Marcia                 by:Marcia Spencer

 

Chapter 2

I was awaked the next morning by the brilliant morning sunbeams of a Louisiana summer day. Streaming thru the upstairs window and caressing my face on the pillow, the radiance of the morning corresponded to the splendor of my recollections of the day before. My eyes were absorbed in rapt contemplation of the two sweet mounds over the thin coverlet. I ran my hands down my sides under the cover, thrilling to the swelling of my bosom under my armpits from the sides of my chest, glorying in the nip of my waist and the flaring of my buttocks. I wiggled my rump in the satin sheets, following the gyrations of the contours of my breasts with fascinated gaze.

As I slid my limbs from beneath the bed clothes, I realized that it was late, and mother was probably already gone. A little nagging of guilt warred with a vast exuberance of liberty. Mother had probably rushed off with little more than a cup of coffee, but I was free to pursue a smorgasbord of wardrobe choices unimpeded. This was special indeed, and I wanted to savor each moment of this day.

The lovely fulness of my bosom was ever present in my thoughts as I arose, slipping on Mother’s bedroom mules and mentally documenting my appearance before every reflective surface as I performed my morning’s ablutions. My long hair, a bit disheveled from slumber’s toils, streamed down the back of my robe, and the ever substantial presence of my bosom wonderfully balanced the great cascade of my tresses and the great roundedness of my rump. I look good, I thought. Even without my hair brushed or up, I look good. My spirits rose accordingly, and I seemed to glide about, scarcely touching the floor.

That morning, I carefully applied my makeup at Mother’s dressing table, using much restraint, as her book, "The Art And Glory Of The Accentuated Face," advised. I felt cheerful and colorful, an elegant and radiant flower, so I picked a summery frock from Mother’s walk-in. It was white with big, splashy green polka-dots and twirled nicely, thank you. It was a day for dancing the housework frolic, so I spun and pirouetted to the piano, where I attempted Tchaikovsky’s "Waltz Of The Flowers" in the Liberace style. This was so ridiculous that I burst out laughing, aware thru my merriment of the unusual sensation of a plump bosom quaking.

The stereo speakers soared with the auditory sensation of a full symphonic rendition of Tchaikovsky as I happily tackled the daily chores. It was great fun to vacuum and dust in three inch heels. Sort of a young edition of Mom on a superlative day! The evening meal went well. Mother is particularly fond of Italian tomato soup, and I had gone to three stores last week to find just the right freshness of salad spinach leaves. I should have tried the Momma Mia store first, I know, but the prices are higher there, and sometimes the buyer at Freshness Unlimited actually found better produce for the delicatessen. I have just learned to bake my own french bread, and nothing beats Mother’s recipe for garlic butter with a secret herb. (No, I am not going to publish what it is! It is a family secret.) I felt very matronly, efficiently stepping about the kitchen in my ruffled apron and pumps.

It wasn’t until she was expected in about a quarter of an hour that I realized with a shock, that I had completely forgotten about how I was dressed and how my chest had blossomed! What to do...? The table was already set, and a couple of minutes transformed the meal into a candlelit occasion. Then I rushed upstairs in the dusk, frantically imagining workable scenarios. There was no time to have a mastectomy operation if I even wished to do so, which I most emphatically did not. Dark! That was it. The spring, summer look had to go! I disrobed swiftly. The white stockings were peeled off swiftly, and I smoothed black hose up my smooth limbs. The white garters looked incongruous on the black ... but, no matter, they would not be seen. I quickly pulled on a black slip, without even stepping out of the white one, pooled on the floor. This covered the white all-in-one pretty well. The velvet black robe would have to do. It buttoned high, and Mother had seen me wearing it before over gym sweats. A swift glance in the full-length. Oh dear! Even under the plush of the robe, even without a belt ... the contrast between my bulging chest and nipped-in waist ... it was not going to work! Stepping to my lingerie drawer, I selected a long black gown and wrapped it around my waist. Four turns and a tuck. Now I looked slightly pregnant, but at least my breasts appeared less pronounced. With the robe in place and the chandelier dimmed to the lowest setting ... maybe. There wasn’t any time left, anyhow. Mother’s headlights were moving in the carport, and it was time to get downstairs. I stepped into a very plain black pair of pumps with a low heel and headed downstairs. I was arranging a carpet runner into the kitchen as I heard Mother’s key in the lock. "Marc," she called, slurring the "c" softly at the end of my name as she always did and taking her usual influx of breath afterwards. This a normal articulation for her had long been a secret, cherished distinction of my name to me. It was as though she innocently thought of me as her Marcia. "Hi, honey. Smells like savored tomatoes!"

She was smiling. I knew she would be. I could see her plainly by the light that I left on in the aquarium in the foyer, and she looked so wonderful that it could bring the tears to your eyes. I could tell by her posture that she was tired, and I could tell by the way that she braced her shoulders that she would have to go out again that evening. "New Italian tomato soup recipe, Mom," I called from the dimness of the kitchen. "Guaranteed to put sprightliness in the step of any lovely lady." Her heartened laugh was good to hear, as was her little gasp of surprise at the elaborate ostentation of the dining room. She was dipping her fingers in the rose bowl and wiping the scented water from them with her linen napkin when I brought in the steaming tureen. I dipped out a ladle of the rich red broth into Mother’s bowl as she eyed the contents hungrily. She closed her eyes and sniffed the fragrant soup, sipping eagerly at the contents. I was removing the toasted bread from the oven, carefully stepping only on the carpet runner, when she sighed and exclaimed, "O honey, this is mmmmarvelous!" She finished off a large salad, as well as two full bowls of soup, and two rather large slices of garlic toast before she went upstairs to change. My gratification was somewhat tempered by the suspicion that this was probably the only decent food she had eaten all day. And she would probably be up until eleven or even twelve tonight and on her way again at seven in the morning. I wished I had put twice the amount of vitamins in the salad dressing.

