescued Mr. Fielding from an
oppressively dull conversation with an obnoxious, drunken bore and the
two of them had spent the rest of the evening in a corner together, making
sarcastic comments about the attire and behaviour of other guests. Old man
Fielding had fallen for the "Us versus Them" false camaraderie and
instantly jumped to the conclusion that Ms. Ursula Beckett was "his kind
of a woman" and someone to be trusted.
The next week, Ms. Beckett showed up at S&F as special adviser to the
company president. The woman was a Pandora's box of chaos once her foot
was in the door. Almost immediately, Miss Holyfield, Mr. Sandborne, and
Mr. Evans were let go. A short time later, Mr. Manson stormed off in a
huff over the firings and never returned. As Manson's department crumbled,
Geoff Richards finally approached Mr. Fielding and mentioned things
seemed a "little disrupted" and oughtn't they reconsider some of these
changes? Mr. Fielding was adamant. He held Ms. Beckett in the highest
esteem and assured Richards things would "settle into a more efficient
groove" in time. Richards, being close enough to retirement, abandoned
the cause and learned to endure the woman's destructive assault on the
company's edifice. But it was more than Mr. Mendelsohn could ignore.
Posing before the mirror, Mr. Mendelsohn paused the trial to view
himself with a critical eye. The make-up job was that of a child playing
with mother's things. He looked awkwardly unsteady in a pair of heels,
felt cheap in the black skirt and dark pantyhose, and seemed hopelessly
out-of-place in a flowery red blouse with a dark bra-line showing. He
looked ghastly, a knock-kneed parody of a woman, but knew he had to be
this way. Pulling on a cheap, wiry Halloween wig, he resumed his
summation, reaching the afternoon of last Monday, roughly 3 p.m. when
Ms. Beckett had invaded his domain, sneaking up behind him.
"Boo!" she had shouted playfully. "Did I disturb you painting your nails?"
Mr. Mendelsohn looked at her, with her own glossy red nail-polish, then
back to his own well-trimmed but colourless nails. He sighed, but said
nothing. Cheerfully, she shrugged and began to wander through the office.
"Do you really need all these different computers?" she abruptly demanded.
Mr. Mendelsohn's heart skipped a beat. "Each of the machines," he said
with measured calm, "plays an essential role in our overall system. They
are all indispensable."
"Well, don't get your panties in a wad," she brayed back at him. "I'm
just thinking we might save money with a single, centralized mainframe."
Mr. Mendelsohn knew time was of the essence, for her evil eye was now
firmly fixed on his beloved department. That day had been reconnaissance,
and now she would plan the first assault. There was no doubt in Mr.
Mendelsohn's mind that soon a memo would arrive from Mr. Fielding bearing
nonsensical instructions from the ignorant woman. Already Mr. Mendelsohn
had allowed a priceless week to pass.
Smoothing his black vinyl skirt with one hand, he ceased pacing the
length of his apartment and said aloud: "Ladies and gentlemen of the
jury, I demand capital punishment for this horrible, obscene woman!"
After a deep, calming breath, he removed the wig, clothes, and make-up,
carefully packing each in small, unmarked gym bag. Mr. Mendelsohn then
enjoyed a hot shower, a cool glass of milk, and an early bedtime.
The next day Mr. Mendelsohn went through his usual routine, maybe
polishing his glasses once or twice more often and perhaps sharpening
his pencil a few times when it didn't require it. Only once did he catch
sight of the convicted, as she sauntered through with a patronizing
"Hello!"
At precisely five o'clock, he walked home just as he always had.
No stops at bars or pubs on the way; just as Mr. Schlessinger (the S of
S&F) has often praised him for doing: "Mister Mendelsohn is one of our
most efficient workers, a man with no vices." Mr. Mendelsohn had sat by
silently that time, nodding with approval.
