Carla's Toy

by Anne O'Nonymous

 

Tom Marshall shook his head and looked at the clock for the twelfth time: 1:30 p.m., give or take a few minutes. He was worried because his father, Paul, usually returned home long before this. His first impulse was to call his father's friend, Doc Martin, but decided to wait a little longer.

Paul had left early Saturday to visit a friend in another town, about a three-hour's-drive from home, planning to return around ten o'clock on Sunday. That time had passed and no call saying, "Gee, son, I'm sorry, but I'll be a little late."

"Damn, where could he be?" he asked no one in particular.

The sudden opening and slamming shut of a door, then the sound of hurried footsteps on hardwood floors drew Tom's attention. He hesitated, then started off in the direction of the sounds.

"Jesus Q Christ! I need a drink."

"Pop, is that you?" he called out.

"Well, who else could it be?"

Oh great, he's in a bad mood. Maybe I shouldn't disturb him! I wonder what happened to set him off?

"Hey pop, you okay?"

"Come in here, please."

Entering the room, Tom noticed his father tossing down a healthy shot of whisky. His father rarely drank, and the last drink from that particular bottle was three years ago, just after his mother's funeral.

"Emmm, pop, that's not going to help!"

"I know, son. I needed something and this seemed appropriate. God, I screwed up but good!" At that remark, Paul laughed sarcastically. A second shot followed the first.

"C'mon, put the bottle away and tell me what happened – somebody you know read you?"

Paul was a cross-dresser: his son knew, and so did June, his wife. She loved him, and often said how lucky she was to have found a great girlfriend in Judy, his femme alter ego. Pop passed easily in either his male engineering department or Sally-Jane's Fashion World, where he often shopped.

"No, son. Something far worse. I'll tell you over coffee!"

"Okay, but you've gotta put that bottle back."

"Okay."

"N-O-W, pop!"

Tom watched the older man return the container to a shelf, close and lock the cabinet door, where, both hoped, it would stay.

In the kitchen, coffee was made, cups put out, along with a tray of chocolate donuts. There was a profound silence as each drank.

Between sips, Paul played with the spoon, stirring clockwise, then counter-clockwise, and then across. The donuts were the same, with a bite on one side, then the other. Head down, he tried to avoid his son's eye contact. He had some hard decisions to make.

Finally, Tom could take it no longer. "Pop, what IS the matter! Your brooding silence is starting to get to me. Let's talk about whatever is bothering you, please."

"Really, there's nothing to talk about!"

"Okay, have it your way. I'll wait till you're ready."

Paul sat for a minute, realized his son's concern, then said, "I got myself into a lot of trouble, son. I'm the one who has to figure a way out."

"That's bull, and you know it! Ever since mom died in that accident, I looked up to you. When I had trouble at school, we talked. When I didn't make the team, we talked. Now you have a problem, and we don't talk? Pop, it's not a one-way street. Now it's my turn to be there for you."

Paul took in what his son said, giving out a big sigh. He was right – maybe there was a way out, but he had doubts. A weight shared is a weight halved, he thought.

"Do you really want to know?" Paul asked anxiously.

"Yes, and don't spare me anything. After all, I'm nearly a man."

"Okay, you asked for it, son." He wondered if he should spare some details, but decided not. His son, three months short of his eighteenth birthday, should hear the whole story.

 

THE STORY

I was driving towards the Interstate when I saw a car at the side of the road with a teenaged girl leaning against it. Thinking she had trouble with her car, I slowed down, parked behind it and walked up to her.

She was a very attractive light skinned African-American, about sixteen or seventeen, black shoulder-length hair, wearing slacks. I didn't recognize her as being from around here.

"Hello Miss. Got car trouble?" I asked.

"Hi! My name's Carla, and no, I don't have any car trouble," she stated.

"Oh! Sorry to bother you."

"Oh, no bother, Paul," she replied, with a brilliant smile.

She knew my name, which threw me for a loop. How did she get my name? "Emm, Miss Carla, how do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know you quite well, Paul Marshall," she said, grinning, as she approached me. "In fact, extremely well."

"I, emm, . . . I better be going . . ."

"You're going to see that friend, Doc Martin, eh?"

Oh shit! She must know a little, not too much.

"Look, Paul, let's cut out the games, okay. You're thirty-seven, your wife died three years ago, and you work for an up-and-coming company. You have a son, Thomas."

"Okay, you know a bit about me."

"Here's the fun part. One word: Judy!"

Oh great, she knew too much.

"Now, I have pictures of Judy in, shall we say, all her 'undie'stated glory. Your bosses are very prudish, and I imagine these photos will send some of them through the roof. The others in your office will also get pictures in their e-mails, so I doubt you will have a job, or reputation for that matter, after they are received. Your face is quite prominent in them – there's no mistaking it. The bank, the grocery, your friends – just imagine what your old coach will say when he sees his copy."

"Okay, how much you want in blackmail – one hundred, two, three?"

"Nope."

"One thousand. C'mon, five thousand."

