Modelling Madness free porn video

Modelling Madness by Throne I used to be Billy John. Now I'm Belle Jean. In the past I favored worn jeans and T-shirts. Now I'm stuck in girly clothing all the time. What's worse, some of the fashions I have to wear are bizarre, to say the least, and lots of people get to see me in them. It all started because my wife Melinda took Art classes. She met this young woman who called herself Shadow, whose creations were weird fashions. Her current productions were all knitted. She had a gallery show and, at the last minute her model called out sick. I'm short and slight, which made me the same size as the absent girl. My wife is a tall blond with the body of a swimwear model. We had been equal partners in our marriage, except that when she really wanted something, she could put her foot down and become intractable. Shadow came to our house on the day of her show's reception, as she and my wife were going to attend it together. She was the same height as me, with her very short hair dyed purple, and had a fondness for dark clothes. The three of us were at our house when Shadow got the call. The outfit was there, with no one to wear it. Melinda was too tall. There was no time to get anyone else. The two women looked resolutely at me. "Whoa," I said. "Hold on. Can't you just hang that thing up on the wall or something? I'd look like a freak wearing it. Just look at the... whatever it is." The knitted pieces were laid out on my recliner in the den, where we had all been awaiting the arrival of the model. They were bulky and pink. There was a loose one-piece that could be worn like long johns. The wearer stepped into it through the open back, which then was closed by tying a series of knitted strips into bows. There were attached mittens and booties, which featured decorative, non-functional bows, at wrists and ankles. At the top was a turtleneck, but oversized so that it hid the wearer's face to just below their eyes, which were left peeking out. Emerging from under the collar was a much bigger knitted bow. Then there was the hat, with a big yarn puff on top and wide ties that could be knotted under the chin, each ending in another puffball. "Billy John," my wife said with unsettling seriousness, "there simply isn't anyone else. I do a lot for you, don't I?" She might have been referring to how she cooked all our meals and did most of the housework. That wasn't so much out of benevolence, but because if she left any of those jobs to me, I tended to slack off and then do them poorly. Or she might have meant our sex lives. Melinda was always more than accommodating. She was a terrific bed partner, catering to my needs and making sure I was satisfied. I had to admit that I didn't do much in return. Much as I hate to admit it, I come up short in the penis department. A lot short. My wife suggested that I could compensate by giving her oral sex but I found that unmanly and distasteful. She went down on me but I never reciprocated. When she added, "You not doing me this simple favor could lead to all sorts of repercussions." That sounded like she was saying I'd get cut off, which wasn't acceptable. But once she made her mind up, it could become a long-term problem. I didn't see any other choice. "All right," I surrendered. "I'll do it. Between that stupid collar and dopey hat, no one can get a look at my face. Besides, it will just be a bunch of art weirdos at the place." I suppose I was trying to assert myself a little, without upsetting Melinda too much. She didn't look happy about what I'd said. Shadow was glowering at me. The artist said, "Thank you, Billy John. There's just one thing. To be true to my vision, you have to be naked under the costume." "Aw, come on..." I began grumpily. "And have your body shaved." That was pushing it too far. But my wife's face was set in a mask of restrained anger. I thought about the way she played with my undersized dick and drove me crazy with her teasing tongue. Was I willing to give up all that? How bad could a few hours in that idiotic outfit be? And no one would know I wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Besides which, the scant body hair I had would grow back before very long. "Okay," I said, trying to make it sound less like I was giving in and more like I was magnanimously granting a favor. Having my sexy wife in my debt could translate into some thrilling trips to the bedroom over the next few weeks. I would not be shy about reminding her what a nice guy I had been, and how I'd rescued her nutty friend from a disaster. Melinda glanced at her watch. "We've got enough time, if we get started right away." She eyed me seductively. "Want to go into the bathroom and get naked for me?" That was the kind of thing I wanted to hear. Even though we wouldn't have time for it then, I would be owed sexual favors later. She looped her arm through mine and walked me away from Shadow. In the bathroom, my wife watched me undress. Then she had me stand in the bathtub while she ran the water and got it warm. Then she switched on the shower. The first spray was still cold water that had been sitting in the pipes. I yelped and hugged myself. "Oops. Sorry," she apologized, sounding more amused than regretful. "Aw. Your peenie