Still thinking about that special day, Mr. Mendelsohn continued his walk
home near forty-second street. He arrived, as always, at eight o'clock,
finishing his dinner and the financial page of the New York Times at
ten-to-nine. Picking up the carefully packed gym bag, he took his
customary, after-dinner walk along fifth avenue at a casual pace. He
consciously wished his forehead to cool itself, fearing any beads of
perspiration might give away his intent. The small bag felt conspicuously
bulky, filled with the nylons, make-up, and other feminine accoutrements
he'd purchased the last week. Maybe it was all too much. It would take
precious time to change, after all. He could always be spotted and
recognized. It took continued willpower to force himself on.
Mr. Mendelsohn had never laid eyes on Ms. Beckett's twelfth street
apartment, yet his good head for numbers aided him in recalling the
address, clearly marked in a four-story brick building. No doorman, no
buzzers, just a simple old-style structure. This was the dangerous part,
with no way to predict whom might be coming or going and possibly spot
him. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he boldly strode through
the foyer and straight into the elevator.
Once safe within those metal walls, minor "technical difficulties"
stalled the elevator between floors just long enough for the blouse,
skirt, nylons, wig, and make-up to go on. Pressed for time, Mr. Mendelsohn
necessarily did a rushed, amateurish job. His reflection in the chrome,
sliding doors of the elevator clearly showed the gaunt, clownish spectre
of a man in drag. But it would have to do. Stalling the elevator any
longer merely increased the risk. If he ran into any witness, the
conviction of Ms. Ursula Beckett must be instantly reversed, her proposed
deletion removed from the recycle bin forever.
Stumbling through the stale, hotel-like corridors in unaccustomed black
patent heels, Mr. Mendelsohn again smoothed his skirt and adjusted the
bag now containing his male garments. Nervously, he poised a full minute
outside HER door before summoning the courage to knock loudly. As he
waited for a response, he glared hatefully at the small, handwritten
placard reading: "Ms. Ursula Beckett". When he heard the clicking of her
lock turning, he pushed hard against the door, forcing himself in with
swift severity.
"Land's sake, look what the cat dragged in!" laughed Ms. Beckett with a
donkey's bray. Could nothing startle this woman into silence?
Mr. Mendelsohn sniffed the apartment anxiously, identifying the noxious
scent of potpourri. Family photos, inane knickknacks, and tacky paintings
of ducks were smeared haphazardly across her pink-and-green flowered
walls. This very lair filled him with revulsion. And still, her loud
guffawing continued.
"You ARE jumpy as a little cheerleader!" she managed to wheeze out between
hearty laughs. "What is this: Halloween?" She tugged at his frizzy, dark
brown wig. His heart throbbed loudly in his throat; whooshing sounds
pounded in his ears. He silently cocked an eyebrow at her, trying
desperately to seem cool, confident, poised.
"Can I take your purse?" she grinned.
"No," he heard himself say, in a high-pitched squeak. "I can't stay for
long, hon. I just stopped by on my way home from the bar. I just HAD to
speak with you."
He stumbled towards her, still unsteady in heels. He hoped the impression
he gave was of a lack of sobriety rather than a lack of grace.
The dull eyes of Ms. Ursula Beckett bulged with amusement.
"You've been drinking?" she managed to ask with a straight face. "Well
that explains a thing or two. But I never figured you for a crossdresser!
Care for a cigarette, sister?"
She winked sardonically at him.
"Thanks, no hon," he replied with a forced giggle he hoped would distract
attention from his nervously knocking knees. "I've got something a bit
stronger for tonight."
With that, he removed a small bag of white powder from the bag.
"Care for a snort?" he asked, with a wink of his own.
For once, the she-devil was without words. She grimaced at him
distastefully for a moment, before backing up hesitantly. Mr. Mendelsohn
paused just long enough for this latest vice to sink into her feeble mind.
"I'm celebrating tonight," he twittered. "You see, you're not the only
one who can sleep her way to the top. I've been screwing Fielding in my own
special way for months. Oh, yes... he swings that way, only the old
goat's ashamed of me. So tonight, I hired a photographer to secretly catch
us in the act. I've got all I need to blackmail him! I'll be retiring
from S&F soon, and when I do I'll be getting a lot more than a gold watch.
You may be his current trophy plaything, but I'm equipped the way Fielding
REALLY likes it!"
Mr. Mendelsohn licked his heavily painted lips and relished in the
horrifyingly twisted grimace on Ms. Beckett's face.
