Stephanie's Scheme

Alamo Preacher

  

Part Sixteen : .

My shopping trip was a success. I went to some of the shops that Steph had reccomended and bought new jeans and two new tops. I saw a pair of shoes I really liked but didn't have enough money. I asked for them to be kept for me and resolved to come back and buy them with the remains of my first pay packet.

After a quick burger, I made my way to the smaller of our town's two cyber cafés. I wanted this one as the computers were aranged with the displays facing outwards so noone could see over your shoulder.

I payed for two hours in advance, and sat down. The place was almost empty. I took out a notepad and pencil that I'd brought to take notes and fired up the machine.

First I tried searching for "Chérie Taylor". I found a large number of references to Chéries and even a large number of Chérie Taylors, but none of them seemed to refer to my Stepmom, apart from the rather pathetic website that my school had put out, which mentioned her as the school's "Administrative Assistant".

So far, nothing, but I hadn't expected much there. Next I tried "Charlene Contrelle", the name used in the copy of Gent.. Hundreds of hits. Some referred to actual real people, but the bulk were references to Chérie. Some were on sites that included keywords like "Assfucking dildo whores" etc. etc. I steered well clear of these, since I guessed they would simply reproduce scanned images from magazines and a lot of adverts for sex sites. I began to work my way through the most promising looking references, looking for anything factual. Sorting the real, useful references was time consuming. I tried to be methodical, but it was hard not to wander off on a tangent, especially when so many of the sites I visited had so many enticing pictures and links, but I managed to keep somewhat on track.

After an hour I reviewed what I'd found.

Charlene Contrelle, (various spellings), aka Charlene Cummings, aka Sadie Smith, aka Bunny Brown, had had a short career as model and porn star. Her work could be divided into three phases. The first, early modelling in some low-rent magazines in the UK. These photos were almost amateurish and all undertaken under the name Sadie Smith. These all seemed to date from when she was eighteen. Then, something happened and she got a break in the US. She modelled in two, more upmarket men's magazines - including the shoot from which that single hardcore 'Gent' picture had been taken from. And then she starred in half a dozen adult films of varying degrees of 'Hardness'. I'd noted all these titles and dates where I could find them. This period seemed to have spanned three years during which time she seemed to be resident in the USA. I read some of the model's backgrounds that accompanied some of these sites. All seemed to be contradictory on most points and I concluded that they were ninety percent bullshit, but a couple of things were repeated enough times to make me think they were true. Chérie was born in London, and was indeeed, now twenty five years old. If she'd lied about that, then at least she'd been consistent. She wanted to return to the UK, and always seemed to include American things in her 'Pet Hates'. She claimed consistently to have a boyfriend - an American - who didn't object to her career. There were hints that this person may have been her manager or agent but nothing for certain. During this period she seemed to have been signed on a contract to a company called "Gladiator Productions" and often semed to be appearing 'Courtesy of...Gladiator prod. Utah."

All this ended two years ago when she suddenly moved back home. Details from after this point were very sketchy. She had won the 'New Fashion' award, which seemed to be just an excuse for a lot of skin-shots, run by a UK publisher. On the strength of that, she'd then done a few more shoots for UK magazines, nothing that big, but one in particular caught my eye. This was the brochure published by the comany that ran 'New Fashion'. I found their own site, hoping to find out more about their models, but it had nothing. However, it did have a some material about their latest catalog. 'Charlene' was on the cover, wearing an astonishigly sexy silver dress and it seemed likely that there was a lot more of her inside. It listed some shops where it could be bought, including one right here in town.

Looking at all my notes I realised that while I had found a lot of material, it didn't seem to add up to a whole lot. So, she'd had a career in adult films and photography some time ago. So what? Dad probably knew about this. But, even if he didn't, it wasn't a crime. The photos I'd seen, while hardcore, weren't really shocking. The titles of the films were suggestive - but from the clips I'd seen they weren't nasty.

I'd done enough. I looked up. I was the only customer in the place. The student behind the counter was buried in a novel, so, rather than laboriously copy down the remaining notes I sent the last few pages to the printer. They each had some pictures of Chérie on them, but nothing explicit. I erased the browser's cache and history logs and logged out. By the time I'd gathered my stuff together, the pages had printed and I stuffed them into my bag. After settling up at the desk, I was on my way.

I walked straight to a local bookstore - the one mentioned on the site. Sure enough, they had a home-shopping section. I browsed through it, beginning to sweat a little. I was nervous about buying this. Was this wrong? Would the assistant give me a knowing smirk as I purchased it? What if Steph or Ellen found out? It was almost with a sense of relief that I began to realise that it wasn't there. But wait! There it was - in an opaque plastic cover. 'New Fashion Catalog 1992' was printed on it, but nothing else betrayed the content. With a pang I realised that my sense of dissapointment at not finding it was outweighed by the relief at actually finding it after all. Still, there was no way I was going to back out now. I noted the price - twenty pounds. Most other catalogs in the section had very low prices, some were actually free. Clearly, the publication was not simply selling lingerie.

I marched over to the counter, paid over the price and left with it in my bag. The assistant hadn't even blinked.

What to do now? It was early afternoon, and for some reason I still didn't feel like going home. I wandered through town, soaking up the sunshine and general good feeling that came with a warm Sunday afternoon in August.

As I strolled, I wondered what it would be like to wander around town like this while dressed as a girl. With a jolt, I realised that I wasn't that far from the Davies building - tomorrow I would be doing exactly that. I felt a little knot of ice form in the pit of my stomach. I'd be here, or near here, in a skirt, in broad daylight. Jesus.

"Hi Ken!"

I turned, startled to see who was calling me. For a moment I had no idea who the beautiful blond girl standing in front of me was.

"Carol." She said. "From Image. Don't you remember?"

Of course I did. I smiled at her shyly.

"Hi Carol. Sorry I didn't recognise you. I was miles away."

"Sure you were." She teased with big smile. "Dreaming of your girlfriend I bet. She's really pretty."

I gaped at her again. "My girlfriend?"

"Yeah. You know. Ellen isn't it? She sometimes comes in to Image. I saw you with her last night? At the concert."

At the concert, of course. Wait. At the concert? Even though I was too shocked to speak, my changing expression must have given me away completely . Carol laughed again.

"Oh come on. I recognise my hair anywhere - the bleach, the cut. I spotted you a mile off. I thought you didn't notice me, but you were too busy with your girlfriend. She is so cute. You are like going out, aren't you? I know you are. Everyone could hear you when you were in the toilets. I was at the wash basins. I overheard someone say that she's a lesbian. I had to bite my lip not to say I knew different"

She laughed again. This got worse. I looked around nervously, but Carol didn't seem to notice.

"So, are you coming back to the salon? You probably could do with a trim and a recolour. I bet you have roots showing now. How long has it been? A week?"

It probably had been a week. "Ehhh, I wasn't. I was just about to go home, actually." I said, but I didn't sound convincing. I was thinking about my roots. What if they were showing? I didn't want questions about my appearance.

