School Maid                   by: Anne O’Nonymous

 

Part One--This isn’t Campus anymore, Toto.

School campuses can look very strange to outsiders, with students in multicolored T-shirts, pants or too-short skirts. Occasionally, their wardrobe seems to take on a strange mixed quality. A sort of twisting the norm, bending the gender, or just plain crazy!

On one particular Monday morning, Tommy Lewis, end for the football team, seemed to fit in the last category. He was seen (more likely, scene) walking across the campus Quad wearing badly done makeup, blouse, panties, garter belt, black stockings, court shoes and no wig. Oh yes, he was singing "I’m in the Mood for Love" at the top of his lungs. There were more objections to his singing than to his mode of dress.

Campus security managed to track down and get him back to their office. In an hour’s time, Tommy came out of whatever funk he was in and asked where he was. When informed of what happened, he struggled to his feet and ran out, eluding his pursuers and stiff-arming those that got close enough to try for a grab.

Three days later, a very frightened Mr. Lewis left school for parts unknown.

Another Monday, and another victim. This time, Sammy Kowalski, the backup quarterback! Again, he was walking across the Quad, in an outfit very similar to the previous victim, asking every male he met for a date. Five-eighths of them turned him down, one-eighth insisted he pay and the rest offered to pay. Ah, campus life--never a dull moment, except for classes.

For a third time, Monday naturally, the prankster or whatever struck! Charlie Marshall, Alpha Tau Nu president, fullback and womanizer, was sitting on a bench in the middle of the Quad reading poetry, aloud, with a very pronounced lisp. He was dressed as a little girl, with a fancy party dress, petticoats, anklets and shoes to match. A sign on the bench read "I’m looking for a nice man to be my daddy. Please help me find one!"

The latest incident involved a student who wasn’t a jock. Paul Simmons woke up on campus wearing women’s clothes with no idea what had happened between Friday, when he left his last class, and the time he was found. At least he managed to pull off an "It’s a bet I lost" explanation.

"OK, tell me all about this so-called bet, Paul. You and I both know you don’t gamble!" Mike Green angrily said to his friend and roommate.

"I can’t tell you anything, Mike," said Paul, removing the female duds in preparation for a shower.

"Can’t or won’t! Paul, I’ve known you since high school. You can trust me!"

"Mike, I can’t tell you. I had a little too much to drink. I don’t remember what happened."

"OK, then tell me what you can remember. Where were you drinking? What did you drink?"

Paul was starting to get ticked off at his friend and all his questions. "Who the hell do you think you are--Sherlock Holmes? As far as the city police are concerned, this is a campus problem. The campus police won’t do anything because no laws were broken. And I can’t say anything, because if I do there will be a lot of people hurt, my parents mostly."

"So nobody does anything and whoever’s doing this gets to keep on doing it, is that right?"

"That’s right," Paul replied, "I’ve got a class I’d better get to, so count me out for any help!’

"Fine! I’ll find who’s doing this without your help!" Mike knew it was more a boast than anything else. He didn’t know where to start, what questions to ask, or how to ask them. "So, what would a detective do in this case?"

"Hey Paul," Mike hollered into the shower, "do you have any enemies on campus. Someone you antagonized, or did something they didn’t like?"

"No," came from the shower, over the noise of the running water, "I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anyone that mad at me to want to do something like that!"

"Can you tell me where you were Friday?"

"Sure. I was at Dirty Dick’s having a beer," said Paul from a now quiet shower. "I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you are implying!"

Mike started to think. If Paul was at Dirty Dick’s and one of the others had been there, maybe he might have a tie-in. Maybe a few questions of Mr. Marshall might help.

Mike walked out the door of the campus apartments. It had been raining earlier, and the street was still a little wet. ATN house was a short distance away, and would be his first stop.