didn't like the cold. It got all shriveled up." She reached in to give my dick a friendly squeeze, which felt delightful. "Now let's get our fashion model all soaped up." She took the soap and got me lathered up. The way she touched me, so caressingly, had my dick standing up and my scrotum pulled tight over my small balls. Next, she had me step back under the spray and rinse. Then Melinda produced one of her personal razors and went to work on the fine hair on my chest, underarms and crotch. There were a few other spots that required brief attention, but like I said before, I didn't have much to begin with. After I got back under the shower to clean off, I looked down at myself. It was so strange to see my skin all soft and smooth, rosy from the hot water. Without any hair on my pubes, my penis appeared even smaller than usual. I couldn't help becoming self-conscious. Melinda must have sensed that, because she said she needed to check for any spots she had missed, and used that as an excuse to run her hands sensually all over me. By the time she was done that inspection I was a shivering mass of overexcited nerve endings, totally distracted from any lingering objections I had to this silly situation. She helped me step out of the tub, as if I was incapable of doing it by myself. Then she dried me with a large fluffy towel, which elevated my arousal even more. With my mind on the sex to come -- eventually -- I didn't even protest when she used a wide powderpuff to dust me all over with scented powder. She opened the bathroom door to let the steam out. While she was fussing with my collar-length hair, I was startled to see Shadow appear in the hallway. "Did you call me, Melinda?" the black-clad artist wanted to know. I threw one hand across my chest and put a hand over my crotch, even letting out a high-pitched 'EEK!' Melinda got a firm grip on my slender bicep, assuring that I wouldn't slip back behind the shower curtain or otherwise hide myself. "Now, Billy John," she said as if speaking to an unreasonable child, "I'm sure Shadow has seen naked bodies before. She is an artist, after all. Now stop covering yourself." The visitor's eyes went directly to my immature genitals. I cringed at being seen like that. Shadow said, "He looks just right for my concept. I liked the idea of a girl in that outfit, but now I'm re-envisioning it for a certain type of boy. He even smells right. All flowery. Oh, Melinda, you must be reading my mind." "So," my wife asked her friend, "shall we get him dressed?" The artist had Melinda turn me slowly around, which added to my already considerable discomfort. "Yes," Shadow agreed. "Let's do it." As I was walked through the house naked, the whole scene took on a dreamlike feel. There I was, nude, my body shaved, smelling perfumed, and about to get into that unmanly, knitted, pink nightmare. At least no one would be able to tell I was a guy, for whatever small consolation that gave me. Melinda held the outfit while Shadow instructed me to put one foot in. My foot went down the leg and into the floppily large bootie. As the artist worked the leg up, it made my shaved skin tingle. Then I stepped into the other side and she brought everything higher until my pelvis was at last covered. It was a relief to have my nudity hidden that much, but I was also very aware of how the knitted material felt against my bottom and, especially, between my legs. Melinda got the front elevated enough that I could push my hands into the sleeves and slide them all the way down into the big cartoonish mittens. I realized that it would be difficult for me to do much with my hands until I was out of the costume. Then Melinda began tying the bows up the back, effectively trapping me inside that awful garment. The collar was high enough that my mouth was behind it. I peered out over the thick ridge of wool. "Now for the crowning touch," Shadow decreed, sounding more confident and in command than she had up to that point. She took the hat and placed it on my head. While her hands were still on it, Melinda stepped in to also get a hold on the bulky knitted creation. My wife tugged it down until it covered my brow in front and fitted over my ears and the back of my neck. Then she knotted the ties and left those foolish looking puffs hang down. That made me feel more imprisoned in softness than ever. It was also warm, which caused the scented powder to give off more of its aroma. At that moment I wanted to speak up, to insist on being let out, but my willpower just evaporated. The women stepped back to admire the results of dressing me. Trying to regain at least a bit of assertiveness, I pointed out, "You know, some people might still figure out that I'm a guy. Did you think of that?" "I did," Shadow said with that new confidence that I didn't like. "As soon as I began considering my new concept. So I came up with the perfect response." To Melinda she said, "Do you have some eye make-up I could use?" Without consulting me, my wife told her, "Of course, dear. Let's take Billy John into the bedroom." "You know," Shadow mentioned, "that name doesn't work with what I'm seeing in my mind. We need to change it. How about Belle?" "I like it," Melinda said. "Belle instead of Billy. And in place of John we