"Well, listen." Said Carol, glancing around, as if she was about to suggest something naughty. "I'm just heading back to the salon after my break. If you like I could give you a twenty minute check-up, just to tide you over till you come in for a full treatment again."

She smiled at me. "No charge." She added. "But you ought to make an appointment."

I found myself agreeing. How could I refuse, and in five minutes I was back in Image, at Carol's chair, and she was lifting off my wig. Indeed, my roots were showing, and soon Carol was painting my scalp with more bleach and dye. It took a lot longer than twenty minutes, and I saw her snooty-looking supervisor glance down at us a few times, especially when Carol insisted on giving my hair a trim too. Carol didn't seem to care.

"Let the bitch look down her nose." She swhispered. "It's not as if there's anyone waiting. So, tell me about Ellen, Ken? How long have you been going out?"

I didn't know what to say, so I told the truth. No more than a week. Yes, we were getting on great together. Yes, I'd liked the concert. Yes, Steph was still going out with Gregg. I prattled on. It was hard to resist under Carol's barrage of chatty questions and observations. Her life seemed to revolve around clothes and hair, and who was going out with who in our town, but she took the subjects very seriously. She knew about Gordon Ansell coming out. She chatted about that gossip with some interest but I couldn't detect any nastiness in what she said or her tone. She asked nothing about me - the fact that I was at the concert in drag or what the hell I was up to. She either had her own theory about what it was all about or else just didn't care.

It seemed Carol's boyfirend knew Gregg, slightly. As she mentioned this I grew anxious. She noticed, caught my eye. "Oh no. Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. I've never mentioned this to anyone. I don't think anyone would believe me anyway, although I was dying to point you out last night, just to say, I did her hair." She gave me another huge smile, of simple delight in her own skill.

She was finished. "Now, that will hold you till next weekend at least. Or maybe you could come in during the morning? That would work out cheaper, you know?" I agreed that I would make an appointment.

Once my wig was back in place, she lead me up to the front of the salon, where the appointment book was kept at the front desk.

"Actually, I might be able to come in on Thursday morning." I said. "I'll be working in the Davies building next week, but I have Thursday morning off."

"Ooooh, that's just around the corner Ken. You must come over her for your lunch break and we'll go get a sandwich together. Cool." She enthused.

She made a loud show of booking me in for a full appointment on Thursday so that her boss would overhear, and we made an arrangement to meet the next day. I had no idea when I would get my break but she said to just call over whenever I liked. Carol's breaks were flexible.

So, I found myself waving goodbye to my new friend and back out on the street again. I decided to walk home. I felt great, my shopping completed, hair perfect again, and best of all - a friend to call on tomorrow. I'd been nervous about lunchtime - that was the time when other office workers would be able to put me under the most scrutiny. Now I could dash off, claiming I was meeting someone. Perfectly normal, and all the better for being true.

The walk home was pleasant, and I found myself fantasising about being a girl full-time. I wished that I was dressed now, in some sort of summer dress. My jeans and top felt heavy and coarse, and I knew my boy-wig was a lot less pretty than my real hair now. Still, I couldn't really bring myself to want such a change permanantly, or could I? I was't sure. What I was sure of, was that I wanted to keep seeing Ellen. Whatever she wanted me to be, I would be.

At home, after putting away my purchases I took my notes and printouts and put them into a scrapbook which I hid on the bookshelves in my bedroom. It seemed like very little information, but I was unsure of where to go next in my investigations.

The phone rang. I expected it to be Steph., letting me know when she would be home, but at first I didn't recognise the voice at the other end at all.

"Ken? Hi. We rang earlier, but you both must have been out."

"Err, yeah." I replied, trying to place the oddly familiar voice.

"It's Chérie. Your new Mom.".

Fuck. Of course. It seemed I'd totally forgotten about her and Dad, thousands of miles away on their honeymoon.

"Oh sorry. The line is kind of faint. Yeah - we were both out doing some shopping. I'm just back, Steph is still out. How's things there?" I asked, feeling slightly odd, talking to the woman who I'd spent so long discussing over the last week, and who I'd just spent hours researching and seeing endless pictures of, in various stages of undress.

"It's great. It's been very relaxing Your Dad is getting a great tan." She said and then paused, seemingly feeling as awkward about the conversation as I did..

""So you're not spending all your time indoors?" I asked, just to fill in the gap with something to say. Ugh. That sounded stupid, I thought. Thankfully, Chérie laughed.

"No, not all our time." She laughed, a hint of vampishness in her voice. "Your Dad's asleep now. He rang earlier, and last night too. So I thought I'd try this time."

She said 'last night' with a meaningful tone. Shit. Trust him to ring on the one night that no-one was here.

"Ah." I said, wishing Steph. had taken this call. "We were both out, at a concert in town. And then we stayed over at Ellen Purdue's place rather than have Steph. drive back late." I cringed as I said this. Was the truth the best option? Maybe not, but I knew that if I made up some story that it would be bound to be found out and then I would be in trouble with Dad and Steph. This way, there could only be one to contend with.

"I see." Said Chérie.

"Did he ring several times?" I asked.

"Yes. The last time was at 3 a.m. We thought it would be a concert or something like that. Look, Ken. Thanks for telling me the truth. I'll talk to him, make it okay. Is there anything else we should know?"

"Errr, no." I replied, feeling like a shit, with Chérie being so nice. "It's been pretty boring actually."

"No visitors?" She asked, again, with some meaning. This time though, I didn't understand.

"Visitors? No, apart from Ellen, Steph's firiend. Oh, you mean Uncle Ken and Aunt Karen? No, they haven't called yet."

"Hmmm. Okay. Well, I'll tell your Dad that you're both fine. Look after yourselves now."

"And you too. Enjoy yourselves" I replied and we hung up.

To my shame I found that talking to Chérie had given me a hard on. The thought of her on the beach, tanning herslef was somehow, suddenly very arousing. I consdidered the plain-covered lingerie catalog upsatirs, it's delights yet to be unwrapped. I had tried not to consider even the possibility of masturbating that afternoon, despite the obvious opportunity afforded by the abbsence of both Ellen and Steph. How could I even want to after the night that I had just spent with Ellen? Was it just the illicit nature of it? The opportunity for fantasy? Or was there something about Chérie that made it almost a compulsion now.

I stood, motionless in the hallway for a time, dithering about what to do. On the one hand, I was ashamed of wanting to masturbate, especially considering the circumstances, and the kind of fantasies concerning my Stepmother that were likely to suggest themselves to my imagination. On the other, who was I harming? The chances of discovery were pretty slim - especially considering the precautions I would take. I wasn't kidding myself - I was going to do it, I knew. This might be my last chance to do something like this before Dad and Chérire returned home again, and I was certain that I would stop then.

What to do first though - that was the question. The phone rang again right beside me, and, lost in thought, in the silent house, I almost jumped out my skin. It was Steph.

"Hi - what are you up to?" She asked.

"Nothing." I replied, guiltily.

I told her about the call from Chérie. To my relief she seemed to think I'd done the right thing in telling the truth.