"Sure you won't join me?" he asked, holding up the baggy of powder again.
Ms. Ursula Beckett's face turned stone-faced livid. With quiet
determination, she softly said: "Out."
Stepping towards him with resolve, she again said: "Out. I want you out
of here at once. And you will not get away with this. Whatever twisted
game you're playing, I won't let you win. Get out now."
Mr. Mendelsohn allowed himself to be shoved out the door, still wobbling
in his heels.
"Don't get your panties in a wad, Ursula," he said with a deliberate slur.
"I really am sittin' pretty this time, and there's simply nothing you can
do about it."
With a final shove, she pushed him into the hallway and slammed the door.
He staggered down the hallway, in case she watched from her peephole.
Once back in the elevator, Mr. Mendelsohn quickly regained his sobriety
and poise, rapidly changing back into his male garb. A series of wet-wipes
removed most traces of make-up from his face. The rest would have to wait
till he got home, but it seemed unlikely anyone would notice him now.
Mr. Mendelsohn was an easily overlooked person.
No one gave him a second glance on the walk home. He returned to his
apartment, well before eleven, a few smudges of eyeshadow and foundation
still on his face, but the bag with his make-up, wig, and women's clothing
was long gone, deposited into a carefully chosen dumpster that would be
emptied in a few hours. Mr. Mendelsohn promptly took a hot shower, followed
that with a cold glass of milk, and managed to be in bed before midnight.
The next morning, Mr. Mendelsohn arrived at work promptly at seven-thirty.
Ten minutes after his arrival, a security guard politely escorted him
from the department suite into an empty office down the hall. A "random"
drug test, he was told. Mr. Mendelsohn politely complied without complaint,
returning to his office by eight.
Shortly after eight, Ms. Ursula Beckett, who formerly had never come to
work prior to ten, swept through the department office.
"I've been to see Fielding!" she hissed. "We're going straight to the
police with this. And it's more than you deserve, you twisted pervert!"
Mr. Mendelsohn returned her rage with a look of quiet surprise.
"I beg your pardon?" he said softly, a quizzical frown crossing his
face. "Has there been a problem with my work?"
Ms. Beckett sighed with disgust and stormed out of the office.
Jimmy Hale and Ms. Pear exchanged glances and whispers, before catching
Mr. Mendelsohn's glare.
"We have work to do," he calmly said to the pair. "If Ms. Beckett or
Mr. Fielding have problems with the department, I'm certain we'll know
the details before long. Gossip unbecomes us. In the meanwhile, let's
just do our jobs."
Both assistants had heard this speech from Mr. Mendelsohn a thousand
times before. Resigning the tantalizing discussion till lunchtime, they
reluctantly returned to their work stations.
Fifty minutes later, Mr. Fielding sent for Mr. Mendelsohn. The old man
seemed anxious and pale. Motioning for Mr. Mendelsohn to sit down, he
nervously cleared his throat and rubbed his glasses with a handkerchief.
Mr. Mendelsohn calmly sat and awaited judgment.
"Allan," began Fielding. "You've been here, what... more than twenty
years now?"
"Twenty-two years," answered Mr. Mendelsohn. "Come July 16th."
"Erm, yes," Fielding said, twiddling with his glasses. "And I
understand you don't smoke or drink... or do any drugs?"
"Of course not," shrugged Mr. Mendelsohn.
"Yes, your tests support this," stammered Fielding. "But... well, we
had to check you understand."
Mr. Mendelsohn smiled and nodded politely.
"Have you... um," stumbled Fielding in a low voice. "Have you any...
how can I put this delicately... have you any sexual proclivities
involving men?"
Mr. Mendelsohn looked confused for a moment, before finally turning
beet-red, shaking his head, and sighing once.
"No sir," he answered very slowly and quietly. "I am a bachelor, but
only because women find me... find me dull. I have no interest in...
in whatever you may be proposing, sir. With all due respect to your
lifestyle, of course."
Fielding blushed cherry red and seemed even more flustered than before.