Arriving at the ATN house, he asked if he could speak to Charlie Marshall, and, as expected, was turned down. Now he had two options: break through the guards at the door, or walk away and see the other victim. He then remembered something, and exercised a third option: "One of the ladies Mr. Marshall had been with is filing a paternity suit and I know of a good lawyer."

"I’ll take you to him," came from one of the hulks.

Inside, Charlie Marshall was holding court at a large poker table. Mike watched as the guard went and whispered a few words into his ear. Charlie rose from the table and indicated for Mike to follow to a quieter area. Once there, Charlie turned and spat out, "What’s this s---- about some f------- paternity suit. That f-------- b---- wanted it, and I aint paying no c---- money, a--h---. So, you take your sorry a-- back and tell her that!"

"Look, I had to say something to get to see you. I need answers to some questions."

Charlie looked at him, then asked, "No suit, no girl. I ought to have you thrown out a second-story window. So, what is it: Physics, psych, chemistry or the easiest lay on campus?"

"None of the above," Mike replied, "A friend of mine got the same treatment you went through. I’m trying to catch the person before they strike again!"

Charlie looked at him, then said, "Come with me."

Mike followed him to an upstairs room. There Charlie went to a drawer, and pulled out some pictures, saying, "There’s a note with them."

The pictures showed Charles Marshall in various pieces of female underwear in very seductive poses. Mike read the note at the bottom of the pile: "We have more pictures and if you decide to inflict yourself on any female on campus, those pictures will go to the Dean of Men, your parents and will be posted on the Internet. Do we make ourselves clear!"

"Still, just a few questions shouldn’t hurt, if nobody knows I’m here to ask them."

Charlie thought for a minute, said, "OK, ask away."

"On the Friday prior to the Monday you were found on campus, where were you?"

"Had a few drinks here, went for a walk. Last thing I remember was passing, no I stopped in Marv’s and had a drink with, let’s see, I think it was Ruth Corbett. Or was it Joanne? I distinctly remember having a drink, and that’s the last I remember ’til Monday."

"So a whole weekend gone, and you don’t remember anything?"

"No! It was Saturday I was drinking, because, as I remember, I didn’t have classes the next day!" Charlie said, "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a poker game and pigeons to fleece!"

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Mike started walking to the football practice field, thinking: "One at Marv’s, the other at Dirty Dick’s. Two different days, two different places. Could it be possible there was more than one perpetrator--a group. Is there a common thread running through all this."

The field was filled with players trying to improve in their various specialties. A mixed bag of runners and football players trotted around the running track, with a few doing wind sprints. It could be seen at a glance that, unfortunately, most could use a lot of improvement. The team was shook up, as the prankster seemed to be picking on football players, and many were wondering which of their number would be next.

Mike saw the QB coach and walked over. "Coach Walker, can I have a word with you, please?" Mike said.

"If you’re from any paper, I’ve nothing to say, no comment," stated the coach, then recognition, "Oh, it’s you. Mike, how ya been! How’s ole Stuffy’s son!"

Mike’s father and Coach Walker played college ball together. Walker called his father Stuffy because he ate a lot! Mike’s somewhat small size and lack of speed prevented him from playing football, but he did make a friend of the coach.

"I’m doing fine, sir. I was wondering if I might speak to Kowalski about what happened to him," Mike replied.

"Poor kid! He’s really shook up about the whole thing. You could try. Can I ask you why?"

"Well, if we can find out who’s doing this and expose them, it might stop. The police have their hands tied, so I thought I would take a shot at it," Mike said to his friend.

"Hmmm, well, Sammy is down in the locker room. He twisted his ankle, so he’s getting it iced up."

"Thanks," Mike replied, as he trotted off in the direction of the lockers.

The practice field was next to the stadium where all the games were played, so it was through a gate, down a walk, some steps, through another door into the lockers. Several players, done with practice for the day, were going to and from showers. A strong odor of disinfectant, mixed with body sweat, permeated the stale air. One of the towel-draped hulks, seeing an unfamiliar face, challenged Mike with, "Who the hell are you, and what the f--- are you doing here?"