"Fuck her." Said Steph. "If she thinks she's going to start checking up on me she can think again. Who does she think she is?"

"Well, it sounded like it was Dad who was really checking..."

"The cheek of her. You were with me all the time, so it's not as if she can claim to be concerend about you. I've a good mind to ring her back and tell her to butt out."

And on she went. I gave up trying to stop her venting and just listened, waiting for her anger to blow itself out. When she seemd a bit calmer, I asked what she'd originally rung about.

"To check up on you." She replied, without any hint of irony. "And also to tell you I'll be home late. I'm going out with Gregg and some of his friends, so you'll have to get your own dinner. Be good now Ken. Don't look on this as an opportunity to run riot, and if you dress, lock the doors."

I sighed exasperatedly at her lack of trust, and assured her that I would be good. "After all I have work in the morning." I said.

Steph. harrumphed, unconvinced, but she said good-night good naturedly enough in the end.

Once I'd hung up I dialled Ellen straight away.

She and her Mom were also just about to go out. We chatted for a while, but I could tell her Mom was waiting in the background. I said I'd see her the next day - 'After work' and she giggled at that. With a whispered 'Love you' she hung up.

I put the phone down with another twinge of guilt. The worst so far. Still, what had she said? "Everybody masturbates, even me." So that made everything okay - didn't it? Well, no, it didn't but it was going to have to do for me.

First I carefully locked the front door and put on the security chain. Then I did the same at the back door. I turned out the lights and went upstairs and into my Dad's bedroom. I opened my Mom's wardrobe and looked at the dresses. Silky. Luscious. Sexy. I ran my hand against them, feeling the wight of them, letting the liquid fabric run over my skin. I tingled. I selected the dress I had in mind. Black, with a high neckline, but almost backless, with spaghetti straps accross the back, and slit very high, almost to the hip. It was made of a satin-like material, very heavy and silky. I knew there was a particular chiffon slip that went underneath it. All that kind of thing was in the panel above the built-in wardrobe. I fetched a chair to open it.

Standing on the chair, I could see the piles of carefully folded underwear. I'd looked here before but never touched. Now, I felt bolder. Soon Chérie would be home, and I suspected she would throw all this stuff of my Mom's away. In any case no-one would know that it had been disturbed. I flicked through the piles of soft things, resisting the urge to take more than one.

Frustrated, I found that I couldn't find the one I had in mind. Mom had taken a lot of things with her when she left. Really, these dresses and other things had been left behind because they were slightly out of fashion. At least that was what I suspected. Maybe she had taken the slip with her. I moved one of the piles aside to see if there was anything behind it. There was.

  

Part Seventeen : .

Behind the front pile was another, smaller pile of lingerie, including the item I wanted. What caught my eye, however was an attaché case. I knew it was my Dad's. I'd seen him with it before, but I hadn't seen him carry it for years. I took down the slip and the case and placed the dress and slip aside. I opened the case, curious and slightly fearful. I was almost relieved to find only papers inside. The largest bundle was a spiral-bound document, quite thick, with a plain card cover. I flipped it over. On the front was a typed white label "Carter v. Carter". Below that was the date - 1990. Right in the middle of their divorce. I flipped open the first page. There was no explanation - just pages and pages of typed text. It seemed to be a transcript of a conversation. There were alternating names in the margins, besides paragraphs of text, including interruptions, hesitations, and <pause> and <pause> and <pause>. I flipped through it - a couple of hundred pages, but only two names beside the text. My Dad's and a "Dr. K." I had no idea who Dr. K was, but as I flipped through the pages of typing, a phrase suddenly leapt out at me from the dense text, like a carefully camoflaged animal, suddenly visible when it moves.

Dr. K : "You asked her to have sex with him?"

Fuck. What was this? I scanned through my Dad's evasive answer. Plenty of <pause>s, and long sequences of dots indicating silence, permeated his explanations.

"Well, eh, not exactly, asked. I mean, eh, that's what makes it so difficult to answer these questions. You say 'ask' which makes it sound like I just came out and asked her to do something like that. Obviosuly I didn't. It was, eh, more complicated, it eh, took longer. I mean, I, er, we discussed it. Like, eh our fantasies, you-know, and we talked about different, scenarios, or whatever, and, and well, we agreed that we'd both like - you know, both of us together. So no, I didn't ask her to do anything. I didn't ask her to sleep with ehh. Mister, ehhh, whoever it was you were talking about. We decided to. Together. It was a, a, a, eh, a mutual thing."

I looked up, looked about, as if someone might have snuck up on me while I read. There was no-one there. Mindful of what had happened to me before in this very room, I closed the document, replaced the attaché case, and, picking up the clothes, walked very gingerly back into my room. I sat down on my bed and began to read from the start.

The document was exactly what I'd thought - a transcript. Not just of one interview, but several. There were no accompanying dates but I could tell from what they said that there seemed to have been several meetings, possibly over several weeks. There was no indication of who or what Dr. K was, although I guessed quickly that she was a woman. What was hard to understand was who she was working for. Dad was clearly seeing her, answering her questions under duress. His answers were evasive, as if he felt himself backed into a corner, as if Dr. K was trying to prove something which he didn't agree with.

I guessed that Dr. K. had been hired by Mom's solictor during the divorce proceedings. It seemed she already knew a lot about the details of my parents unconventional marriage arrangements, although Dad was rather unsure of the extent what she knew. Perhaps this woman would hater testified at the divorce hearings. Dad clearly did not want to answer her rather probing questions, but it seemed that he had to.

The opening pages of the first session were pretty straightforward - K asking a lot of questions about our family, me, Steph, our home. Dad's answers were pretty relaxed, but guarded. Then she moved on to how Mom and Dad had met, their courtship, and marriage. Most of this was unsurprsing, interesting only to me to hear about this prequel to what I knew of my parent's lives.

Then K. veered off to ask about prior girlfriends of my Dad. What had sex with them been like?

"Normal, nothing unusual."

"What do you mean by 'unusual'."

<pause>

"Standard. Missionary position sex. It depended, I suppose at that age, my teens and early twenties, you're just so pleased to have managed to score with a woman at all that sex at seems so great that, that.. you wouldn't even think of…..

<pause>

…I suppose, I mean I was pretty unadventurous, and none of the girls I went out with were very experienced, or, or into anything beyond just varying position, or whatever."

"So, you never asked any of your girlfriends, prior to wife, to do anything sexual, that made them uncomfortable, anything that you needed to persuade them to do."

<pause>

"I have never asked my wife to do anything that made her uncomfortable either."

"We're talking about your prior relionships at the moment, Mr. Carter. Could you please tell me, if, in your own opinion, you ever asked any of your girlfriends to do anything sexual that they were unhappy or uncomfortable about doing?"

"I don't see where opinion comes into it. To me, it seems someone is either uncomfortable or not. However, just to be absolutely clear, with any and all women I ever slept with prior to meeting my wife, I only ever had vaginal sex, either missionary position, from behind, or woman on top. One prior girlfriend once performed fellatio on me, but this was unprompted - I didn't ask her to. That's it, the sum total of my sexual experience prior to meeting my wife."