"NO! I'll give you a choice. I'll get in my car and drive away. If you want, you follow me home, and I'll give you a chance to get the photos back. If you don't follow; well, I'll e-mail them to your office. If you're early enough, you may get a chance to delete them. Then again . . ."

Well, I was stuck. I watched her start up and drive away. I was right behind her, as I wanted those photos. Oddly enough, she lives across Garver Run, about a mile and a half away.

I followed the long, meandering drive to her house, where she parked off to one side of a two-bay garage, and opened one of the doors, indicating I should park inside. After I had done so, she shut the door and put her car against it, preventing my leaving too soon.

I tagged along, as she walked up to the front of a fairly large two-story brick house. She unlocked the front door, and we entered. It's a big place; I guess there were about five rooms and two baths upstairs, and four rooms plus a half-bath downstairs.

"Welcome to my home," Carla said, "My full name is Carla Grant. Mom's away right now, so I can have some fun. Want something to drink, Paul?"

"No, dammit! I just want the pictures."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk! Paul, that's not nice. Here I welcome you to my home, offer you a drink, and you pounce on me. Say 'I'm sorry' now."

Well, I didn't want to, but I needed the pictures. Since she knew about me, I had to assume there were, in fact, photos. She seemed quite confident, so my assumption appeared to be correct.

"Okay, Carla, I'm sorry. I'll have a drink. What do you have?"

"That's better! I have orange juice, apple juice, some soda, coffee or tea. Which one would you prefer?"

"Orange juice will do, thank you."

"See! Now that wasn't so hard, was it? You get further if you are nice to people."

We went to the kitchen, where she poured two medium-sized glasses of juice. I wondered just what she had in mind. A thought of asking entered my mind, then faded – all in good time, I guess. I'll just wait her out.

"Paul, I know about Judy, also that no one in your office has the slightest suspicion she exists. Do you really want me to expose your secret to those people?"

"Of course not! I would be lucky simply staying in town after that got around."

"I thought as much. Well, you do as I say, and I'll decide on what happens," Carla replied with an evil grin.

She had me by the balls and knew it. I drank my juice, fearing what was to come next in that house.

"First though, call your friend and tell him you can't make it, because of a problem at work. I know what you do, and I will listen – so, please, no signals."

Finishing the juice, she grabbed a large paper bag, led me to the telephone, and sat beside me as I made the call: "Hey Doc, how are you? . . .I'm glad to hear it . . . .Look, Doc, I can't make it – something's come up at work . . . .No, they need me. There are new load-balance-CoG tables to calculate . . . .Can't, computer's down – virus . . . Okay, we can try again next month . . . .Good-bye, Doc."

Carla smiled, saying, "That was very good. Now, I need to change upstairs – Paul, off with your clothes. Please, don't try to attack me, I've studied martial arts."

She watched closely as I took off the shoes, socks, pants, shirt, and stopped. The discarded items were folded and placed in the bag. I didn't want to go any further in stripping in front of such a young girl.

"C'mon, Paulie – the rest. A-l-l-l-l the way down, tiger."

"No way, no how, just plain no! This has gone far enough. Give me back the . . ."

"Okay, that's what you want. Go! Leave now, just as you are."

"MY CLOTHES! I can't go like this."

"Sure you can! You might even make it to your house. Now, off with the t-shirt and boxers -- or walk out the door. Your choice."

I was upset and angry, but what could I do? I'm no killer, and I really couldn't harm her. What's more, she knew it. The tee went first, and I worked up the courage to take off the boxers.

"Umm, nice," she intoned, smiling, as she viewed my naked, hairless body. She gathered up my underwear, and stated in no uncertain terms, "I can see you'll be a LOT of fun, sweetie. Now, I'm going to change – don't go away."

Now nude, I watched my clothes disappear upstairs with Carla, and I thought of my options. A try on the phone, but it was dead! I could walk home, risking the exposure – risk was too great, besides which way would I go? I sat down, wondering how to get out of this mess. It seemed hopeless!

For twenty minutes I weighed all my options, and could not come up with a thing – some engineer I was.

"Hi, sweetie, I'm b-a-a-c-k! Miss me?"

Carla re-entered the room. She was wearing some kind of schoolgirl outfit. It consisted of a light blue blouse, dark blue pleated below-the-knee skirt, knee-hi socks over stockings, and a blazer with a crest of some kind. I have to admit that she did look very pretty.

"Like it?" she asked as she pirouetted, "Be honest now!"

What could/should I say? I said, "You look very nice, Miss Carla."

"Hey, drop the 'Miss' please. Really, Paul," she said, a pleading look in her beautiful brown eyes, "no matter what you may think of me, I do want us to be friends."

"Then let me go home!"

"Aww, gee! You don't like me do you," she said pouting, "Now listen, Paulie, get this in your head – you are here now, and you'll stay until I decide to let you go. There's really nothing personal in this, yet!"

The implied threat was there, and I was stuck. "Okay, I give up," I said.

She led me upstairs to her mother's room, where she had clothes laid out on the queen-size bed. It looked to be a pale blue, knee-length dress, with black stockings and pumps.

"Take a bubble bath, spray on the perfume, and come back here. Be sure to wrap a towel around you."