Apparently, she had not noticed anything about me. "Well, Momma," I thought as I cleaned up after she had left, "your little helper is growing up. You will not always be in the dark about the changes that are taking place."

The days slipped away into weeks that summer, and new milestones were reached. They receded in their turn as a new horizon beckoned. I was a little pebble in my bashfulness at first, but I became a little bolder. The shape of my bosom was as natural as if it was composed of my own flesh and blood, and I would have no more have thought of not wearing support for my chest than I would have run around naked publicly. I had appeared in Mother’s presence with earrings and makeup, although I will admit that the makeup was very lightly done and the earrings were not the long, dangling sort that I really preferred. After I had come down to watch a rented movie with Mother while I was wearing a black dress with three-inch, black patent, toeless, heelless sandals, and she still made no comment at all, then I figured that Mother was comfortable and had determined to accept things as they were without discussion. So I began to explore this new world I had entered with great enthusiasm. One of the discoveries that I made was in the bathtub. I had learned to treasure the resultant suppleness and smoothness from a prolonged weekly soaking in a richly-scented, thick bath oil. I felt sleek and lustrous, rather like a seal after a swim in a flower blossom bay. Since my chest had filled out (for that was how I thought of it), I anticipated my weekly soaking with an increased zest.

I stepped into the scented waters, the steam rising all around me, my bosom swaying, and sat down smoothly and gracefully to indulge, and then ... then ... there was this tingling in my chest in both places. Mother had once been afflicted at work with cold feet to the extent that it nearly incapacitated her, and in her efforts to get relief, she had tried a pair of hunter’s socks for women which had a nine volt battery belted to a little pocket on each sock. When this was plugged into the sock, it would give a shock of warmth thru heater elements woven into the footwear. The jolt of heat was quite strong and could scarcely be endured for more than a few moments unless your foot was nearly frozen. This tingling in my chest reminded of this, but it was so infinitely more benign that it took me a while to make the connection.

The sensations were centered on the little clamps that were fastened to my own nipples beneath my breasts. It was very strange, and at first, I had no idea what was happening. I sat in that tub and experienced very strange feelings. I wondered at first if the nipples were squeezed too tightly, but soon discarded that impression. I had been wearing my new chest for nearly a week now, and it was unreasonable to expect that this phenomenon was just occurring at this point. It didn’t quit, stayed the same and grew no stronger or weaker. But something in me was reacting to the continuous tingling. I felt a curious interior liquidity under my tummy, almost as if two little wires stretched from each point on my chest to that spot inside of me there, and they were slowly beginning to start a melting process in me. This was just plain weird, and I did not know just what to do. It didn’t seem to hurt, though; in fact it felt rather pleasurable, so I decided to relax and see what happened. I leaned back in the tub in as detached frame of mind as I could manage while my insides in front of and below intestines and well behind my privates felt more and more as if they were starting to dissolve, sponsored by the uninterrupted tingling from my chest. I had no erection at all, not even the beginnings of one, my other gender equipment as mute and passive as if it did not exist. But my insides were dissolving into a molten cavity, it seemed, andmy knees and legs fell open to the sides of the tub. I was so hot inside that I kept expecting steam to come out of the water as if you slid a hot frying pan from the stove into the dishwater.

I couldn’t stand it any longer, and lunged to my feet, unconscious at the moment of a great wave of bathwater that sloshed over the edge of the tub. The tingling continued and the activity in my groin. I could scarcely stand and groaned in my distress. It was such an unbearable combination of pleasure and ... I don’t know what ... that I couldn’t take it, and I really didn’t know what was happening to me. Standing there, in retrospect, I now know what happened. I dried off. My breasts stopped tingling, and I began to come down from the heights of my body’s reaction to the stimulation. It left me awfully weak, and yet I felt really wonderful - superlatively relaxed. It hadn’t killed me after all. After a while I began to feel superb. A fissure of a new dimension was unveiled to my inquisitive eyes.

This experience wrought a subtle, but profound change in me. I regarded myself as a creature with capacities unsuspected. Inexorably, my thoughts focused on my Mother. Evidently, she had capabilities and qualities of which I had not so much as dreamed. I regarded the females around me with a slightly deepened sense of enigma. There was so much more to everything than I had conceived hitherto.