"I see. That's very clear Mr. Carter. Did you ever wear any of, any of your prior girlfriend's clothes?"

<pause>

"I don't think that's a fair question."

"There are no fair or unfair questions, Mr. Carter. I need to ask you about prior sexual relationships, you have agreed to answer these questions, there are no taboo subjects, here Mr. Carter. I assure you that there is absolutely no point in becoming embarrased, I have a wide range of experience in these areas. Topics such as these are not out of the ordinary for me. Did you ever wear any of your prior girlfirend's clothes?"

"That's not fair, because it's not in context. Did I ever wear their clothes during sex? No."

"But you did wear their clothes? Not while having sex?"

"Wearing clothes is not a sexual act."

"Not necessarily, but to a man who has a sexual fetish centred on wearing women's lingerie, it is a sexual act."

"Not always."

"I don't see how, but in any case that is not relevant. Whether it was sexual act or not, did you ever wear any of your….."

"Yes. Yes. I did. Once, I took some lingerie from a girlfriend. She had left several items of clothing in my flat and I washed them, and when she collected them, I kept some items, I don't think that's unusual."

"Whether it's unusual or not is irrelevant, Mr. Carter. I'm not here to judge you, only to find facts. Did you tell her you were keeping them?"

<pause>

"No."

"So you stole them, in effect. What were they?"

"Panties and stockings….and a suspender belt."

<pause>

"Did you ever tell her that you had stolen them?"

"You know I didn't. She found out herself. She found them in my flat, after I'd given back the other stuff."

"Please don't make assumptions about what I know, Mr. Carter. Just answer the questions. Was she angry when she discovered that you had stolen her underwear?"

<pause>

"Not that I'd taken them. At first, she seemed almost flattered, that I'd wanted a keepsake of her. Then she realised that I had been wearing them. She was very angry then."

"How did she know that you had been wearing them?"

"Oh please. You know this, why do you need to go into details like this? To humiliate me? Why is this necessary? I didn't think that this would be like this."

"Just answer the question, Mr. Carter. Please, it would make things a lot easier if you simply answered the questions. If you become uncooperative then I will have to terminate the interview and conclude….."

"No, no. Please, just, just….please, try to be reasonable. This is difficult for me…"

"Mr. Carter. Please bear in mind what I told you at the start of our interview. Although I

am a psychologist, and a practicing psychiatrist. I am not here to treat you. I am only here to record these facts of your relationship with your wife. Your sexual history bears on that. That is why I ask these questions. I am not here to make any kind of judgement on you, nor to treat you, even if that were necessary. Do you understand?"

"There were semen stains on the panties. She saw them. She told Lisa Williams. They were friends. She finished with me soon after."

"Thank you Mr. Carter. Did this girlfriend ever see you wearing the panties?"

"No."

<pause>

"Let's leave it there for now."

I stopped reading, and stared out the window for a moment. I felt sorry for my Dad. I had had no idea that he gone through this. I remember him seeming terribly sad at the time of the divorce. I remembered the frosty silences on the few occasions that they were together, but I had no idea that my Mom had stooped to this. I wondered how much of this had come out during the divorce hearing, what Dr. K. had put in her report, what she had said about my Father during the divorce.

As I read, I couldn't help but identify with my Dad. As the interviews continued, it seemed that he got more and more resigned to having to tell everything to this stranger, and after a while she hardly seemed to need to ask questions at all, just occasionaly prompt him to tell his story.

"So, it was then, that you realised that your future wife was able to accomodate your fantasies?"

"You make it sound like I had to ask her to accomodate them. She suggested half the things we did then. She wasn't, she wasn't like, super experienced sexually, but she was, well, I dunno, interested, in experimenting. More than me in some ways, we were like kindred spirits. I mean, then, I mean, before we'd started talking about getting married, we were just playing you understand. But usually, it would be like, well, she would ask me what I thought about something. Like what you're talking about - her sleeping with someone else, and it would just be like, hypothetical. And she'd ask if talking about things like that turned me on, or, well, mostly she wouldn't need to ask..."

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, eh, because, obviously we'd be talking like this when we were already, in bed, like, during foreplay or whatever, and it'd be obvious, like..."

"Because you would get an erection?"

"Well, yeah. And then, she'd ask me to, like elaborate, to tell me what she wanted..."

"And she would say that what she wanted was to sleep with other men, with your knowledge?"

"Err, yeah. Well, I don't want to backtrack, and I say this all the time, but it was mutual, she'd sugest something, ask me if it turned me on, I 'd sugest something, ask her...it was like, like, we wanted to do things that would please each other."

"And what pleased her was to sleep with people outside your marriage?"

"Jesus, yes. Yes, but there's no way. I mean, like, the way you say that..."

"Please, Mr. Carter..."

"Its just that he way you say it, it sounds like you're saying I forced her to sleep with other men. How could I do that? How could anyone do that? I mean, you can't... you can't, you just can't...."

<pause>

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Maybe if I tell you how we first started to talk about this."

"That would probably be helpful, if you can remember."

"Well, I suppose... Of course I remember. The details. They're all here. Like they were burned in. This may sound silly, but you have to remember that I was totally in love with her. I still am. This was more than just the sexual side of things. I loved her, love her, in a very simple, straightforward way, with all my heart. I wanted to make her happy. She made me happy. Anyway, yes, it was soon after she encouraged me to wear her clothes when we made love that we first started to talk about it. This may sound odd, but it was talking about getting married that started it off. We had made love. I was lying with my head in her lap. I asked her if she would marry me. She said yes, but as she said it she laughed. That kind of hurt me. Here I was proposing to her, and she laughs. I asked why and she said that it occoured to her that I only wanted to marry her so that I could get a thrill from watching her flirt with other men.

"And was that true?"

"Oh for God's sake, no. The thought had never even entered my mind. I loved her. I wanted, I, I, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. That's why I was asking. Anyway, she wasn't completely serious. She was joking, kind of. That's what I mean. She introduced the subject. She wanted to know if it turned me on. the idea of it.....

And it did. And she knew it did. She did flirt. She wore revealing clothes, she lead men on, teased them. When we were at parties, when she'd get a reaction from a guy, she'd throw me this look, catch my eye, checking if I saw, telling me she knew, like it was a game. She never did anything you understand, just teased them, and me. She knew it turned me on already. So, she knew. And we talked about it. She asked me, straight out, if the thought of her being unfaithful - fucking around - excited me, if I thought it was something I could get into. And, you understand, that at this time, while we were together, like I said, we weren't exclusive. At least I was, but she had..."

"You said that. But you also said that you didn't know then if she was actually seeing someone else."

"Did I say that? That's wrong. I know she wasn't seeing anyone else. Like I said, there was nothing going on, but I wasn't sure that she hadn't slept with anyone else since we had first started going out. I mean, I think she was. Or at least I thought then, that she was, that she had. Maybe now, I'm not so sure."

"It doesn't matter."

