FAMILY CONTROL by Joe Doe A SPOILED TROPHY WIFE LEARNS THE MEANING OF CONTROL The accident hadn't been Brittany's fault. It was a stupid place to put a gas pump, and she was barely over the legal limit, which was way too low anyway, if you asked her opinion, which no one did, which was like...totally unfair. To make matters worse, she got a female judge. Brittany thought the sentence of community service was totally unfair, even if it was her fifth offense. I mean, it was only her fifth offense if you counted that accident with the patrol car. And that clearly wasn't her fault, no matter what all those policemen said. Brittany had dressed sexy for court, expecting a male judge. But her appearance did little to impress the female judge, and she was certain that she heard the whispered word "bimbo" when her lawyer was asked to approach the bench to discuss "inappropriate attire." "It's obvious that you don't know how to control a car -- or yourself, for that matter," the judge admonished her. "I should put you in jail. But, given your husband's standing in the community, I will accept your attorney's plea arrangement for community service." When it came time for her service assignment, Brittany decided to double down and wear the same outfit. However, the woman (what luck!) at the county office seemed even less impressed than the judge had been. She declared Brittany "too stupid" to tutor kids, "too puny" for manual labor at the park, and "too ditzy" for office work. "I could put you with the prisoners at the county jail, working on the chain gang. Of course, since you would be shackled together with the male prisoners, the guards would probably need to strip search you. And you'd probably have to shower with the male inmates," she added, with a wicked smile. "Is there ANYTHING else?" Brittany asked. "That list you're looking at seems huge!" "Well, you're just not qualified for much, dearie," the woman patronized. "Ever done any modeling?" Brittany brightened. "Why, yes, I have. I was in a Victoria's Secret catalog once. And I almost got a trip to Paris when...." "Whatever," the woman said. "They need a model at the college. Be at Steiner Hall, Room 103, 7:00 tonight, and do everything they say. If you don't show up, or you give them any hassle at all, I fill out a pink form, and you do 90 days of hard time at the State Correctional Institution for Women." "And if you end up at state, I wouldn't recommend wearing the little outfit you have on now," the woman said, with a cruel smile. "The bulls would eat you alive, honey buns." Brittany left the office with the assignment slip in hand. She was determined to be on time. ****************************** "Now, if you'll just get undressed, you can change into this robe," the professor said. "Undressed?" Brittany said. "But I don't understand. I thought this was supposed to be an art class." "Indeed it is, Art Appreciation 101. Not the most respected or rigorous class in our community college curriculum, to be sure, but a field of no small import. Last week, we went to the local art museum. The week before, the students brought in coloring books and colored, which led to a spirited discussion of the nature of art." He coughed. "But this week is, I dare say, the one that our students have most been looking forward to. Indeed, some of the cynics on the faculty have suggested that this session is the reason that our class seems to be populated mostly by males, or by females of a rather...shall I say, masculine?...sexual orientation. We will study the female form.... The nude female form." "Nude!" Brittany gasped. "No one said anything about nude!" "Be that as it may, young lady, nude it shall be. Of course, if you'd rather, I can call the Sheriff right now, and I'm sure he'd be delighted to escort you to the female correctional facility of his choice. "Or...," the professor smiled and picked up the short white robe. "You could exchange your present lovely but nonetheless far too concealing habiliments for this." His fancy words didn't fool Brittany; she could tell by the look in his eye that this entire "art class" was just a charade designed to strip her naked. But what could she do? She was rich, to be sure -- at least her husband was. (He was not physically very attractive, but money was usually one of the advantages of marrying a man thirty years your senior.) But she had been so embarrassed by her accident that she hadn't told her husband about it, and now she had trapped herself in a legal predicament that even he might not be able to buy her out of. And time was not her friend. Her husband was in Europe on business, and she feared the professor's threat to call the Sheriff was not an idle one. The professor, meanwhile, dangled the robe in front of her and smiled. "A bit short, perhaps, but it isn't as if you'll be wearing it for long. So, what shall it be, my dear? Do you want to take off your clothes now, for the edification of my class and the noble purpose of higher education? Or would you rather be forcibly stripped at the prison, under the watchful eyes of your guards?" She had posed for some racy pictures during her modeling career, but she had never posed nude. And her conservative husband had made it clear that, now they were married, he expected her to be a demure and proper wife. But she knew that she really had no choice. She snatched the robe and snapped, "If I could have some privacy, please...." "Of course, my dear," the professor said, unctuously. "I wouldn't want to do anything to violate