Well, as Hamlet stated, "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio." I approached my next bath with a mixture of wonder, a little trepidation, and a a fair amount of expectancy. It was anticlimatic. I sat down very carefully and waited. Nothing happened. There was no tingling. It was rather disappointing a little surprising, too. The mystery of the tingling breasts. I did not stumble on the key to the matter until about a little over two weeks later when I was washing with a washrag and happened to linger on my right breast nipple with the washrag in my hand. The tingling started, catching me by surprise. I reflexively removed the washrag and the tingling stopped. I tried it again. Sure enough. I tried the other breast. Sure enough. I tried just my hand, cupping my right mammary, savoring as always the weight and fulness. No tingling. Same with the left. Then I remembered the directions on the breast forms. The little round battery. The clamps attached to the little wires. I dipped my breast tips in the bath water. Double tingling. I removed them from the water. Tingling for a little bit, then ... aha! Repeat. Same result. Mystery resolved. Hmmm! Then there was the time that I really surprised Mother. I would have never seen it at all if it had not been for the reflection in the glass door in the dining room, but wait ... I’m getting ahead of myself here. You see, I discovered Mother’s corsets. She only wore them on very formal social occasions when she dressed to the nines. Evening gown, Mink, beauty shop makeover. I got curious. She had a very special dark navy blue gown, elaborate in its simplicity, which looked so utterly elegant on her regal, voluptuous figure, that I became a bit obsessed with recreating the look exactly. Down to the jewelry. Could I look as good as she? One problem. The waist was tiny, really small. Smaller than Mom’s waist, in fact.

The corset she wore with this gown was navy blue as well, beautifully trimmed in the same shade of lace. It was laced with drawstrings in the back. Mother had a special device, mounted on her closet wall, which she used to draw the laces, cross them, and tie a bow to secure them. It involved fastening the laces to the device, leaning forward to pull the waist tight and manipulating a swivel attachment on the device to cross the laces under tension and tie them. Needless to say, it was awkward to use, and I had laced her up many times, but I remember how she used to do it before I was big enough to help. It took quite a while to get the knack of crossing and tying the laces while leaning away from the wall, but finally I managed it. I had thought to measure my waist before I tried it, and the sewing tape showed slightly less than twenty-five inches. With that corset making a wasp out of me, the tape showed about twenty-two and three-fourths. It is very understandable why many ladies are touchy and irritable, I thought. The uncomfortableness of looking as good as you can look when combined with insensitive and uncomprehending attitudes on the parts of others, especially those who should be impressed, is enough to make you want to sting somebody. It would be interesting to survey the percentage of women wearing corsets who have stung someone as compared to those who have not, all other things being equal, of course. But, well ... Wow! It just does something for a woman, doesn’t it? Besides pinching her into an insect, of course.

The waist of the evening gown fit beautifully. Girl, let me tell you ... Now I know why they refer to the belle of the ball. Those two inches or so made a bell out of my hips that’s ... well ... you’d just have to have seen it to believe it. Spectacular ... mmmm ... mmmm! And lots of cleavage, shoulders, and back. Mother always wore a beautiful crystal choker with this. Definitely worth some pain for this kind of gain. I never intended for Mother to see me like this. She was getting used to the dresses and the breastworks and all, but, oh my, to see her fourteen year old daughter looking like this in her best evening gown... . I paraded down the stairs and walked about, being extra careful about the things that could snag or stain. And I guess that I lost track of the time, for I was highly startled when I saw Mother’s car whipping into the driveway, rather early for once. I held up the skirt of that evening gown and ran, mind you, on my tiptoes in Mother’s Navy Blue best dress pumps for my bedroom, where I closed the door, unfastened the zippers on that gown, and wiggled out of it as quickly as I could.

I left it stretched out on the bed and quickly donned a silky black robe, which I belted with trembling hands. I slipped on a pair of more modest pumps and hurried downstairs just as Mother was coming in the front door. I made it to the kitchen, hurriedly pulled on a flounced apron, and belatedly began to pull on a less regal attitude as well. I was a little more nervous than usual, wondering if the choker had left marks around my throat that the robe didn’t hide, and totally forgetting that my waist was remarkably more tiny than usual. When I dropped a serving spoon that I was taking back in the kitchen, I forgot to carefully squat to retrieve it, and I bent over at the waist, giving Mother an excellent view of my big rounded rump and my tiny little waist, and my great mass of chest protruding below my thin, rounded shoulders. She probably could see the outlines of the corset as well, included the lacework on my back beneath my robe.

What I saw and will never forget, was my Mother’s countenance reflected in the glass panels of the dining room door as I stooped. Her eyes were very big and surprised, and her lips were open in somewhat shocked amazement, and her whole attitude and expression were very eloquent in astonishment at how her daughter had developed by the ripe old age of fourteen with the assistance of a corset and who knew what else. She kind of hovered around after supper that evening; for once she had a free evening. I let her take down my hair, which I was wearing in a beehive. How I enjoyed her brushing my hair! She brushed and brushed and brushed it until it flowed over my back like a halo of a waterfall. I did not know it was possible to brush my hair to that extent. Then she worked it into an elaborate French knot, which made me look at least ten years older and marvelously sophisticated. Then she hugged me, and I hugged her. Our breasts were mashed together, and her eyes looked into mine so lovingly. "My little girl is growing up," she murmured. "I want to show you something." We went upstairs together, and she opened a package from Dillard’s. It was a breath-taking peignoir set in lovely navy blue with lace everywhere. The robe was fairly diaphanous and more sculpted than was ordinarily the case. The lace on the robe formed fairy flowers, fanciful and fabulous. At herinvitation, I removed my robe, exposing my corseted figure to my Mother’s loving eyes, and slipped into the gown.

It was breathtaking. My slender arms were sweetly blurred by the diaphanousness of the gown, and my very wrist and fingers seemed more slender as they drooped from the flowing sleeves. The spun brown cocoon of my hair fell a little below the upper swell of my buttocks. "Momma," I spoke softly, "could you try it?" She looked at me, a long searching look which stirred me to my groin. I could feel the swelling against the silky stocking tied around my penis which pulled me back and under. It was strange, for I hated to feel that. It was a part of me that I preferred to not consider.