"No, you're right, it doesn't. The point is, yes, it was exciting for me. I was very excited at the thought of it. And well, so was she. Wait. I know what you're going to say, how could I tell? Well, let me explain it. She played a game. How did I know it was a game? Because I just did. What she said was.....

"I know it gets you excited when you see me flirt with other men. I know you like it. It firightens you, because you know I like it too, but more because you know you want me to fuck them. And I want to too."

"That's exactly what she said. You don't forget something like that, expecially not when the person who say's it is the person you just asked to marry you. But, yes, I knew she was just saying this to turn me on. She didn't really mean it. I mean, I know she meant it, but she wouldn't have said it if it didn't turn her on too, and more to the point she wouldn't have said it if she thought it would hurt me, or make me angry. It was a game, a role. But a role that we were actually going to play for real."

"And how did it make you feel?"

"I thought you weren't my therapist."

<pause>

"I want to know to see if your theory was correct."

"Yes, it made me very excited, as she knew it would.

And later we made love and talked about it more. She was sounding me out, trying to see if I would share her, if I would be happy to let her take lovers. And I was just trying to understand if this could be real, if I could really live with this, if she really meant it."

"Mr. Carter. Do you think that your wife brought this subject up at the time that you first proposed to her, because she wanted to take other lovers after you were married."

"I suppose so, yes."

"And do you think that she would have agreed to marry you even if you had said this would be unacceptable to you?"

<pause>

<pause>

"I simply can't answer that. I don't know."

"How can you say that? Surely the occourence of the two things at the same time must have been obvious to you."

"Well, yes, I suppose so. But, honestly, I never considered it. I mean, I never considered saying no."

I put down the manuscript again.

He never considered saying no.

I wondered if Steph had ever read this. She couldn't have, otherwise she would not have her own theory about what caused the breakup, or even about their marriage. All this of course, was getting me no nearer my ultimate purpose. I put the manuscript aside and laid out the dress and chemise that I'd selected. I undressed quickly and put on some dark pantyhose, without panties. I sat down at my dresser and pulled off my wig. I took some time making myself up, but trying not to go over the top. I brushed out my hair and put in a little hairspray to hold it as I liked. Ellen had left some barettes the night before and I put one, a particularly nice silver one, into my hair above my ear. Finally, I added some lipliner and lipstick.I indulged myself a little here, partly because I loved the feel of the makeup sliding over my lips as much as I liked to see the effect in the mirror.

Pleased with my face, I donned the bra, breastforms, and the rest of my underwear, including the chemise, but leaving aside the shoes and the dress for the moment. Finally, keyed up and totally aroused I fetched the brochure, still in it's plastic cover and lay down on my bed. fairly quivering with anticipation, I pulled off the cover, half dreading to find that due to some horrible mistake, I'd ended up with a catolog for thermal vests. It wasn't so.

Chérie dominated the cover of the New Fashion catalog, and any doubts that this publication was devoted excusively to selling lingerie was instantly dispelled by the pose. She lounged seductively on a chaise longue, pouting, as her breasts heaved against the soft wisps of material that did almost nothing to conceal her flesh. To top it off, the cover listed the names of the models rather than the clothes which featured inside. My already hard cock became totally erect in earnest, and I slid it from it's nylon covering, savouring the image of Chérie as I did so.

The magazine was fabulous. After looking at some of the large, soft-focus pictures I flicked to the inside cover just to check. Yes, sure enough, Brian Cant, Gent photgrapher was the man on the job. New Fashion, was a susbsidiary of Glad. Inc.I noted. The name was familiar, but now was not the time to wonder about such details.

I glanced through the magazine, trying to take my time, and appreciate each image, especially the ones that featured Chérie and the ones with items of lingerie that I found particualry appealing. As usual, my mind filled in a fantasy, almost unconciously inventing dialogue for me and the smiling, glossy beauty before me.

In my mind, Chérie and I were discussing our upcoming wedding arrangements. She was trying on different outfits, one for beneath her wedding dress (there was a large 'bridal' section), another for the wedding night, and then a whole series for the honeymoon. She asked me to comment on each, punctuating each question with breathy sighs and slight moans as she posed, and dressed and undressed, flicking her hair and giving smoky, meaningful glances from under her dark eyelids.

"So, you like this? You like seeing me in my lingerie?"

She lifted and cupped her breasts, letting them almost escape from the sheer nylon fabric, her nipples pressing against the swirling satin detail that laced the edge of the half-cup bra.

You like the anticipation, the longing, the sense of desire? You like the way lingerie both presents and covers. The way it accentuates and caresses. Mmmmmm. You've been so good, darling. You've held off asking me to touch you until our wedding. And you've done so well, haven't you. Seeing me like this, must be almost torture for you I know, especially since you agreed to stop wanking yourself too. That's right honey, and now you're so close, so close. Oh I can see how desperate you are. Oh come on, take out your little cock. That's it. It must be so hot and uncomfortable in there. Oh my. So hard, so desperate. You've almost gone purple. Is it seeing my breasts like this that does it to you? Hmmm? Is it the way your naughty Chérie teases you? Oh, honey, you're so silly. Here, let me see how you like this."

She turns and bends, letting her little negligee ride up and over her delicous bottom, letting me see how the panty rides into the parting between her ass cheesks, her calves and thighs taught inside their nylon sheaths.

"Oh God, honey, does it hurt too much to look?"

She comes over, nearer, on her knees.

"Look, how would you like to slide your little penis in between my breasts and rock it gently between them? Would you like that? Would you? Oh, that would be so nice wouldn't it. So soft. The softest place in the world for your straining, aching little cock. Oh but not yet. No, no, no. Not till we're married."

An evil smile, an impish grin.

"But what about your lovely honey in the meantime? What shall I do till then? I'm hot and nothered too. I need some relief too. What do you think we should do about that? Hmmmm?

Lovely honey's got so very specially lovely in her lovely undies and now she needs to feel good too, but you can't do anything for her. What should we do? Hmmmm. Oooooh, I need to get some. Ooooh yeah. What do you think we should do? I want you to say. I'll do whatever you say honey. What do you want your lovely honey to do? Should we just go to bed and try to wait honey? Or something else? Hmmmm? Do you want to do that honey? Do you want your lovely honey to just get into her PJs and go to sleep? Or do you want something else? Hmmmmm?

What's that honey? You said something about Billy? I couldn't hear, you were mumbling? Billy downstairs? My friend Billy? My riding instructor? What about Billy honey? What do you want honey? Ooooooh, I'm so tense. When I see you there, all tense and wound up, it makes me tense too. Ooooh, my nipples are so hard, but when I squeeze them it just makes it worse. Uuuuuuuuhhh. Oh, honey, what do you want to do? What are you suggesting honey? What? Oh my God honey are you thinking that you want Billy to come up here to our bedroom and love me honey? Oh my! Oh honey, I wouldn't have thought you would want that honey. I thought you were jealous of Billy, honey. You always seem so quiet and resentful when he's around, especially when he's helping me onto my horse. I thought you didn't like me having him here for my riding lessons. I know you hate it when we whisper together and laugh. I know. I wish I could stop him touching me the way he does. I know it's not right for a man to touch a woman that way, not in front of her fiancée. But he makes me feel so weak and helpless. Not like you honey. He's not soft and accomodating and loving and tender like you. He's so strong and powerful. Oooooooh, like the stallion he rides. What do you want honey? What are you saying? Do you want Billy to come uop here and fuck your pretty little fiancée? Is that what you're really suggesting? It would be so nice of you to think of me like that. To put my hapiness before yours. I know you promised never to make love to another woman. Didn't I promise the same? No? I was going to do that at the wedding ceremony, of course, yes, and I still will if you want me to honey."

