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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Prairie Girl - 2 (Fm, cd, v)
by Chrissie LaFemme
***
Boss was astonished at breakfast to find the boy still
dressed in his wife's clothes. The meal, like the previous
evening's dinner, was eaten in tense silence.
All eyes in the room were on Blondie. Boss and the two boys,
Homer and Dutchie, embarrassed and confused by the boy's
feminine attire, threw clandestine glances in his direction;
Queenie, hovering in the background, watched his every
movement like a cat with a captive mouse.
'I can tell from your face that you don't like any of this.
Why did you let her make you wear her clothes yesterday?'
Boss said to himself as the shame-faced boy served coffee.
'What happened between the two of you yesterday? Why are you
so silent today? Why don't you say something?'
Boss observed how subservient the boy had become: Queenie
scarcely had to raise her voice and Blondie would scurry to
carry out her orders.
The dinner that evening was eaten in an equally strained
atmosphere. Gone was the boy's usual good-natured banter with
Homer and Dutchie, instead his downcast eyes sought to avoid
meeting theirs.
The following day passed and went, as did the next and the
next. Boss was no nearer understanding the reason for
Blondie's womanish attire then he was at the start. The
silence which had characterized meal-times was slowly
punctured; first by he and the two bigger boys speaking in
whispers and then gradually talking in their normal voices.
Queenie excluded Blondie from their conversations by
confining him to the kitchen; he only came out when she told
him to. Boss was astonished how -- without a murmur of
protest -- the boy would let her fuss over his lace bonnet or
re-tie his apron. The control that she seemed to exert over
Blondie through dressing him in female clothing unsettled
Boss and, if the truth be told, it unsettled him greatly.
He thought it was unnatural and unwholesome of Queenie to
make the boy dress in her clothes. But whenever he raised the
matter with his wife she always had a ready answer for him.
She would clinch her argument by pointing out that Blondie
wasn't complaining ...
He fretted too that Queenie was spending too much time with
the boy in the evening -- she no longer sat with him after
dinner ("I'm too busy right now ... perhaps tomorrow," she
would say). As he sat alone in his favorite chair he could
hear the two of them in the spare bedroom upstairs.
Occasionally, he would hear his wife's raised voice and the
sudden scuffling of heels on the floor.
Boss came to regret putting Queenie in charge of Blondie: it
had been a mistake on his part. He knew too that Dutchie and
Homer secretly blamed him for what was happening to their
friend. In his mind he saw the boy running away to escape the
humiliation he suffered at the hands of Queenie. He thought
he would use this excuse to wrestle control of the boy from
his wife and he sought her out one evening after dinner.
He found the two of them in the spare bedroom. Blondie was
sitting in front of a mirror with a large sheet wrapped
around him; his wife was trimming the boy's long blond hair.
"What are you doing, woman?" he growled.
"Can't you see? I'm cutting his hair," she replied testily.
She seemed to resent his presence in the room. "What do you
want?"
"I think he's going to escape -- I've seen that look in his
eyes; he's going to try to escape, mark my words!" he
exclaimed, wide-eyed.
"Not while I'm in charge of him!" Queenie snapped back.
"No! He's going to try and escape! I know it!" her husband
persisted.
"He's not going to escape, I tell you!" Queenie rasped.
"How can you be so sure?" Boss demanded.
Queenie gave her husband an exasperated glare and whipped the
sheet off the boy.
"There!" she said triumphantly. "Do you think he'll escape
now?"
Her husband looked sheepish seeing that the boy's hands had
been tied to the back of the chair.
"You can't keep him hog-tied like that all day!" her husband
challenged furiously.
"I don't need to!" Queenie retorted. "I can control him well
enough in other ways."
"How?" her husband demanded. "What's to stop him running away
when he's out of your sight?"
Queenie went around to the front of the boy. Lifting up the
hem of his dress and all but the inner-most petticoats she
pointed to the remaining lace-trimmed underskirt.
"See that?" she said, blazing with anger.
"Yeah, what about it?" Boss replied impatiently. "You're
going to tell me that a frilly underskirt is going to stop
him running away?"
Queenie smirked.
"That's exactly what I'm going to tell you," she retorted.
"That's a hobble skirt he's wearing -- do you know what that
means?"
Boss shook his head.
"It means that it restricts his leg movement so he can't move
more than six inches at a time!" she told him.
Her husband sneered.
"Oh yeah! What's to stop him taking it off?" he demanded.
"His dress."
"His dress?" her husband repeated incredulously.
"Yes, his dress; he can't take his petticoats off without
taking off his dress and I fixed it that he can't take off
his dress without me!" Queenie replied as if she was
explaining something very simple to a not-very-bright small
child.
Boss glared at her.
"You think women aren't as clever as men, but we know how to
impose discipline in our own way," Queenie snapped. Then,
going on the offensive, she added: "Where are your two? Do I
see that the door of their quarters is open?"
Her husband went over to the window in disbelief and then
with a roar rushed out of the room and down the stairs.
Queenie bolted the door closed behind him and draped the boy
with the sheet again.
Taking up her scissors again she looked at his reflection in
the mirror.