"My name’s Mike Green, and I’m looking for Sam Kowalski. I want to ask him a few questions."

The hulk glowered at him, then said, "You from the papers or police?"

"Neither," Mike stated, "a friend of mine went through the same ordeal, and I want to find out who’s responsible."

The hulk grunted a response, then lead Mike to a player in shorts sitting on a bench, his ankle wrapped in ice packs. "Sammy, you’ve got a visitor."

"Hi Mr. Kowalski! My name is Mike Green, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about what hap- . . ."

"I’ve nothin’ ta say. I don’t remember nothin’ an’ I sure in hell won’t tell anythin’ anyway!" he replied.

"Please, it might help someone else," Mike pleaded.

"Look, my athletic scholarship is in jeopardy! A letter was left sayin’ certain documents would find their way to the Dean of Men if I cooperated with any authorities! Now, please leave me. I just can’t help."

Mike decided to ask one question: "Were you drinking in Marv’s or Dirty Dick’s?"

"I was in Marv’s for awhile, but I wasn’t drinkin’. I was meetin’ someone there."

"Who?"

"Julie Hampton. She was tutorin’ me in History!"

"OK, thanks. Oh, just one more thing," Mike said, pulling a Columbo, "Do you ever go to Dirty’s?"

"No! I had a disagreement there once, and I never went in again!"

Mike left the locker room and returned the way he came. None of his questions seemed to be answered! "Maybe a stop at Dirty’s might help," he thought, "it’s not too far out of the way."

Now Dirty Dick’s is a campus hangout for students between classes. As you go in, the dimly-lit left side has a bar and tables with red-and-white checkered cloths adorning them. Going to the right brings you into the better-lit dining room with booths, self-service salad bar, and servers. Pictures of well-known alumni adorned the walls on both sides of the establishment.

Mike went into the bar area, ordered a beer, and showed a picture of Paul to the bartender, saying, "Do you remember seeing this man in here last week?"

The man took a look at the picture, asked, "Is he wanted for something?"

"No. He’s, emm, he’s working on a psych. project, testing people’s memories," Mike hastily improvised.

"Well, I guess I failed. I don’t remember seeing him. You could try Dotty in the dining room, she’s the blonde," the bartender replied.

Mike nodded his thanks, finished his beer, and ambled into the dining room. After a quick look around, he spotted Dotty. As she seemed to be free at the moment, Mike walked over, introduced himself, pulled out the picture, and said, "Do you remember seeing this man in here last week?"

"Why do you want to know?" she replied.

Mike gave her the psych. story, adding: "It would help if you could tell me if anyone was with him!"

Dotty scanned the picture, then finally said, "If he was here, I don’t remember seeing him. Sorry, can’t help."

"OK, thanks anyway," Mike replied as he wrote down his name and phone number on a piece of paper and, before leaving, he gave her the paper. "If you do remember, will you please give me a call. Thank you!"

If Mike had looked back, he would have seen Dotty hurry to a phone, quickly dial a number, then say, "There was a guy named Mike Green in here asking questions about a mutual acquaintance." She listened, replied, "No, I didn’t say anything. Are you going to do something?" Another pause, then, "He’s going to disappear! You’re not going to kill him, are you?" Another pause, then she replied, "Oh, that sounds so delicious." She hung up the phone, then broke into laughter.

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It was later, after dinner and dishes, that Mike and Paul had a chance to talk.

"I was on my computer, chatting with friends today, and they said that similar things were happening on other campuses. Some geeks, but mostly jocks. Some of the schools are doing a good job of covering it up!"

"I thought you weren’t going to help."

Paul merely shrugged his shoulders.

"How many males have been, err, attacked, Paul."

"I think it’s up to thirty now. It’s getting to be an epidemic!"

"Great! So what the hell are we going to do? Hey, an idea!"