"I was not," he stammered. "Um... not at all, in the slightest bit
propositioning you, Mendelsohn... erm, Allan. That is, Mr. Mendelsohn
I think you've confused my question. I'm quite heterosexual...
completely so, even. I respect a... an alternate lifestyle, but could
never embrace... that is, I'm not. Dammit all, man -- did you show up
at Ursula's place last night in a skirt? She accused me of having a gay
affair with you!"
Mr. Mendelsohn allowed his own jaw to drop and paused for precisely
eight seconds before shaking his head and answering: "No, sir. I've never
worn a skirt, never visited Ms. Beckett's home, and have no interest in
homosexual... relations with you."
Fielding frowned.
"Or with anyone else," Mr. Mendelsohn hastily added, hoping to appear
suitably confused by the bizarre accusations.
A moment of silence filled the room.
"Ms. Beckett," Fielding said finally. "Ms. Ursula Beckett has worked
very hard, understand. And sometimes overwork and stress can cause
psychological... breakdowns to occur."
The old man sighed sadly, shaking his head.
"I'm afraid she's developed a persecution complex," he said.
"Accompanied by some queer... um, odd hallucinations involving you."
"I'm terribly sorry sir," answered Mr. Mendelsohn with a concerned frown.
"Shall I speak with her?"
"No, no!" answered Fielding. "She's with a psychologist right now. I
suspected something from the moment she told me this whole outlandish
story. It's the nature of the beast, that such nervous breakdowns focus
on the least likely and most innocent targets. Ursula... um, Ms. Beckett
had been studying a re-organization of your department when she...
snapped. I'm awfully sorry to have to drag you into the middle of this,
Mendelsohn. You've got an unblemished history with S&F."
"I hope she can recover?" asked Mr. Mendelsohn with characteristic timidity.
"I think Ms. Beckett's usefulness here has ended," replied Fielding.
"Though I hope I can trust you to keep all this gossip to yourself? It
wouldn't do to besmirch an otherwise honest woman's reputation on account
of one minor... breakdown, beyond her control. These things do happen,
you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Mr. Mendelsohn nodded silently. "You needn't say more. Is
there anything else, sir?"
Suddenly, Ms. Beckett herself burst through the doors followed by the
receptionist, a man in a white coat, and an overweight security guard.
"Is the little fruit denying it?" she screeched. "Don't let him get away
with this!"
Mr. Mendelsohn nervously jumped from his chair, and moved to cower
behind Fielding.
"You'd been drinking and snorting cocaine!" she yelled. "And... and
it was all a trap! You two never slept together. You can't let him
get away with this. Don't protect the filthy weasel!"
With a nod from Fielding, the security guard tackled Ms. Beckett.
"If you weren't such a dull, average nobody," she bawled at Mr. Mendelsohn.
"They'd never believe you'd planned it all like this! Waggling your ass
about in a leather mini-skirt, waving bags of drugs around, bragging
about how you're 'Sitting Pretty!' You knew the whole while no one'd
believe me!"
Quietly, Mr. Mendelsohn summoned a reply: "I'm dreadfully sorry about this,
Ms. Beckett. I hope the doctors can help you out of this... delusion."
"Delusion!" she screamed, as the security guard forced her from the office.
"My god, it's too damned perfect! Can't you see he's manipulating us?!?"
"I hope," stuttered Mr. Mendelsohn in a quiet voice. "I hope you can
return soon to us soon."
With help from the white-coated psychologist, Ms. Beckett was ushered out
of the executive office.
"I regret this," said Mr. Fielding, to both his receptionist and Mr.
Mendelsohn. "And I must ask both of you, out of respect for... the
afflicted, to keep this quiet."
The receptionist nodded dumbly, as did Mr. Mendelsohn.
He then quietly returned to his department, it's fluorescent lighting
somehow seeming brighter -- more cheerfully efficient. Studiously, but
with the slightest hint of a smile on his face, Mr. Mendelsohn returned
to his duties and began concentrating on the daily administration of the
S&F computer system.
Again, Jimmy Hale and Ms. Pear exchanged glances and whispers, before
catching Mr. Mendelsohn's glare.
"It doesn't do to gossip," he said quietly. "Let's just do our jobs."
-The End-
Myra
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