could use... Jean. Belle Jean." This was spinning out of control, albeit in slow motion. They left the bathroom and I followed. What else could I do at that point? My wallet and keys were in my pants, neatly folded and laid on the toilet lid. As I moved, the outfit rubbed insinuatingly against me, all over my body. It was like multiple hands teasing me. My dick twitched. When we got to the bedroom, I was gently told to sit on the edge of the bed. There was a decorative lamp on the dresser. Melinda turned it on and tilted the shade, so they could get a better look at what they were doing. As if I wasn't even there, they checked the available cosmetics and discussed what to use on me. Then they went to work with brushes and pencils and even their fingers. Shadow used words like 'dramatic' and 'arresting' while she directed my wife on the desired results. I sat there helplessly, encased in knitted yarn, knowing that I would be seen that way by a gallery full of strangers. Maybe the premier would be poorly attended. When they were done, I was stood up and prompted to look in the dresser mirror. My bride returned the lampshade to its original position and got me to stand with my face above it. Lit from beneath, my eyes stood out dramatically and arrestingly. They were outlined, the lids colored deep pink, the lashes darkened and thickened. I blinked and the women agreed that doing that added to the mood they had created. I was -- unfortunately for me -- ready to be put on display. Luckily, our car was parked in the garage. They put plastic bags over my booties to keep them clean. We went out the back door and through the breezeway. Even though no one could see me as I passed through the screened-in area, it was still disturbing to be outside the house. The women helped me into the back seat and took the front for themselves. Melinda drove us toward the city. When people in other cars caught sight of me, they stared curiously. I slipped down to try to conceal myself but Shadow noticed and told me not to hide her artwork. She said, "Sit up straight, Belle Jean. I hope I don't have to tell you how to act all through my event." When had the artist become so forceful? I mumbled and apology. This was getting worse and worse. At least, after I got home, I could tell Melinda how unhappy being put into that position had made me. I would be polite and not raise my voice. We arrived at the gallery, in an arts district that was bordered by expensive apartment buildings. On the same block there were a combination bakery and coffee shop, trendy bookstore, several clothing places, import specialty retailer, an antique dealer, and two other galleries. A spot had been saved for us directly in front of the entrance. Someone was waiting to move a pair of sawhorses, so my wife could pull in. Moments later, Shadow was opening my door. She offered her hand and, though it made me feel dependent, I accepted it. As I emerged, several strollers stopped in their tracks to see the bizarre sight confronting them. One pulled out her phone to capture half a dozen images. Someone opened the gallery door and I was led inside. It was an austere space. There were a dozen framed photos on the walls, all of outfits similar to mine or even stranger, most knitted but a few appearing to be of leather or rubber. I was left in the center of the room. It was almost time for the opening and there was a table set up, off to one side, with wine and a cheese tray. A few people showed up and waited on the sidewalk, gesticulating toward me and chatting. I felt absurd, in that outfit which was like a combination of baby clothes, pajamas, and a sleep sack. The gallery owner was an effete older man in a suit that was fitted to his slim figure. He waved one hand as he spoke. When he came toward me, I wanted to leave the room. "May I feel the work?" he inquired. "Please do, Robert" said Shadow. "In fact, everyone is invited to touch it." I hadn't been informed of that. Before I could say anything, the owner was pawing my upper arm and then, emboldened, running his hand over my chest. At that moment, I sincerely wished I had been permitted to wear something else under the outfit. He cooed and giggled. Why didn't Melinda come to my rescue? At last he stepped away to say something to his much younger and equally fey assistant. "Oh, Martin. You simply MUST experience the tactile dimension of Shadow's new work. It is UNDENIABLY exquisite." I soon learned that he always emphasized at least one word in every sentence he spoke. Martin stood in front of me to put both hands on my shoulders. He closed his eyes, as if he expected to receive some sort of invisible signal from the yarn. "Yes." Martin hissed the final letter. "It is sooooo communicative." Drawing out words was the assistant's verbal eccentricity. I imagined the two of them having a long conversation, with select words being variously spoken louder or elongated. My attention was diverted, however, as Martin wiggle-walked to the door and opened it. "Come in, everyone," he sing-songed. "We are now ooooopen." No, no, no. Patrons came streaming in, rapidly filling the limited floorspace. Many of them went straight for the wine and, to a lesser degree, the cheese. I couldn't miss how eccentric some of