Mother was stepping out of her dress; and, as always, she was so perfect and unbearably lovely, that it made my throat catch. I stepped into the restroom and wet a washrag under the faucet as my mother continued to disrobe. Moving quickly, I held the wet washrag on first one nipple, then the under. The tingling made me feel all liquid inside under my tummy, and my swelling died, as I knew it would. Thinking swiftly, I wetted toilet tissue and stuffed just a little over each nipple in my corset. The tingling started again as I stepped out of the lovely gown and brought it and the robe to Mother. She awaited me in pink panties over a set of dark suspenders which were clipped to dark cinnamon hose. Standing in black pumps, she was a paragon of semi-nude feminine pulchritude, glowing with the ripe loveliness of mid-thirty maturity. The hue of the panties clashed awfully with the peignoir set.

She pulled the gown over her, the creamy breasts gleaming above the lovely cups of the bodice, and gracefully stepped out of the mismatched panties. But there was no physical swelling from me. My knees almost buckled as the molten lava of my insides above my crotch seemed to consume me. It was almost too much to attempt to conceal, but there was no opportunity to remove the moisture from my nipples. The tingling continued relentlessly, and my body seemed to be getting less adept at resisting it, rather than the other way around. Mother swirled, the diaphanous robe furling and waving gracefully, and she posed in the instinctive way of a beautiful woman, one leg slightly cocked, before the full-length mirror on her closet door. She was smiling, a lovely woman in lovely lingerie. Her long blood-red fingernails beneath the graceful drape of the full sleeves. I was melting in two and had to do something, or I would turn into a jackknife for sure, melted on a molten hinge. So I bent away from Mother and slipped off the straps of my (her) corset. The moisturized pads of paper fell from the cups of the garment, and the tingling stopped. I had worn navy blue panties under the corset, and Mother was watching me with open frank curiosity and a decidedly reluctant attitude to run the risk of embarrassing me. She discarded the robe on the bed and pulled the gown over her head, her pink curvaceousness exciting my admiration. I recovered enough strength in my legs to step forward and take the gown from her hand.

As I worked it over my head, I caught sight of my crotch in the mirror. My tucked away privates mounded up gently at the bottom of my panties, and the cleft between my two balls was spread apart a little, appearing for all the world like the engorged lips of my Mother’s labia, my long-ago aperture wherein I appeared to grow to where I was today. As I left Mother’s bedroom, to wear my wonderful gift to bed, I longed to be Mother, like Mother, inside and out. To have another life growing in me some day like Mother had. To carry that life until it emerged down there, from out of me.

Do I surprise you when I relate that I learned something from all this? Are you really surprised that I now confess to you that I went back to my bedroom and wetted two small washrags and ... . Well, you know what I did. This time I was determined to know just what this could do. Those sensations, those tinglings - well, they just kept coming ... and coming, and I began to gasp, and then to pant, and still they just kept coming and coming and coming ... there was still no swelling, but who cared? And then the first spasm came and I bucked into the mattress, but the sensations just kept coming like the trickling of twin lightening zaps, and my back arched, and I mewed and whimpered, and just melted until runaway volcano lava belched everywhere inside and a solid wave of blood passed clear thru me in two directions, from my crotch to my toes, and from my crotch to the roots of my very hair. There was no ejaculation in any way, not even any erection swelling, but I floated down, down, down a long, long time. After ten thousand miles, I began to come down to settle down, down, down into my mattress, limbs splayed, depleted, and expended. I was as tired as if I had run a million miles. Supremely exhausted. The tingling had stopped. Talk about around the world in one half an hour! I began to venture out for shopping, first for groceries, and then for other things. I soon found that I had acquired a new ability to influence taxi drivers and others for assistance. What had worked fairly well for a slight young boy in gym sweats with a big rump seemed to work exceedingly well for a well-developed young woman who was transporting bags of groceries, sacks of books, and boxes of other things. Some of them insisted on giving me their phone numbers. This was really strange, especially when they seemed to experience a great deal of gratitude when you accepted a piece of paper with their name and number. But why should I ever call them? It didn’t make much sense to me.

I had watched this gentleman ask Mother for her phone number, and had been rather amazed at the aplomb with which she handled this request. "No, thank you," she had said in a firm and rather reserved way, "I do not wish to do so." His countenance fell, and he turned away like a stray dog I saw who could not find someone who would pet him. I only had to use this technique a couple of times, but it surely did work.

One young man was rather persistent, and I had to put a little ice in my version of a firm and reserved manner. That froze him. Too bad for him. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. It reminded me of a movie where a pack of wolves looked at a caribou. Just because I look like Mother at twenty-one is no reason to treat me like a caribou!