Paul looked at him for a minute, then said, "What kind of hairbrained scheme you thinking of?"

"Well, the abductions happen on a Friday, so we stake out Marv’s and Dirty’s! We can get some jocks to help."

Paul smiled at the idea, but it did seem sound. After all, if they were going to abduct a semi-drunk, those would be the ideal locations!

Both locations were staked-out, using jocks, on Friday. Then Saturday and Sunday. When Monday came, all agreed it had been a waste of time. Meanwhile, two states away, a halfback came to Monday morning practice dressed as a Las Vegas showgirl. And just one hundred miles away, a center, found on campus dressed as a nun, announced he was entering a convent--he was Jewish!

It was on a Tuesday, when both had a free day, that they were able to get together. Paul started, saying, "So, Brain, now what?"

Mike grimaced at that word. One of his favorite shows was "Pinky and the Brain!" "Well, ‘Pinky,’ if you’re contemplating what I’m contemplating," Mike said, "I think we’re dealing with somebody who doesn’t like men!"

"Oh! So what do we look for. Hey, wait! A women’s group!"

"Right. So how many are there?"

Paul started thinking, talking as he went, "Well, there’s D.A.R., but no chapter here. Sisters of the Shadows, that’s a Witches group. Hecate’s Children, also Witches. Amazon League, female athletes. There are two lesbian rights groups, various sororities, and political groups."

"Hey, why two witches groups?"

Paul thought for a minute, then answered, "something about different trades, I ‘think’ that’s the word. There is a new one that was formed about three months ago, blank Unleashed or Unchained. It’s circa or circle, but they don’t make sense!"

"Oh, you’re a big help. You mean Circe. She’s the one who turned Ulysses’s men into swine. I think she was supposed to have been imprisoned for that!"

"Yeah, that’s right. That’s the name."

Mike thought for a while. Could this be the group? An all-female group who want to turn men into "women?" Why! To shame them. "Paul, who is their Faculty Advisor?"

Now, at this particular school, each student group was required to have a Faculty Advisor (called eff ay by the students) to monitor their activities, make sure there were no drugs or alcohol at any party or meeting they held, and to assist in any way they could. Mostly, they just acted as a sponsor!

"That would be Mary Murphy, acting Dean of Women. You going to see her and ask her questions?"

"That’s the plan! Do you know her phone number?"

"No phone--if you want to talk to her, it has to be in person. All you’ll get is her student assistant giving you rote answers."

OK, let’s try for an appointment," Mike said as he went to the campus directory, then the phone.

It took three tries before getting through, and two more to get a nine-thirty, Wednesday, appointment. Mike spent the rest of the day talking to various people around campus. If he had been a little more careful, he would have seen the ladies following every movement.

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On Wednesday, after breakfast, Mike walked over to the Faculty Offices Building, stopping just outside the three-story brick-and-marble building to check his watch. The digital readout indicated 9:25 a.m. He entered through a double pair of glass doors, turned right and ascended the L-shaped marble staircase. At the top, he turned right and walked the short distance to the office of the "Dean of Women."

The door to the office was a paneled wood, oak probably, affair with a new sign proclaiming "Ms. Mary Murphy, Dean of Women." A sharp knock elicited a "Come in" from the interior.

Mike entered the office and, while waiting to be acknowledged, looked around the office. The two walls to his left had built-in bookcases filled with what appeared to be student records. On top of the bookcases were piles of books of every shape, size and color. To his right, filing cabinets and a small refrigerator. In a bay window sat a large, somewhat cluttered, oak desk with a vase of varicolored flowers on its right side, and behind it, a woman engrossed in a paper. She appeared to be 5’10", pure white hair, and the face and build of a thirty-year-old, not the fifty-plus she was known to be. Stories around campus indicated she was once an aerobics instructor to other aerobics instructors!

She finished her reading, put down the paper and said, "And how may I help you?"

"I’d like to ask you . . . ."