them appeared. There were effeminate men and masculine women. Some people wore a lot of leather or rubber and one woman had a man on a leash. There was even a guy with a baby pacifier in his mouth and a rattle in his hand. Being in the midst of those kinky people did not reassure me. Robert clapped his hands above his head. "Listen up, girls and BOYS. This delicious new work by Shadow is MEANT to be touched." Martin added, "So please touch it. Pleeeease." I shuddered as they closed in on me. Suddenly there were male and female hands exploring the knit outfit and, whether they intended it or not, me inside it. Someone groped my bottom. Another squatted down to feel my thighs. From behind, an anonymous hand slid between my legs and gave my crotch a touch-test. "Oh my," said a voice that might have been a gal or a guy. "There's a boy inside." My genitals were fondled in an exploratory way before whoever it was added, "Though not much of a boy." Someone put their face close to where my eyes showed. It was a shirtless man in a leather vest. Something that I guessed was a walking stick poked between my buttocks. A pretty young girl took my mitten-covered hand and held it to her plump bosom while giving me a maternal look. She said, "I'd love to take you home and mother you. It's times like these when I wish I was a real girl." Passersby on the sidewalk could see everything that was happening to me. The room seemed to tilt. I spotted Shadow talking to a butch woman and pointing at me. Then there were people comparing what I wore to some of the images on the walls. It was all so confusing. The entire time, there were remarks being made. "I think it would work better if whoever's in there had to wear a diaper." "It looks so feminine. Or bisexual. Or neutral." "If the collar was turned up, the wearer couldn't see anything. It would reduce them to an object. That would make it a comment on the objectification of personalities." "I wonder if I could rent this work for display at my next gathering. It would make a perfect conversation piece." "Is it intended to be postmodern or neo-Pop?" For several hours I was stuck there. Being repeatedly touched made the yarn stimulate my hairless nude skin. It became oddly arousing. My dick rose halfway. I dreaded what might result if someone detected that, so I turned away from inquisitive browsers when they showed interest in that area. But moving added to my stimulation. That brought my pecker to the three-quarter point. I couldn't suppress a series of mewls and moans. Only those closest to me heard them, but that was enough. Now I had people listening intently, and then feeling me up to see if there was a link between handling me and my vocalizations. Just my luck, one especially curious guy, in a shirt with a ruffled front, got his hand on my almost-fully-stiff member. Instead of announcing it to the crowd, as I had feared, he got toe-to-toe with me (or toe-to-bootie), with his hand hidden between our bodies. As his active fingers brought me the rest of the way to complete erection, he whispered, "Don't worry, honey. This can be our little secret." He closed his hand on my package and amended, "Our very little secret." It went on for several minutes before someone else wanted to put their hand there at the same time. He huffed and minced away. The newcomer, a Black woman in a clinging, leopard-print dress, with a shaved head and ginormous hoop earrings, took his place. She chuckled deep in her throat as she got me to whimper and to murmur wordlessly. At last, having had her fun, I suppose, she gave me an air kiss and then drifted away. At last the room started to empty out. I was relieved. Shadow and Miranda had their heads close together in private conversation. Then they approached me. "Wonderful news," my wife said with a grin. "Someone wants to use this piece at a private party." "Please," I pleaded. "Can you just get me out of this thing and into some clothes?" "You don't have any clothes here," Miranda reminded me. "They're at home." "But aren't you excited about getting to wear my work again?" "Hey," I said, with the yarn making my nose itch. "This was a one-time deal." I had a disturbing thought. "Wasn't it?" "Not anymore," the artist told me. "It would compromise the work to have someone else in it. And several patrons of the Arts mentioned wanting to display other outfits, but only if they could have the same wearer. A highly regarded critic who was here said you project an aura of sexless sexuality." I couldn't fathom what that might mean. All I knew was that I didn't want to go through anything like this again. Yet my wife switched into her inflexible mode once more. On top of that, my willpower had deserted me. Being naked, with my body hair gone, in that strange outfit, along with the humiliation of being felt up for several hours, had left me unable to assert myself. I meekly gave in and agreed to do the party and the rest of the presentations. That evening, when we at last returned home, Miranda gave Shadow a goodnight kiss, and it wasn't a chaste peck on the cheek. I stood there, still wrapped in knitted wool, and watched their extended, open-mouthed, lip-lock. After the artist departed, my wife eyed me with lascivious intent. She said, "Shadow