the delicate sensibilities of a young lady of such obvious refinement." He walked to the door. "But do make haste," he said. "The class is waiting." Brittany had worn a yellow leotard under her white sundress. In her mind's eye, she had envisioned herself being sculpted by a class of rapt and talented students, perhaps while she held an apple. She had never imagined that she would be strutting around naked in front of a bunch of freshmen and sophomores in some bogus 100-level class. "Maybe I should just put the apple in my mouth," she thought, as the leotard landed in a puddle on the floor. The robe was very short indeed, and she tried to tug it down a bit. Then she closed her eyes momentarily, took a deep breath, and entered the classroom. There was an immediate murmur of approval and a few nervous giggles from the students. But, although she could hear them, she didn't see them. She was staring at the floor. "Josh, since you're the one who arranged our model today, I think it's only appropriate that we use your suggestion for today's artistic tableau. What is your decision?" At the mention of the name "Josh," Brittany looked up in horror. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible! But it was. Sitting in the front row was her stepson, Josh. Josh had hated Brittany from the moment he met her. He had told his father that Brittany was a gold-digging bitch who was interested in him only for his money. She had responded in kind, by convincing her new husband that cutting off Josh's financial support would be a "character-building" experience for him. At first her husband had resisted the idea of transferring his son's inheritance into a discretionary trust under Brittany's sole control. But the former lingerie model could be very persuasive. Josh no longer lived in his father's mansion. Now he had a crummy apartment, shared with six of his friends. He no longer went to Harvard. His reduced finances had forced him to switch to the local community college. It wasn't much, but it was all his salary at Burger King could pay for. Brittany gaped at her stepson, who was slumped casually at his desk with his legs fully extended. She looked around the room and recognized Josh's roommates and several of his friends who, of course, were no longer welcome at her mansion. She clutched her robe tighter, as her smiling stepson slowly ran his eyes up her bare legs. Suddenly it all made sense. Josh had mentioned that a roommate's mother worked for the county. And the smiling young man sitting next to Josh looked like an 18-year-old male version of the woman bureaucrat who had trapped her in this nightmare. Josh savored the moment before speaking. "I've decided that we should do a modern interpretation of a classic 'Mayfair' comic, popularly known as 'Carrie.'" He paused and smiled at his stepmother. "A photographic interpretation." His friend reached into his camera case and pulled out several digital cameras. "Of course, in order to protect the delicate feelings of our model, I'll keep all the pictures myself." The professor furrowed his brow. "Well, of course...ahem...as the instructor, it would be proper for me to retain a digital record of the event, not only for practical academic reasons, but also, as an artistic director, I require images I can study at my leisure...for inspiration." "Of course, Professor," Josh said. "You will have a set as well. But I'll keep the only other ones." Josh looked at his horrified stepmother and smiled. "It's important that, from now on, I am the one in control." From his backpack he extracted some colorful photocopies and passed them out. "These images depict a young woman at a slave market. As you can see, she is positioned in such a way as to ensure that her physical anatomy is fully revealed. Perfect for an art class." "I quite agree," the professor said, his eyes and pants bulging. "But 'time and tide,' you know.... I think we should get started." The 19-year-old walked up to his 23-year-old stepmother and smiled. "Please, Josh," she whispered. "I've been thinking. I think you should move back home. I'll get your father to change his will back." "Take off your robe," he ordered. "Please, Josh, you don't have to do this," she whispered. "You'll be in control again. It will be just like it was before." "Yes, I know -- AFTER I get the pictures," he murmured. "Don't worry, it will be our little secret. Dad need never know. He loves you, heaven knows why, and I want him to be happy. But, from now on, you're going to be a good wife and a good stepmother -- and put your family first." "Yes, I will, Josh," she said. "I promise." "My friends and I aren't even going to fuck you," he said. "But I think it's only right that we get to see the pussy my father betrayed me for." He looked at her coolly. "So stop the chatter. It's time to put that sweet ass of yours on the block." He paused for effect. "Take off the robe. Now." Defeated, she took off her robe and gently laid it onto the chair behind her. She stared at her pretty bare feet and tried to ignore the tittering and gleeful whispers of the "artists" who now examined her naked form. The teacher's desk served as the auction block. At Josh's direction, Brittany placed her hands on her head, spread her legs, and squatted. The humiliating position brought EVERYTHING fully into view. She clenched her teeth as Josh positioned himself in front of her and slowly adjusted the zoom on his camera. There was no doubt about it. He was once again in control. END Edited by C. Lakewood