I did not realize it at the time, but the sophistication of my wardrobe and natural reserve (both largely a copy of my Mother’s personality and ways) had a lot more to do with this general respect and distant admiration than anything else. When I became increasingly aware that I was dressing for an respectful audience, I responded by becoming more meticulous about how I attired myself, and I developed a certain aloofness with empathy which is vital to any sustained performance. For all the world is a stage, and we are but players upon it. This blended trait built a glass wall around me that attracted plenty of spectators of a benign disposition. It would have been very interesting to see what would have been the outcome of such a course, continued in such a setting, but fate intervened the very next summer. Mother had readily agreed to try schooling me by correspondence at home when public school started in the fall, and I had done quite well in everything I liked, and quite poorly in the subjects that I did not. This was not so acceptable. "I will not have an imbecile for a daughter," she told me firmly. She had to go to Europe the summer of my fourteenth year, for her job absolutely required it. There was no way that I could go, nor was she willing for me to stay at home by myself. She was determined to locate a governess overseas to bring home with her in the fall, and she was equally determined to send me to her sister’s home for the summer. A great deal of tenderness had developed between us, but Mother was firmly convinced that I would not do well if I was left to myself. It is a measure of how convinced she was that she turned to her sister. I hardly knew anything about my Aunt Elaine, except that she and Mother had never gotten along really well. She lived over on the west coast, although she had been raised in the south just as Mother had been. I didn’t even know what she did to make ends meet. Mother didn’t seem to be the least worried, however, about whether she would accept me as her niece instead of her nephew, so I decided not to worry about it either.

I’m The Gingerbread Girl Mix, Mix, as fast as you can swirl, You can’t catch me - I’m the gingerbread girl.

People just don’t know me, wearing dresses and soft pearls, Anyway, they just can’t catch me - I’m the gingerbread girl. If I meet you at the door, wearing dresses and high heels, You won’t think I’m playing dress-up, ‘cause I look mighty real. Your look is just my compliment, I really love my world, I smooth my skirt, adjust my sleeve, and gently pat my curls. Spin about, spin about, as fast as you can twirl, No, no, no, you won’t catch me, for I‘m the gingerbread girl. Well, I didn’t know if Aunt Elaine liked gingerbread or not, but I hoped she would like me. I’ll tell you all about it in the next chapter.

 

 

Chapter 3

I flew from the New Orleans airport to San Francisco on a Delta jet. Aunt Elaine met me at the gate. I had overdressed a bit, going for the sophistication of a young woman in her twenties. I certainly didn’t look anything like a fifteen-year-old nephew. She was expecting a niece instead of a nephew, for I had heard Mother refer to me as "she" on the telephone. She came up to the gate just a minute or two after I walked off the flight, and you would have thought a celebrity had arrived. I doubt there was a head in the room that didn’t follow her, male and female alike. It took me a moment to realize that the woman drawing so much attention resembled my mother somewhat, and I had a quick impression of a beautiful auburn-crowned lady with a quick, sure demeanor, a countenance and expression that would melt the most distant personality, and a lithe, agile gait who swiftly identified me, and swept up to me, calling my name. "Marcia! Marcia! It is you, isn’t it, cherie?" Here she beamed a dazzling smile, revealing perfect white teeth. She kissed me on the cheek, hugging me against her, my purse sandwiched between us. Then she held me away and gazed at me fondly, then hugged and kissed me again.

"Wow!" I heard a middle-aged man say to the woman who was standing with him. "Glory meets Blossom!" he continued in a lower tone.

"Wonder who she is," his companion murmured in an undertone.

There was a distinct inflection of envy in her voice. My aunt took me by the hand and led me down the airport walkway, chattering merrily and relating the most fascinating anecdotes as we traipsed along. I was to learn that this constant babble of words was not customary with her, for she preferred to think and observe a great deal before expressing herself, but when she was a little nervous, she became loquacious. It was not empty prating, however, for what she said was the product of much reflection, and it was simply captivating. I was somewhat vaguely conscious, as well, that we were the objects of a great deal of attention as we walked along. Aunt Elaine was apparently totally oblivious to this. It was all rather like walking about with a movie star who betrays no sign that she is not incognito. We collected my two large luggage trunks below the gate level. There would have been three, but Mother had assured me that I would find things there to augment my wardrobe. She had been rather insistent about it, so I had yielded. I was still a little apprehensive about it, though. But, as we drove along in my aunt’s convertible Mercedes, I learned that she was a designer, and specialized in designed and producing high quality lingerie,especially in the bridal trousseau market. I realized that my trepidation had been unfounded.

By the time that we reached her home, Aunt Elaine was beginning to feel more relaxed around me, and the constant stream of talk had died a natural death and was replaced by little bursts of observation and insight that were no less fascinating. I also became aware that I was the objective of a considerable degree of scrutiny, which was no less thorough for being rather a little surreptitious. There was no change in her apparent acceptance of me, so it did not really bother me. In fact, she seemed to like what she saw.

After showing me through the house, she showed me her guest bedrooms, four in number, and her own bedroom. It was magnificently furnished with a large canopy bed and other expensive furniture. The prevailing shade was antique white, accented with a dark orange in places and a brighter orange elsewhere. The entire room was a suitable match for my aunt’s personality, bright bursts of ingenuity amidst the commonplace. The black patent of her heels contrasted with the off-white, plush pile which terminated against the walls with marble baseboards.

I picked the most feminine of the guest bedrooms, the room that she called the rose room. An involuntary gasp escaped me when we peered into it. There must have been at least a dozen shades of rose in that room, everything from pastel to a rich, dark rose that suggested romance and heroism. There were delicate touches everywhere, from all the mirrors which were outlined in frosty white with little rose buds wrought in relief, to the canopy of the imposing bed, including lace roses in the gossamer curtains. The adjoining bathroom was finished in the most delicate pinks imaginable. It was a room worthy of the most feminine of girls, and I determined to be a suitable resident.