All the while she talks, her delicate finger plays with her lower lip, the red fingernail pressing against the pink lipticked flesh. Pouting, teasing, provoking, innocent and utterly arousing.

"Do you want me to honey? Do you? Aren't you afraid that if we let Billy come up here and fuck me that I'll love it so much, that I won't be able to stop him fucking me whenever he wants? I'm afraid that's what would happen. I'd try not to of course, but I think maybe his cock might feel so good that I'll want it again and again, even after we're married. That would be terrible wouldn't it? It'd hurt so much to seem me in another man's arms, knowing that his cock was making me feel so good, knowing that I longed to be fucked and fucked and fucked by him. Knowing that I sucked his cock whenever he wanted, knowing that your pretty little wife went down on her knees to woship his cock with her pretty mouth. Mmmmm. Oh honey, you couldn't want that, not even for me, to marry me even though you knew I was being fucked by another man, that it would go on, and on and on. Seeing him every day. Seeing us together every morning. Knowing that he knows your wife better than you, knowing that he fucks me all the time? Whenever he wants. Is that really what you want honey? Tell me, tell me what you want honey?"

She moves sinuously accross the bed, her satin lingerie taut against her heaving chest, her hair tossed and mussed. She rolls and preens on the bedclothes, getting nearer and nearer, more and more insistent, getting ever more overtly sexual in her poses, her moans, her breathy sighs. And the scene shifts, she is face down on the bed. Billy (looking oddly like Dad, actually) is taking her from behind. Her cries are almost anguished with passion and lust as she strains to spread herself wider to allow his cock to part her lips and invade her clutching, dribbling pussy..

"Oh Billy. Oh Billy. Oh Billy. Yes. Oh YES. Oh God. UUuuuuuuh. Fuck! Oh God, yes. Oh, deeper, oh deeper. Oh please yes. Oh, I never knew it could be like this. Oh fuck please. Oh please don't stop. Oh Billy Yes. Oh Billy. Oh please Billy. Give it to me. Oh Billy yes. Oh Billy fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Oh please yes. Oh God. Oh please."

And as she comes, I feel my own orgasm clench and grip, flooding my body with sweet, acidic pleasure. I close my eyes as I come, and the image of Chérie, her pouting, gorgous face, her cushiony chest, her perfect curves is imprinted in my mind with each incredible spasm.

  

Part Eightteen : .

Normally, the after-effects of masturbation included a certain sense of guilt and self-loathing. Gasping, spinning, my cock in my hand, I now felt only a sense of confusion. What were these fantasies doing to me? Where were they coming from? I gazed down on the images of my step mothers delicous body spread before me. She really was incredibly beautiful. I realised now that she usually dressed very conservativly, attempting to hide the powerfully sexual nature of her body. She usually failed of course, there was no way to damp down the way she looked, her fabulous looks were unsuppressable.

Also, now that my head was clear it occoured to me that perhaps both Steph and my wild fantasies concerning her were totally unfounded. There was not a shred of actual proof that she had any but the most sincere feelings for my Dad, or that she was some sort of sexual predator. Sure, she'd done some nude modelling and adult films in the past, but that wasn't a crime. It was very likely that Dad knew all about that anyway. What right did I have to go prying into this woman's private life? None at all really. She'd only ever been kind and sweet to both Steph and myself so far as I knew, and Dad seemed besotted. Suddenly wracked with doubt, I quickly bundled everything together and put it all away. I changed out of my Mother's slinky dress and I looked in the mirror, prepared to quickly scrub off all my makeup, but my hand slowed, stopped half-way to my face. I loved the way I looked. However I felt about Chérie, or about how Steph, I couldn't feel any shame or guilt at wanting to look pretty. Before, when I'd masturbated with Steph's undies or fantasised about wearing Mom's clothes, I'd felt cheap and pathetic, but now, looking at the transofrmation that Steph and Ellen and Carol had wrought on me, I felt only pride and strength in how I looked. I wasn't sure about much, but I knew that I wanted to stay as a girl for as long as I could. That, and I wanted to stay with Ellen, of course.

I resolved that I would go along with Stephanie's scheme for that week, but that I would not side with her against my Stepmother or do anything that I felt was wrong. If Steph. didn't like that then she could just try to find someone else to help her.

I fixed my makeup and brushed my hair into place. "You're a good girl." I told myself and after changing back into a short skirt and blouse, I went back downstairs to fix myself something to eat.

Alone in the kitchen, I reflected on how I felt about myself. I felt a confidence that I had never felt before. I knew this was mainly due to discovering that a person as lovely as Ellen could care for me, but also, it had domething to do with what Steph called, "Showing backbone". She wanted me to stand up for myself, to assert myself, and the only way she knew how was to berate me into it. Every time she called me a wimp and scolded me, it was because she wanted me to make more of myself. I wasn't sure that it was working as she might have wanted it to, but I certainly had changed, and I was still changing. It was difficult though, and the more I felt myself changing, the more I didn't like my old self and the more I found myself forced to confront a past that I had successfully ignored for a long time.

I wondered about how it would be in my last couple of years at school. In an odd way, I was looking forward to returning. I resolved that I would try to change, maybe not too quickly, but over a few months. I'd wear better clothes, try to speak up in class and in the corridors, be more active. I might even try out for the athletic club. I knew that I wasn't too bad at track and field, and that would at least keep me off the reserve team on the football pitch, which I dreaded. My thoughts drifted further. Would I try to get into college? Of course. I'd have to try to get some sort of qualification if I wanted to get out of this town. I knew that if I tried even a little in the next couple of years I could probably get decent enough A- levels to get into college. I pictured myself at a college far away, somewhere lush and beautiful on the South coast, Brighton maybe. A stray thought wafted accross my mind, freezing my soul with the sudden, delicate, breathless possibility. I saw myself, dressed as a girl, accepted as a girl, living as a girl, far away in a University town. In the vision, I was walking, talking, laughing, books clutched to my chest as I strolled with my friends through some sunlit, grassy quadrangle surrounded by sleepy redbrick buildings. What was so piercing about the vision was that I knew instantly that it was both tantalisingly possible, yet also achingly impossible. I couldn't do it. It would require so much work, so much preparation, involve such risks... and yet...here I was, about to start a job, as girl, under an assumed name. Was it that much more of a step to live full time as a girl, away from home?