"Yes," I replied, adding, "Mistress."

"Paulie, please. I do like you, and you keep trying to get me pissed off. It's Carla, okay?"

"Okay!" I went to the bathroom, where a nice smelling bath awaited. It wasn't that bad, I liked the floral odor of the perfume. Anyway, I prepared myself like it was another dress-up session, and wrapped a towel around to return to "Mistress" Carla, despite her orders to the contrary.

"Paulie, you smell real nice," she said, gently, "I'm glad you used that perfume – it's my favorite."

"Thanks," I replied.

"Now let's make you real pretty. The clothes are my mother's, so for now on, I will call you mommy or mama."

I nodded, trying to sense where this was going. The bra had padded inserts in the cups, and my quizzical look brought, "cousin used them in a play; she was under-endowed – meaning, flat!" I put it on, and Carla fastened the hooks in back. Next a garter belt, followed by a pale blue panty, with two rows of lace around the waist and a red heart with "Carla's" on the left hip.

I was about to put on the stockings when Carla stopped me. Producing cotton balls and bottles of polish, she said, "Got to paint those pretty toenails of yours, mom."

As I watched her at work on my nails, she looked up with a pretty smile, asking: "Didn't you ever do your nails?"

"No! I was afraid of someone seeing them painted, or seeing remnants of polish."

"My mom and I paint each other's nails all the time. I would like to think we're bonding, as this is my polish."

"Oh," was the best I could manage. I watched the operation on the toes as the glistening red paint covered the dull white. After a hair dryer was used to speed up the drying time, a clear cover coat was applied.

"There, ten pretty toes, all in a row," she announced proudly.

"They do look nice," I grudgingly admitted.

As each item was added, I seemed to be coming more hers. Almost like she was claiming me as some kind of conquest.

That finished, I put on a virgin white lacy full slip; one I wouldn't mind owning. The sudden flash of a camera caught me off guard.

"That's great! That 'caught-in-headlights' look was perfect."

More pictures – I was in deeper now. The blue polyester dress that waited was a little longer than knee-length, with scoop neck and wrist-length sleeves. After it was on, Carla secured the spaghetti ties in back.

With the toenails dry, I sat to put on the stockings, giving Carla a show in the process. Slowly gathering up the stockings I fitted them in the toe and heel, and pulled them up. Lifting up the slip and dress hem, I secured the garters -- first the left leg, then the right.

"Hey, take it easy – I'm getting wet," was Carla's comment. Well, well, well – I was getting to her.

With stockings affixed, the pumps were next. A peek in her mother's full-length mirror showed a fairly good-looking woman appearing to observe the goings-on.

Strolling to the vanity, makeup was next. Surprise – the cosmetics were all for Caucasian women. Turning, I inquired of Carla, "These cosmetics are nice – you seemed to have carefully planned this!"

"Got everything a few days ago. I knew my mother's stuff wasn't right for you, so I selected what was proper for your skin tones and type."

"Oh!" Lame, isn't it – all I could think of saying was that one word. No rambling, angry statement expressing bitterness at the situation. I was starting to think I had "Stockholm Syndrome."

At the vanity table, I used a magnifying mirror, and in succession, carefully applied a foundation, blusher, eye shadow and a touch of liner, mascara, lipstick and gloss.

Halfway through the process, Carla came over and wrapped her arms around me, saying, "Damn, mom! You're getting to look s-o g-o-o-o-d."

I looked up to see her smiling face in the mirror, peering over my right shoulder. "Thanks, Carla. Don't mess up my makeup, please."

"Hey, mom – if I'm your daughter, call me something special, huh."

Okay, I'm game now. "Like what: Sweetie, dear, or honey. Pest, maybe? Yet, that's it – pest. Let me finish up here, dear, you're being a pest!"

She pouted like a petulant girl, replying, "Aw, all right!"

I rechecked my makeup for any flaws, using a magnifying mirror. Paul was no longer there – Judy had come out of her shell.

"Paul, I . . . I . . .," Carla tried to get out, "would you please remove your ring. I WILL take care of it."

I was quite surprised at her concern. I removed the band that meant so much to me – maybe it's time to move on, place this in a drawer and keep her in my heart.

"Thanks, Paul."

I watched as she placed it in a small plastic bag, then into a larger bag.

"I won't be but a moment, Paul," she said as she left the room.

God, I felt bare!

After a search, a fairly nice bracelet decorated one wrist, clip-on pearl-drop earrings drew attention away from the face, and a nice three-strand pearl necklace, placed and fastened by Carla, adorned my neck. She also fitted a wig of tumbling blonde curls to my head.

"Wow! Paul, you do look very nice. I'm surprised."

I decided to look for myself, and was astonished -- I could pass anywhere. Actually, I would be fighting off men!

"Damn, mom, this is so unreal," Carla stated, pinning a brooch on the left breast. "You look better than most women I know."

Judy looked good, but this surpassed anything I did before. The addition of perfume to wrists and neck just made my feminine persona more alluring.

End, part one

Annie O

 

 

 

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© 2003 by Ann O'Nonymous. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.