"Young man, please. Introduce yourself first, then why you are here," she retorted.

"My name is Mike Green. I’m trying to solve the, I guess you would say, male to female problem on campus. I understand you are eff ay for a group called ‘Circe Unchained,’ is that right?"

"Yes. It’s a group that helps females with legal aid, first-year stress, sexual harassment, and female emotional problems. But what does that have to do with what’s going on?"

Mike stopped for a minute, trying to frame his question, then asked, "I believe it may be some women who have a beef with men."

"So, you think this particular group may be involved, and, by extension, myself. Is that it," she remarked, apparently miffed at the guilt-by-association implication.

"No, ma’am," Mike replied, "I’m just stating what I think. Would you know of an underground women’s group on campus?"

"I do not know of any, but you could be right. And what about some off-campus group. Did you take that into consideration?"

"No, I didn’t! But why?"

"Where else would you find a lot of young men trying to be as macho as possible. What I think is that they are trying to punish some men for their transgressions against women, and are using this school to do that. Why? Because neither city police nor campus security will really do anything--perfect, isn’t it!"

"You may be right, Ms. Murphy," Mike said dejectedly, "Leaves a lot more to consider. Well, thank you very much for your time, ma’am. I guess I’d better leave now, I have a lot to consider."

"Stop in again, young man. As Dean of Women, I rarely have young male visitors," she said with a grin.

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On the way back to his apartment, Mike fell into a deep funk, as he was getting nowhere. Why take them on Fridays? Obviously, to prepare them for Mondays. How? Kidnap them--get them drunk, and that’s easy. Preparation? Well, brainwash sounds plausible. Hypnotism, no. Drugs, possible. So, where would you get such drugs? Internet would be a start. Hospital, clinic, street--all possible. Fragments of thought ran through his brain, some stopping, others just fleeting glimpses.

Reaching the apartment, Mike entered and called, "Paul, another dead end!" When he got no answer, he checked the kitchen. A note on the table read, "Gone shopping. Will be back soon." Five minutes later, the phone rang.

"Hello, Mike Green here."

"Mr. Green, I have some information that might help you with your, umm, problem," the feminine voice said.

"Good, tell me all you can," Mike replied excitedly.

"Can’t! Too many around. Meet me tonight at eight in the park at Barnes and Smith. First bench in," she said.

"Ok, tonight at eight it is," Mike replied.

"Oh, please, don’t tell anyone! Some of these people are dangerous and I don’t want to get hurt," she stated.

From her voice, Mike could tell she was scared. "Alright, I won’t tell!"

"Thanks," she said as she hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, Paul came in carrying two bags of groceries. "So, Mike, how did you make out, and give me a hand here," Paul said as he sat the bags on what passed for a kitchen table.

"Well, my meeting with Ms. Murphy was cordial. She said it might not be a campus group. That it might be outsiders coming onto campus," Mike related as he stacked cans on a pantry shelf.

"Hmm! She could be right, but on more than one campus? Have we ever considered some organized group, off-campus, planning these attacks, or did it not occur to us?"

"I think we just assumed it was a group on campus. Could these other places just be a copycat of what’s happening here?" Mike replied.

Paul thought for a minute, then replied, "Problem is we don’t know when the attacks started, or where. Some of the other schools could have kept it quiet for months to avoid worrying parents about a campus stalker--you know how schools are about public relations. They have the ‘nobody asks and nobody tells’ mentality!"

"Well, let’s get something to eat! I’ve got somewhere to go tonight," Mike said.

"A date. Well, our little boy is growing up! Seriously, Mike, a date?" Paul inquired, excited that his friend might finally get lucky.

"Actually no. I think I might get some more pieces of the puzzle filled in!"