I realised that my heart was pounding in my chest, each beat a mighty effort, heaving my chest, and catching my breath. I was strarting to hyperventilate at the thought of it. I stood, gasping, my head beginning to spin. Fuck! What was happening to me? It was as if something was trying to burst out from my body, trying to be born. I looked down at my heaving chest, the fake breasts rising and falling with each gasping breath. I clutched the edge of the table to keep myself steady as my knees became like water. I felt a tremble begin in my calves and rise up my stockinged legs, as a chill rose through my body, flooding my veins with ice, though the sensation was wonderful. As it rose through my abdomen I felt an almost orgasmic wave of pleasure flood through my whole being and an involoutary gasp of surprise and ecstacy moaned from my throat as it swept through my chest and overran my mind. I slumped in the chair again, weak as a kitten, only the slightest grasp on consciousness keeping me from falling to floor. All the while, even though the whole episode only took a few seconds I could still see, indeed could only see, that vision of myself - beautiful, free, happy, walking in the sunlight, somewhere wonderful. Slowly, as after an orgasm, my senses returned. I wasn't sure what had happened to me. I'd heard of panic attacks, but they had sounded unpleasant, and this had been unspeakably pleasurable. I had been out of control of my body, but it had felt wonderful, the most incredible sensation. I knew that it was linked to how I felt about the fantasy vision of myself. Even now, in the aftermath, the thought of it brought back sensations of weightlessness and a light head. I pushed the thought away, alarmed and frightened at the powerful feeling awoken in me. It was impossible. I had to get a gripon myself. I was a man, or at least a boy. I groaned. I didn't want to be a boy any more. What was wrong with me? What had gone wrong with my life? I began to feel a self-pitying tear well up in my eye. I fought it down. There was no point in feeling sorry for myself, I had to try to get on with things.

I heard a key turn in the front door. That would be Steph coming back early, I thought. I stood, and composed myself a bit. Oddly, Steph had just opened the Chubb lock, and not the mortice. I'd put the mortice lock on, since I knew that Dad had given Uncle Ken a Chubb key, but not a mortice. Only Dad and Steph had mortice keys, so there was no way I could be surprised. I walked to the hall. Maybe she'd mislaid her key. I walked into the hallway. I could see from the inner latch that the Chubb lock was open, but the door was still closed. I could hear fumbling, and someone talking to themselves outside the door - Steph's voice? There was something odd about it though.

"Steph? Have you lost your key?" I called out. As I spoke, I realised that there was something not quite right, but now I could hear her mortice key turn in the lock, and the door began to open.

"It's not Steph." Came the now familiar voice. "It's your mother." And there she was, framed in the doorway. My Mom. Home again.

For a moment, we stared at each other. I was so surprised to see her that I found myself temporarily at a loss. Suddendly, I felt the crushing weight of the years of her absence and, like a terrible, unspoken tragedy, the aching wound of the loss of her love hit me all at once. Perhaps it was the strange episode earlier, but suddenly I felt very lost and alone. I stepped forward and to her surprise, I put my arms around her and hugged her tightly.

"Oh Mum." I said. "You're home."

As I'd stepped nearer to her, my Mother's face had registered confusion, shock, and then bewilderment, but thankfully, she put her arms around me and hugged me back, though rather less intensely than my sudden embrace.

"Ken?" She said, uncertainly. "Ken? What are you doing?" She sounded concerned, confused.

I had buried my face in her shoulder. She was tall. Taller than me by nearly four inches. The smell of her blouse, her hair, the shape of her body were all so comforting, so rich in memory that I felt that I could hold on to her forever, but I forced myself to release her, allowing my embarrasement to get hold of me. I stepped back. I had no idea what to say to her. How could I explain how I was dressed? What could I say. I felt the colour rise in my cheeks, but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of pride in how I looked. I knew I looked pretty, not anything like a beautiful as my Mom or Steph, but I knew some of her beauty could be seen in me, even through my boy-body. I tried to begin to speak, flailing for some kind of explanation.

"Mom, I...it's a long story...." But she shook her head.

"I'm sorry Ken. I thought there would be no-one at home. I didn't mean to surprise you. I wanted...." She trailed off too, as if unsure what to say.

It occoured to me, that though she was surprised, she wassn't as surprised as I might have expected her to be upon finding her son dressed as a girl. She seemed more sad than anything else, and seemingly embarrased at being caught entering her own house like this.

We seemed to be adrift, unsure what to do or say. We looked at each other for a moment, and then she gestured upsatirs.

"I came to pick up some stuff, clothes mostly. I, I knew... I mean, your father told me that they would be back next week, and that if I wanted to pick anything up then I'd better do it before then. I mean, I suppose I should have done this aages ago, but it never seemed to be necessary until now. So, I thought I'd call around, and when I didn't see a car in the drive I thought you might all be out, so I just let myself in."

I nodded.

"Are, are you okay, Ken?" She asked. She seemed concerned.

"I'm fine." I said. I felt a little dazed. She was so beautiful. It had been a full year since I had seen her last, just for a week in France last Summer. I could hardly remember what the holiday had been like. I remembered that I'd been sullen and moody, and had managed to make everyone miserable. Now I knew that the reason had been that I missed her, that I resented her for leaving, that I had been trying to punish her for not being there.

"Ken, why are you wearing a skirt?" She asked, her tone very neutral.

I sighed. "It's complicated Mom." I said. "But, really, there's nothing to worry about." I gestured towards the kitchen and we both, rather awkwardly made our way to the lounge, me very conscious of my shoes, my stockinged legs and the fact that, despite how bad all this was, it could have been worse - I could have been wearing her dress.

In the kitchen, Mom looked around before sitting down at the table.

"You're on your own?" She asked.

"Yes. Steph is out, she rang earlier to say she won't be back till late. I thought you were her." I said, rather unnecessarily. I sat, nervously, smoothing my skirt with my hands, trying to figure out what to do.

"I, I can kind-of explain." I said. Mom looked like she was going to shake her head as if to say she didn't want to hear it, but I plowed on regardless. I falteringly explained that I had got a job, temping, but that the agency needed a girl. I had thought it would be fun, and my girlfriend (I emphasised this word rather a lot) had thought it would be fun to try too, and so we had dressed me as a girl and surprising though it was, I was actually going to start this job in the morning. It didn't sound believable, even the parts that were true, but I felt I had to say something. I hoped that Mom would be kind enough not to start poking holes in the flimsy-sounding story, and she didn't. Indeed, all she asked was "Who is this girlfriend?"

"Ellen Purdue." I said, with a hint of pride.

Mom raised an eyebrow. She would have remembered Ellen as Steph's friend.

"Really? Is Steph involved in this?

"Ehh. Not really involved." I said, lamely. "But she knows." I hoped she wouldn't go further and she didn't, only asking.

"And what about your father? He knows nothing about your...your...job?"

I shook my head.

"And I presume his new wife knows nothing either."

I nodded again.

"Ken. Listen to me. I don't know what you think you're doing, but I'm worried about you. Very worried. You ought to be yourself, not listen to what anyone else wants you to be. That's the only way you'll be happy. Do you understand what I mean?"