I hung my dresses up to get the wrinkles from traveling out of them and filled the top four drawers of a lovely chest of drawers with lingerie. I unpacked the five pairs of shoes that I owned and lined them up on a shoe shelf in the walk-in. There must have been room for a least five dozen more pairs. The place swallowed up my wardrobe as though it were a pail of sand on a beach. I had a sudden attack of inadequacy. Perhaps I had only advanced into the feminine gender as much as my clothes filled this closet. I smiled, a little ruefully. Being around a woman such as my Aunt Elaine was enough to shake anyone’s aplomb. There was a lot of room for self-improvement. I sallied forth, determined to study this most interesting paragon of feminine fascination. Why was she so attractive? What was the secret of her charisma? In the mental mirrors of my mind, even Mother seemed lackluster beside her. Why? The days that followed offered much grist for my gender-grinding gray matter. She was physically attractive - very. But so was Mother, who also had a dimension of sweetness about her that my Aunt Elaine simply did not possess. My aunt was vastly more attentive and alert than her sister. She was more focused - especially on everything pertaining to a woman’s values and a woman’s ways. She had little use for the masculine - it simply wasn’t even important enough to discuss. And she prized and treasured every element of undiluted, unabashed femininity which manifested itself wherever it showed itself as only a truly fanatical votary could do.

I have never met anyone who was so at ease with life. She did not know the meaning of prudishness at all, yet so unassuming was her naturalness, that behavior that would have provoked an indignant objection when done by someone else, did not seem so outrageous, coming from her. She was as sexual as mating June bugs in the spring, but there was nothing brazen about her in any way. She felt that physical intimacy was as natural as mental intimacy. For her, the step from one to the other was a short distance, scarcely measurable. I do not ever expect to know anyone again who was as free from all inhibitions and taboos.

I was an object of curiosity to her at first. I suspect that she scrutinized me to determine whether I was just acting. How deep did my motivations go? So, characteristically, she teased me unmercifully in that sly, adroit way that she had. "Marcia, Sylvia Feester was telling me today about her husband’s interest in her clothes." Here Elaine paused and looked at me innocently. I looked back at her. "She says it drives him wild in bed when he wears her brassiere and panties," she continued. "She dresses him in her garter belt and stockings." Her voice lowered just ever so slightly. "Sylvia penetrates him from behind, and he squeals like a woman."

My aunt was always saying things like that. Seldom a day passed without its collection of purple tales. As nearly as I could determine, they were probably all true, as well. I had met the Feesters at the studio, and a vivid picture would form in my head of Mr. Feester on his knees, clad in his wife’s underwear, with her dainty hands grasping his hips, and a great rigid shaft buckled at her crotch and plunging and withdrawing vigorously in his little pink anus while he moaned and squealed. "My," I said to my aunt’s tale, shooting for a casual and nonchalant inflection, "Sylvia probably got quite a thrill out of that. Giving, after receiving so long." Was it my imagination, or was my aunt treating me with a trifle more respect after each of these story/response episodes? What was difficult to determine was the ulterior motive that Elaine had behind these little anecdotes. Was she deriving satisfaction from just needling me, or was she herding me into a closer identification with that which she esteemed the most? Or, was it both?

It was all rather like dueling with a master swordsman. You could not hope to lay a blade on him, and when he laid one on you ... was he playing with you or were you actually doing fairly well in an unequally matched contest? She had a mind that was more agile than the legs of an exotic dancer. I had only been there about two weeks when I got a pretty good insight into the real Aunt Elaine. She called me into her bedroom, telling me that she had something she had been making for me. When I entered the room, I saw a white corset on the bed.

The prior week, my aunt had shown me her sample room. At least, that’s what she called it. It really was a personal museum, an archive of lingerie styles that she had collected over the years. She had collected different kinds of corsets, including a style that she called a "Merry Widow." The idea was to accentuate a mature woman’s (a widow’s) curves. So a Merry Widow was cut generously in the bosom, tiny in the waist even before lacing, and generously in the buttocks. It was not cut high on the thigh either, but came down slightly below the level of the crotch. This design allowed it to shape and mold the more generous endowment of an older woman’s body into an alluring rump, taut and firm. Because of this objective of controlled voluptuousness, the garment was constructed with firm spandex as a base, sandwiched between gauze and lace on the outer side and a silky, slithery layer of silk on the inner.

Gazing at the corset on the bed, I realized at once that this was a Merry Widow design. At my aunt’s request, I began to disrobe, for I had wished to try on this corset last week, but there was not leisure to do so. I was rather interested in the effect on my own rounded rump. Soon I was naked except for my stockings and heels, and my aunt was examining my bosom with great interest.

"How often do you remove the adhesive to wash?" she asked.

"Every week," I replied.

She nodded. Then, in the most natural and casual way possible, she hefted both of my plump and swollen breasts in each of her hands. She gave a nod of approval at the weight of them. "They look very real," she said approvingly. She caressed my right with her fingers. Then, before I could react in any way, she seized the nipple in her lips and sucked. The tingling sent a wave of pleasure thru me, and I let out a loud involuntary gasp that immediately drew her undivided attention. She caressed my right breast again without any effect, then ran her tongue over the nipple. I was a little more prepared this time, but still could not restrain a definite start when the tingling hit me.