After dinner, dishes, bath and a change of clothes, Mike set out to find the mysterious informant. It was one of those quiet nights, with a cool breeze blowing just enough to make it pleasant. He started out, turning right and walking the three blocks to Boston Ave., up Boston to Colorado Blvd., cross Colorado to Barnes St. After crossing Barnes St., it was a three block walk to Smith St. This route took him away from campus hangouts, and to the campus-and-city boundary, and the park that straddled it.

Now this particular park is in the shape of a diamond, with concrete walkways coming from each point and going to a central fountain, now turned off, featuring a rearing centaur statue. Along each path are beds with flowers of many different colors, and between the paths are chestnut and beech trees. Along the walkways, offset pairs of benches, each with an overhead fluorescent light across from it, offered places to sit and rest, read or grab a quick bite.

Several pairs of unseen eyes watched as Mike walked into the park and found the required bench. A quick glance at his watch showed 7:56 p.m., and he settled down to wait. Five minutes passed, then ten. After another five, Mike was ready to give up when he heard the sharp crack of a twig to his right. As he turned his head to see what made the sound, there was the knifelike stab of a hypodermic needle in his left shoulder and the feel of the contents being injected.

"Damn, it’s a trap!" was his first thought, as he managed to get up and stagger down the walkway, a half-empty hypodermic sticking out of the fleshy part of his shoulder. Mike tried to run, but his legs would not obey him; they seemed to have a mind of their own! Mike was weaving like a drunk when he reached the street, and after a few more steps his whole left side started to go numb. Soon, his left arm was hanging uselessly at his side and his left leg dragged along the ground in a bizarre imitation of Quasimodo. He managed to reach the curb and yell at an approaching van, just as two strong arms reached to grab him. There was no way he could fight them off.

"Ge-et aw-a-ay fr-o-o-m m-e-e," Mike mumbled, his mouth starting to feel the effects of the injected drug.

The van stopped in front of him, doors opened and two more females rushed up to him, tossed a huge bag over him, and, using straps attached to the bag, secured his arms at his side and his legs at the knees. He felt himself being lifted, then unceremoniously tossed into the back of the van where he was further secured with cuffs at the ankles, and chains across chest and knees. The whole operation took only a few minutes. Then doors slid closed, an engine speeded up, the van pulled away from the curb and headed to an unknown destination. That was Mike’s last lucid memory for awhile.

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"Wakie, wakie, Mikey. Tee Vee time, sweetie!"

Slowly, Mike woke up, afraid of what was to come. Would he be allowed to live? Would they change him, then send him off to some distant place? Slowly, his eyes opened and awareness of where he was started to gradually filter in. He was in a circle of bright light surrounding the chair where he was confined. In the darkness, he could barely make out the figure of one, possibly two, person(s). His hands and arms were taped to armrests, and he could feel and hear the chains securing his legs. He could feel, with his tongue, the elongated penis gag in his mouth, so any attempt at speech would be futile. Ropes across his chest secured him that way, and a metal frame prevented him from turning his head in any direction.

A motion to his right caught his attention. It was a black draped figure pushing a stand containing several things, including a television monitor, in front of him. After positioning the instrument about eighteen inches from his eyes, the figure moved closer and placed a pair of stereo headphones on his head, which ‘it’ then taped down. Last, a black cloth was placed over him, and extended to cover the TV as well.

"Watch the pretty pictures, Mike. Watch, and see your fate, dear sweetheart," a distorted voice said in his head. With that, the TV flashed into life, and Mike felt compelled to watch the screen. There were blue and red pulsing circles, bright flashing lights of various colors, and spirals going in different directions--first going left to right, then right to left. In the headphones: sounds of varying intensities; voices, both male and female, speaking in several tongues; and music, using, to him, a strange scale that seemed dissonant. The whole effect was so mesmerizing, he could not take his eyes away!