She seemed so like Steph. My sister had probably said something almost identical while sitting, lecturing me, in that very chair in the last week or so. I nodded, and the vision that had so affected me before came into my mind again.

"I am being what I want to be." I blurted out.

Mom shook her head sadly.

"No, no you're not. Really you're not. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Ken." She looked like she was about to cry. I had no idea what she felt she had to be sorry for, but she seemed so sad that my heart ached for her. I got up and went over to her again. Rather rmore clumsily, I put my arms around her and this time, it was her who hugged me tightly.

"Take care Ken. Take care. Be yourself." She whispered to me, and I felt her tears through the flimsy fabric of my blouse.

"I will. I do." I said. I longed to tell her how I felt, explain that everything was okay, but it seemed to difficult, too complicated.

She released me and composed herself again. To cover up the awkwardness between us, I offered her coffee. She hesitated but then agreed. She asked again, when I was expecting Steph to return and when I said that I thought she would be at least threee hours yet, she seemed to come to a decision. She said that she wanted to collect some things of hers. She had suitcases and boxes in her car outside. She went outside to fetch them while I made the coffee. I fetched mugs and boiled the kettle. After a minute, I heard her come back in and go upstairs. I followed.

She was standing in the master bedroom,opening the same wardrobes that I had rifled that same evening. Carboard boxes were laid at her feet. Without turning to me, she asked if I would go and fetch the rest of the cases from her car.

It took just half an hour to pack all the remains of my Mother's clothes into the cases and boxes. Mom looked like she'd have preferred if I didn't help but I wanted to see if she would notice anything missing. She wasn't looking close enough to notice the absence of the dress and slip which were both neatly folded in a drawer in my room, and I couldn't tell if she noticed anything amiss in the top wardrobe from which I'd taken the attaché case. I saw no reaction on her face when she reached in to lift down the piles of lingerie from in front of it, which I stowed for her in a cardboard box. All, the same, I was nervous. She didn't mention my clothes again, nor anything to do with the family, but quizzed me about school, about my hopes for my grades, whether I'd made any new friends, what I was doing with myself these days.

I answered as well as I could, trying to be truthful, which was difficult, given just how much of my life was now a tabboo subject. Still, I suppose I must have sounded fairly upbeat, even through my evasive and non-commital answers. She seemed more pleased with me by the time we'd finished.

"You seem different Ken." She said, as we closed the boxes, ready to load them into her car. It seemed funny, given the circumstances, but she didn't return my smile. She'd never had much of a sense of humour.

"No, really. You seem more mature." She said, and I glowed with pride as we carried her stuff downstairs and outside to the car. Returning to the house, I suddenly remembered that I could have been spied from the road. I'd been lucky, but only just. I sighed with relief when we were back, safe in the kitchen again.

"Now. Let's have that coffee." Said Mom.

I could feel her eyes on me as I poured it out. We sat for a moment and sipped our coffee. It was early evening now, and the Summer's day was fading.

I asked about her and Jim Hughes, were they still together?

Of course. She said. Why wouldn't they be? I shrugged. I longed to ask about her and Dad, about their breakup, how she felt about Dad now, but I couldn't. Instead, I asked why she hadn't come to the wedding. He answer surprised me.

"I thought it best to stay away." She said, putting down her cup and lighting a cigaretter. She'd always been a light smoker, maybe five a week or so, but she only ever smoked when she was nervous.

"I wanted...I felt it was best if your Dad can just get on, leave that whole era behind him, behind all of you."

She took a deep drag.

"I mean. I'm glad he's making a new life, making a new family."

She leaned in closer to me. "What is she like? Do you like her?" She asked.

I realised that she hadn't intended to ask this, that she was burning with curiosity but she wanted to keep back, to fade away. Why? It was almost as if she wanted to erase herself from our past, but she couldn't quite drag herself away. If I had not been here this evening then she would have snuck in and out and we'd have heard nothing from her for months - probably not until Christmas. But she still loved us. Loved me anyway, that I could see clearly now. But she kept herself apart. There were very few visits, fewer letters or phone calls. She wasn't completely adrift, but the link to her old family was very weak, very thin.

I'd taken too long to answer.

"Never mind. I don't need to know. Your father seems very happy anyway. I hope you can get on together. I hope, I hope she's a good mother."

She finished her cigarette with a sharp pull. Her voice sounded rather brittle, as if she had mastered it with difficulty. She stood to go.

"Wait." I said. "We have time yet."

It seemed rather pathetic, to plead with her to stay. Clearly she wanted to get away before Steph returned.

"Please Mom." I said. "Tell me something."

She shook her head, picked up her cigarettes and lighter, put them in her handbag.

"Let me visit you before the holidays are over." I said.

She looked at me sadly, then forced her face into a a stern look. "Ken, you know I can't do that. You understand that your Father and I have to agree these things. Please don't ask me like this, it's not fair on me or your father, or your new stepmother."

She was a consumate actress, and competely in control of herself, but I knew, as only a son or a daughter can know, that this was hurting her terribly, that she was forcing herself to seem uncaring.

"Mom. Please. Tell me. Why didn't you want custody of us?"

Even as I said it, I knew that I had gone too far. She glared at me. Her resolve began to crumble. I could almost see the pain travel from her heart into her throat, threatening to break loose. A look of agony passed accross her face for a moment, but she exerted control. My heart broke as I saw her force her emotions back into check.

"It wasn't like that Ken." She said, evenly. "We explained to you before. We decided for many reasons that it was best that both you and your Sister stayed with your father." She began to walk away.

"It's not fair of you to ask these things Ken. I'm sorry I came here. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I don't want to ask you to lie, but can I ask you not to mention that I was here to your Sister? At least, not straight away."

"Oh, come on, Mom." I said, dejectedly. "She'll know immediately. For a start she'll smell the smoke."

She looked startled, as if she'd imagined that her visit could be kept a secret from her daughter.

"Right." She said, off balance for a moment. I saw an opening.

"She'll be mad that she missed you. She'll quiz me about what you wanted, what you said."

Mom frowned. "Will she?"She asked.

"Yes. It's not fair, she'll say I should have rung her while you were here. You should stay, talk to her yourself.

"No." Said Mom, firmly, but seeds of doubt had been planted.

"You could come back." I said. "You should. You should meet up with her. Clear the air, before, before they come back."

I had her. I'd guilt-tripped her into it. She hesitated.

"I'll see." She said. "Now, I have to be going." And she turned on her heel.

Shamelessly, I ran after her. She paused and I threw my arms around her again. I kissed her on the cheek.

"I love you Mom." I told her, with all the earnest sincerity I could muster. I needed her to know, no matter how it hurt her. She could cry in the car afterwards.

"Really, Ken. You're too old for this nonsense." She scolded, over my shoulder. She gave me a pat on the back and broke the embrace, but she turned her face away as soon as I released her so I couldn't see her eyes. In a moment, she was out the door. Uncaring, I stood in the doorway to wave to her. She didn't turn till she was behind the wheel of the car, and I couldn't see her too clearly. She waved to me briefly and then was gone.

    

  

  

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