is letting us keep your pretty outfit for now. I think it would be super-sexy for us to go to bed with you still in it." "But..." I put a hand on my well-covered groin. "... how could I do anything." "Well, with your little dick all hidden away, it would be a fine opportunity for you to at long last learn to use your mouth on my pussy." I must have appeared rattled by that because she said, "Don't worry, Belle Jean. I'll give you pointers as you go along. And maybe I'll pretend it's Shadow with her head between my thighs. After all, sex with you never gave me climaxes. It was more like anti-climaxes." As she led me into the bedroom, my world was unravelling. Miranda had never referred to my immature penis like that. Or told me I failed to give her orgasms. Never demanded the oral attention she now expected. And certainly, never ever shown any lesbian tendencies. When she had mentioned girl-on-girl encounters back in her college days, I'd always assumed it hadn't ever gone past talking and maybe light petting. Now I would have to rethink those assumptions. She led me to our bed and let me watch while she sensuously stripped. I wished that my hands were unhampered so I could at least try to reach back and untie the bows keeping me in that costume. I couldn't even touch my wife with bare hands. She teased my nipples and my 'little dick' as she had called it, through the yarn. I shivered with need. She laughed and got onto the bed on her back, legs apart. An hour later I had given her three panting orgasms and she then swore that there would be many repeats of that scene. She teased me some more, lying on top of me and making lewd suggestions that I was pretty certain she had no intention of carrying out. Then she talked about getting together with Shadow for more than just talking and touching. My male ego took a beating but my pecker refused to get soft. It sounded so dirtily erotic, the idea of her with that other female. The next day Miranda declared that, to keep me in the right state of mind for my future appearances in Shadow's works, I needed to be at least partly dressed in feminine items at all times. That meant panties, sometimes joined by stockings, under my male clothes when I went to my office job. At home there were lightweight tops that left my midsection bare, paired with the tiniest of skirts or else mini-micro-shorts, the rear seams of which went up into my butt crack. She also had me walk and move my hands in an unmanly way. Plus, I had to keep my voice high and soft. There was the follow-up appearance in that humiliating knitted monstrosity. That party was even worse than the gallery show. Then I was put on display at other private affairs, first fully dressed in thick rubber, which made me feel like I was being broiled alive, and then in a leather creation that kept my bent arms at my sides and hobbled my ankles. The latter article was made up of a series of straps which left me mostly nude. My bottom and male parts were openly fondled. There was discussion of whether or not the erections that resulted were part of the work. Because Miranda wasn't allowing me intercourse, it was very easy to get me hard. In fact, it was difficult to avoid doing it, even if they were male hands that touched me. When I tried to reason with Shadow, who was by then extremely demanding and unsympathetic, she merely shoved a gag -- shaped like a male organ, no less -- into my mouth and fastened the straps attached to it behind my head. Then she opened her arms to my wife and they put on a show of passionate embraces, roaming hands, and penetrating kisses, right in front of me. All the guests could see what was taking place. Shadow told them that Miranda was the wife of that person in the costume. At the end of that evening, the hostess offered them a room to share. They accepted. Shadow took a ring on a leash and fastened it in my nose, making me yelp. As she towed me along behind her, my bondage limited me to tiny shuffling steps. She looked back, laughed, and recited, "And there in the wood, a Piggy-wig stood, with a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose." In the bedroom they undressed each other and tumbled into bed. My wife admired the juncture of her lover's legs and said, "What a beautiful pussy you are." I had to stand there and watch as they spent hours making love, resting, and then making more love. And by making love, I mean having loud energetic sex, though it did become quiet and romantic toward dawn. When day broke, I was a broken man, and knew I had lost my wife to a woman. After that there were another half dozen shows. Then Shadow decided that she had to break fresh creative ground. There needed to be a new look for me. Her method of gaining inspiration seemed to be to spend lots of time in our home and dress me up in various shameful fashions, including lots of filmy sleepwear. She was especially fond of seeing me in see-through, baby-doll nighties, with no panties. I always wore those when I was made to stand in the bedroom while they enjoyed each other's bodies. My own sex life dropped to nil. It was my wife who suggested a way for Shadow to break her creative block. She told the artist, "I think the problem is Belle Jean. Her male component is disrupting