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Slowly, ever so slowly, Mike opened his eyes and became aware of his surroundings. At least it looked like some place in the U.S., but he immediately knew a lot had changed. He was secured at the ankles with locked cuffs and a steel tube, about 24" long, connecting them ("Stretcher bar, I think it’s called," Mike thought idly). In the center of the bar a link connected to a chain leading up to, and connecting with, a second bar at the knees. This bar had locked leather cuffs on each end, securing him at the knees. The chain extended to a pair of handcuffs securing him at the wrists. At the center of the cuffs, where they met the chain, was a large ring padlocked to another ring attached to a belt around his waist. He couldn’t move his hands more than 6". Also, he was sitting there naked, with his boobs showing. NAKED! BOOBS!

"Oh my God, what did they do to me?" Mike exclaimed in a higher, more feminine, voice as he tried to reach and feel the large protuberances now adorning his chest.

"Ah, I see you’ve recovered a bit, nice aren’t they?" said the familiar voice of Mary Murphy.

"You know I’ll be missed," was the first thing out of his mouth.

Ms. Murphy held up a piece of paper, and said: "Here’s a copy of the letter we typed and you signed. It was sent three days ago to your roommate. I’ll read it to you: ‘Dearest Paul. I can’t stand it any longer, I just can’t! Ever since high school, I’ve been in love with you -- I wanted to take you in my arms, hold you and make love to you all night long! I know you will never accept my love for you, so to prevent any embarrassment, I’m going far away. Please, don’t try to find me, it’s a lot safer this way. I love you my most precious jewel, Mike Green.’ Nice touch, isn’t it?"

"He’ll never believe it. He knows me too well!" Mike stated with confidence.

Ms. Murphy smiled at that, then added, "You, or I should say we, also sent him some candy and flowers, with a card reading, ‘All My Love, Mike.’ "

"So now what? I get killed, or what?"

"Well, Michelle . . . . ."

"My name is Mike," he almost screamed, trying to hold on to some semblance of the person he once was.

Almost immediately it started: a burning, like he was carrying hot coals, in his hands and feet; his tongue feeling double its normal size, too big for his mouth; and a sharp pain in his chest, as if he was having a prolonged heart attack.

"I tell you, my name is Mike!" he gasped, in spite of the intense pain. He got up and instantly fell to his knees, doubled up. The burning was now up to his elbows and knees, and his heart was pounding louder than ever! A feeling of red-hot needles being stuck in his skin started in the area of his shoulders.

"I can make it stop, easily."

"Please, make it stop, please," Mike said, tears cascading down his cheeks, "Please, just make it stop--I’ll do what you want!" He never could stand much pain.

"Say, ‘My name is Michelle, and I’m a very pretty girl,’ " Ms. Murphy explained, "It will be over in minutes, sweetie."

"My name is . . . Mi- . . ., Mi- . . ., Michelle, and, and I’m a . . . a very pretty girl," Mike, now Michelle, said, this feminine name making the last vestiges of ‘his’ maleness disappear.

"Once more, dear," Ms. Murphy replied.

"My name is Michelle, and I’m a very pretty girl," he replied, amazed at the fast recovery.

"Now, please, Michelle! No more silly outbursts, girl--you were trained to know better. You may call me ‘Mary’ or ‘Ms. Murphy,’ when there are no guests around. When I do have guests, you are to refer to me as ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Mistress.’ "

Michelle laid there on the floor in a fetal position, head bowed in defeat. There was a feeling of having lost everything one valued--that now it was all over, and time to go to the funeral of one "Mike Green," only there wasn’t a body to inter. The tinkling of a bell brought him out of his misery.

A young and rather attractive brown skinned, black-haired uniformed maid entered the room, curtseyed to Mary, and stated, "You wish to see me, ma’am?" She shot him a glance and tried to hide the giggles that started.

Michelle glanced at the pretty maid with her black, softly curled, hair framing a face of flawless milk-chocolate skin, and a lace cap perched jauntily on her head. She was about his size, had a friendly smile, cute dimples and an easy-going way about her.

 

End of Part One.

Annie O

 

 

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© 2001 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.