I answered her questioning look with a brief explanation of the wires, the battery, the clamps. She looked at me for a moment, then conducted her own experiment. This consisted of taking my left in both hands and sucking on it with her mouth. She wouldn’t stop, and the sensation was turning me into jelly inside and my knees were giving way before she was satisfied. Her gaze lingered on my crotch where I had no erection at all. After I had recovered somewhat, she reached down and took my penis in her hand. My feelings shifted inside, and slowly I began to swell a little. I did not like it - it made me feel less womanly. But she persisted; then stooping down, she took my slightly swollen genital in her mouth. At this, my genital nerves took over, and I grew to my full size (about six inches and an inch across); whereupon she let go of me down there with an expression of enough-of-that, let’s-move-on. "Here, Honey," my aunt said to me. "Step into this corset." I carefully placed my heels thru the openings at the bottom of the corset and drew it up, taking care to insert my flaccid penis into the little silken that was sewn on the underside of the crotch flap in the front. This entire flap was attached with velcro and could be pulled away, exposing my genitals and anus. The corset fitted quite well. The little nipped in waist probably pulled me in another inch, and the bosom lifted me a little, making me seem a little larger than my size D’s would normally indicate. The straps slid easily over my shoulders. I had noticed double eyelets on the back of each of these shoulder straps when I stepped into the garment. The mystery was solved. Just below each shoulder strap, an elastic strap protruded - upwards - with two hooks sewn into the end. Later, I found that this strap was inserted between the spandex and the outer layer of gauze, and the other end was secured below a breast cup in the front. From there it went down to the crotch on the same side, and then it was directed to the shoulder strap on that same side.

Now perhaps you might think that such an arrangement would simply tighten you into a vise between the top of your shoulders and the bottom of your crotch; and, to some extent, it does. But when you are compressed in this vise of this sort, your joints react to the pressure. I found this out when my aunt climbed on top of the bed mattress in her stocking feet (I was holding unto the canopy post of the bed); and, putting her knee on my shoulder and taking both hands on that protruding strap, she pulled with all her strength upward. My backbone warred with the powerful elasticity of the strap for a moment - and the strap won. The upper front of me pushed forward, and the crotch front of me snapped back, and my rump cheek on that side was spread away from my tail bone, and my center of gravity changed. I don’t know where it went because I had not thought about where it was before, but it changed alright. When the other strap was stretched and attached, it was easier to follow the changes introduced by the first strap. It was the path of least resistance to let the two straps define my posture than the normal juxtaposition of sinews and bones. The effect was increased when the lacings in the back were drawn, squeezing in the waist another inch and a half or so. But this was not all that my ingenious aunt had done to that corset. She had sewn something underneath the crotch. It was rather flat with padding on each end, and these two ends were abutted up against the inside of my thighs just under my crotch. And this flat place could be squeezed.

My aunt had leaped gracefully from the bed and knelt at my side with both arms reaching around my left thigh. Both of her hands were squeezing and flexing the flat place with great force. In this way, air was captured in the device, and the two ends expanded against the inner sides of the thighs simultaneously and inexorably. You felt as if you were being wrenched in two - as if you would split at any moment. And when she stopped, your thighs were jammed apart just under your crotch. You felt incredibly wide at the crotch.

"Ow!" I said. And I meant it. It hurt.

"No pain; no gain." Her brightest, most cheerful tone. My indefatigable aunt. Then, after a moment, and I had quieted, "Let’s walk."

I tried it - and nearly fell over. I would have fallen if she had not been there to steady me. Everything was different. My crotch was back, and my bosom was forward, and my legs were wrenched apart and telling me that they didn’t care for this at all. Every step I took made me feel as if my entire pelvis was swiveling around an invisible pole that went from my crotch to the floor, sort of; and when I took a step forward after swiveling around and began to catch my balance, my rump would rotate in a strange sort of oval motion and dip and recover. With Elaine’s help, I made it around the room several times and began to be accustomed to a different center of gravity and maneuvering around an invisible pole when you walked. The pain of being wrenched apart didn’t alleviate any, but I began to walk without assistance. At that point, my aunt handed me a slip to wiggle into, and she watched the skirt of that slip as I walked until she was satisfied. At one point, she stopped me and squeezed some more in that place under the crotch. That slowed me down considerably. I just thought that I hurt before. "Now, the stairs," my aunt said. And after that, it was everywhere in the house for the longest time. Finally she let me sit down. I couldn’t put my knees together as I had before. Finally, I put one knee hooked over the other and sat there with one foot dangling. I felt so wide in the crotch. I slept in that garment and its cousins that she had modified in the same way for a long time. The first night, I awoke so sore that you would have thought that I had been beat up. But my bones were young, and my aunt knew what she was doing. To this day, if I lean up against a counter edge with my thighs touching, there is room for a hand to be inserted between my crotch and the counter edge. And if I stand before a mirror with my legs heldtogether as closely as possible, there is a space under my crotch where my legs will not meet. You can see the room behind me, and it would be possible to easily slide a very large broom stick thru the opening without touching me anywhere. After this alteration in me, my aunt, the designer/seamstress, seemed to feel more relaxed. The stories became mutually amusing anecdotes which we shared freely, usually after a vigorous swim in her indoor pool. This was a daily occurrence. But the fourth week that I was there, I realized that I still had not met the everyday Elaine. For she launched into that week with the characteristic energy and concentration that had made her designer clothing highly esteemed in the estimation of the wealthy and would-be wealthy who were aware of her. I had gotten to know the vacationing Elaine, who handled all her business by phone since I had arrived. (Except for two short trips to the studio.) She surged along under high power now, and I pitched and yawed along in her wake. Her ability to inspire a matron and her daughter (for example) - to captivate them - to mesmerize and enthrall, was unimaginable - until you actually saw it happen. And she loved it. She was in her element. When I think back on it, the word, "vacation," does not really apply to those first three weeks at my aunt’s home. It was so skillfully done that I did not realize it at the time, but she was accustoming me to a routine and diet that was substantially different from my life at my Mother’s home. My cooking skills had kept me from a typical teenager’s diet (and I was hardly a typical teenager, now was I?). And my housework provided a certain modicum of exercise. My aunt did not bother with cooking - hardly ever.