your process. What if we were to make my husband into our lesbian lover, for entertaining threesomes. Of course, he would be the submissive member of our triad." Shadow, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed at the time, rested her chin in the palm of her hand and thrust out her lower lip. She thought for several minutes while Miranda stroked her back and nuzzled her neck. At last inspiration struck the costume-maker. "Yes!" she cried. "I have it. You're right but there's something else we have to do, to immerse Belle Jean fully in her new role." That 'something additional' turned out to be locking my overstimulated and under-relived penis into a chastity device. And it wasn't one of those cages that allows a man's member to maintain the dimensions it has when flaccid. No, Shadow demanded the smallest model she could find, one that compressed my penis to a mere bump between my legs. Then Miranda spent a quarter hour teasing me with her fingers, mainly on my nipples, to prove the efficacy of the device. That left me in a state of mumbling, whining neediness. Then they advanced to making me their male-lesbian bed-slave. I already had well-honed pussy eating skills from all my wife had taught me. But Shadow also wanted my mouth on her feet and even less savory parts of her body. I will spare you the details, in case you have delicate sensibilities. As the junior member of their menage a trois, I was also subjected to spankings, which left my bottom red and my face flushed and tear-streaked. Still, Shadow's big breakthrough didn't occur until she went one step further. They had a collection of dildos. For a while they just held onto them while frigging themselves and each other. Witnessing that left me more heated up than ever. Then Shadow purchased a hip-harness into which the fake cocks could be attached. While wearing that, she was able to ravish my bride the way a man does to a woman. Miranda couldn't stop talking about how much bigger the faux male-part was then my natural endowment. Watching them and hearing that left me sobbing, but also with my balls sore from how exciting it was to see. I urgently needed to get some relief but none was available. Finally, one night, after I had gotten them both into a state of libertine abandon with my mouth, Shadow strapped the harness on again, and fitted it with a large, devil-red, rubber rammer. She lubed it up, which I had never seen her do before. Surely, she wasn't going to anally assault the woman I still longed for. No, Miranda's rosebud was safe from violation. Mine, however, was not. Shadow ordered me onto the bed, naked, with my head on the pillow and ass in the air. She flipped up the hem of my most immodest baby-doll and knelt behind me. The tip of the dildo touched my nether tightness. I wailed as she thrust into me. I bit the pillow. My wife had me get up on my elbows and straddled my back so she could kiss her sexual partner-of-choice while that woman took my rear virginity. The next day, Shadow found the idea for which she had been searching in vain. She began work on a new costume for me to wear at her next show, at Robert's gallery, which incidentally was called Robert's Gallery. I wasn't allowed to see it until the night of the premier. They got me in the back room and, with Robert and Martin looking on, I had to strip down to my familiar panties and stockings, before removing even those. Robert said, "Your sissy husband looks so VERY yummy." "So sooooo appetizing," agreed Martin. Then the costume was revealed. It was covered with bright yellow feathers. First, orange leggings were put on me. Then came bird feet of the same color. Next, I was bound so that my knees remained bent and my arms were doubled up. Then the bird suit was fitted to me. There were wings that fitted over my incapacitated arms. It covered me almost everywhere but left my embarrassing chastity exposed. They put a yellow cap over that to make it match the rest of what I had on. Then there was a tail that spread into long plumes. That was put on me -- or rather, in me -- by means of a butt plug to which it was attached. The insertion was painful and left me sniffling. Finally, there was a beak in the same color as the feet, that included an expanding gag to keep it in my stretched-wide mouth. Robert had a mirror like they use in shoe stores. It sat on the floor and leaned back at a slight angle. He said it was from his bedroom in the apartment upstairs. They made me waddle to where it was, laughing at my silly gait. I saw myself and my eyes went wide. This was the final step in my descent from being a man, to getting reduced to a feminized, used and abused, joke, a male lesbian submissive, and finally a living cartoon. A muted sound of defeat came from far down in my throat. "This is going to be my best show yet," Shadow asserted. "No," Miranda told her. "Your best show will be when we get Birdy Belle Jean home, still in her hilarious costume, and spend lots of time getting her used to being not our bed mate, but our pet. We can even get a big bird cage for her." Everyone laughed. I had previously imagined I'd reached bottom. Now I realized how wrong that was. ********* (The quoted lines of verse are from THE OWL AND THE PUSSY CAT, by Edward Lear.)