A catering truck stopped by each day that we were home and at the studio when we were not. I do not recall the name of the catering firm - some French title. They specialized in healthy French cooking. What this translated to was the food of rabbits, or, more accurately, hares. Some of it tasted pretty awful to the palate of a southerner. The calorie intake was significantly lower as well from my own cooking. Strange sauces with strange tastes, in which one dipped celery or raw broccoli. Peculiar pastes involving things such as goose liver. Highly-seasoned, hard-as-brick croutons, which were destined for tiny little cups of soups with lintels, wild rice, and other strange and exotic grains and beans. Little bottles of wine. Odd herbal drinks. You get the picture. I assure you that I would have never touched this stuff with a ten-foot cane pole if I had a choice. But I am compelled to admit that it was a very liveable diet. It furnished a great deal of energy and did not make us sick, after all. After awhile, you did not take much interest in what you ate. Better not to know.

During the first week that I there, faced with this ... stuff to consume, I decided to cook my aunt a good old southern breakfast and save the catering truck at least one trip. My aunt humored me, and even went so far as to drop me off at a likely grocery store with a huge health food department. I spent over four hours in that store! I knew that this had to be the healthiest southern breakfast that ever was made if it was to have any chance of success. There were no grits of any kind in the store, believe it or not. No corn meal either. They did have self-rising flour, although the clerk looked at me as if I were some kind of convicted Mata Hari when I put it on the check-out conveyer. Must have been why there were only two packages of that flour - and I had taken one of those. I bought bacon made from turkeys, can you believe it?

Anyway, the next morning, I made a breakfast fit for a queen, at least a southern queen, and I am here to tell you that you don’t know what difficult is until you have done that in San Francisco at my aunt’s house! When I placed a plate of steaming, hot biscuits before my aunt, anointed with luscious white gravy, and one of the best cheese omelets I have ever made, with turkey bacon strips and sprigs of parsley, and cottage cheese and diced pears, she appeared depressed. She ate the cottage cheese and pears readily enough, consumed the turkey bacon and parsley together.

I was just coming back to fill her cup with some kind of a nut-roasted coffee again, when I caught her coming back from the refrigerator with a container of bean sprouts, *which she scattered all over the biscuits, gravy, and (heavens, above) the omelet.* Then she consumed it all in her usual good humor, while I lurked about, serving, then eating the delicious food myself, and scarcely enjoying it as much as usual, because I realized that nothing had changed. While I did the dishes in my apron which Mother had given me (with the words, "Southern Cook - And Proud Of It" emblazoned across it), I resolved to never, never, never cook my aunt another southern breakfast. Aunt Elaine liked to swim for her daily exercise. This does not really describe it. She swam as if she was practicing for the Olympics for a hour or better. The first time I was there, I lasted about ten minutes, and the last five minutes really shouldn’t count. I mean - the water boiled after her. I had never even worn a swimsuit since I was thirteen. In fact, I wouldn’t have even known how to swim if Mother hadn’t taken me to the YWCA for several summers. But here I was, in a lovely one-piece, watching my aunt apparently try for the world record in swimming across a pool. Elaine swam so well, not only in racing, but under the water and all around me, that she shamed me into doing better. It was months before I could catch her, though. She could hold her breath the length of that pool and back. When she was still under the water, she could hold it even longer; and at first, she delighted in making me think that something had gone wrong and she was in trouble. After that didn’t work anymore, she introduced me to water polo and kept hitting me with the ball until I learned to move faster and present less of a target.

This whole regime of vigorous exercise and strange food left me bounding with energy. And thinking back on it, I feel certain that there were certain herbs in the food that we consumed which galvanized the libido. I doubt deeply that this was not known to my aunt, for she was a salacious woman, and other women were her delight. Apparently, she was practicing celibacy during the first three weeks that I was there, and this was extremely uncommon for her.

Looking back on it all, I marvel at the deftness which with my aunt walked a thin line. She succeeded in awakening me sexually without indulging me sexually. Who could be unconscious of such a desirable and captivating woman as she, yet it was all great fun, and there was no consummation.

It was a number of years later before I had grown up emotionally and could talk with her about these things, and I cannot forget how she grinned for just a moment before her countenance settled into that candid, questing expression that was so characteristic of her. The mental equivalent of being poised on the balls of your foot, ready to move any direction at any time. "You thought I was desirable, child?" she questioned in that sly way of hers. Then in response to my nod of comprehension, she smiled and her eyes twinkled. "You were too little to know your mind, mon enfant." Then leaning forward, she husked in a deliberately exaggerated way, "And now, ma cherie ... ?"

 

 

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