"Men!" she snorted derisively. "Take my advice: don't have
anything to do with them!"
++++++++++++++++
Homer and Dutchie missed their friend; they only saw him at
breakfast and dinner during the week and at lunch on Sundays.
He was not allowed to talk to them on Queenie's express
orders. She got Boss to punish them if she caught either of
them talking to him.
They felt sorry for Blondie seeing the way Queenie treated
him. They both agreed that despite Boss's physical
maltreatment of them they preferred working with him than
her.
"She never lets him out of her sight," Homer said one evening
after Boss had locked them in for the evening.
"Yeah, she's a right devil!" agreed Dutchie who was the
smarter of the two.
"She gives me the creeps! Those eyes -- like they can read
your mind!" Homer exclaimed. "I don't know how Blondie sticks
it."
"I don't think he has a choice. I heard Boss roaring to her
the other night not to keep him tied up all day --" Dutchie
said.
"You're joking! She keeps him tied up all day?" Homer
breathed in horror.
"That's what Boss was shouting, anyway," Dutchie responded.
"But he can hardly move as it is, with all those skirts!"
Homer commented. "I was watchin' him on Sunday and he could
only shuffle along!"
"I know, I know," Dutchie agreed wearily. "She knows that he
can't get very far in those clothes -- I bet that's why she
makes him wear them!"
"I wish there was something we could do for him," Homer
exclaimed. "Boss won't do anything for Blondie -- he's washed
his hands on him!"
Dutchie nodded.
"I'd give my bottom dollar to help him escape," he said.
"But he can't escape, Dutchie!" Homer pointed out. "She has
eyes like a hawk -- she misses nothing!"
He clambered up to the loft above them. He gave Dutchie a low
whistle and waved him to come up.
Through the only window in their quarters they watched as a
light came on in the spare bedroom over in the farm building.
They saw Queenie drag the femininely-dressed boy into the
room.
"Look, Dutchie!" Homer exclaimed in horror. "His hands _are_
tied behind his back!"
"Poor fellah!" breathed Dutchie.
Then Queenie closed the curtains but the boys continued to
watch. They could faintly hear their friend crying and
pleading; then there was silence.
The light went out fifteen minutes later.
++++++++++++++++
It was just after noon and though it was still only early
spring it was very hot.
They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose
leafy branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.
Queenie felt relaxed and comfortable despite the heat. Her
fingers deftly worked the needle in and out of her embroidery
frame. She glanced briefly at her companion and decided to
let him suffer for another while.
"My, it's hot out here!" she said a few minutes later. She
gave him a smile (she smiled a lot these days) and squeezed
his arm.
"Blondie, you've a lot to learn," she said. "But I'm
disappointed that you're not very willing pupil today. But
time is on my side, Blondie, and I can wait -- all day if I
have to. I told you yesterday I was going to teach you
embroidery and teach you embroidery I will!"
She shifted closer to him on the bench.
"Would you like an extra layer, Blondie?" she whispered.
There was no response from the boy.
"That's what I'll do, Blondie -- I'll add another layer!
You've been disobedient for not wanting to do your embroidery
lessons!" Queenie said playfully. She waited to see his
reaction: he was already wearing four extra layers of
petticoats! Each demeanour was punished by another layer
being added to the standard five he wore; Blondie knew the
rules: obey her -- or face the consequences!
Tears trickled down the boy's face.
"Oh, Blondie! Don't cry!" Queenie consoled him in an
insincere voice. "Maybe embroidery lessons wouldn't be so bad
after all?"
The boy nodded.
Queenie reached over and untied the cord binding his wrists
together. The boy tenderly rubbed his wrists; the red weals
made by the cord were clearly visible on his skin.
"I'll leave the sash the way it is, Blondie," she told him.
The boy nodded tearfully: Queenie had undone the sash of his
dress when he had sat down on the bench. Then she had slipped
the two ends of the sash between the wooden bars of the bench
before retying them again. In this way he was secured to the
bench. The boy knew from bitter experience how Queenie loved
to tether him in this way; he knew too it was impossible to
reach around to free himself, leaving him at her mercy.
Acting on impulse and even though she knew it was an over-
kill, she had even tied his ankles together. She remembered
looking up and seeing the hot tears of humiliation welling in
his eyes as she had reached under his skirts. Best of all,
she remembered expecting resistance but it never came: he had
meekly submitted to her binding his slim ankles together with
a length of silk ribbon.
"The gag can stay on too," she added with an imperious smile.
++++++++++++++++
When Queenie had dressed Blondie in one of her night-gowns
one evening and tied his wrists to the bed, she laid out his
clothes for the following day.
"You're going to look very pretty in this dress, girlie," she
smiled, showing him the dark green garment. She hung it in
his closet and verbally checked off his uniform: "Chemise,
stockings, corset, petticoats, apron, lace bonnet! All your
pretties ready for you tomorrow!"
She did a final check on the cords securing his wrists to the
bed-post. Satisfied, she splashed his neck and wrists with
eau-de-cologne.
"Sweet dreams, girlie!" she whispered softly before blowing
out the lamp. She locked the door behind her.
Downstairs she took out the letter she had started writing to
her cousin, a herbalist living near a city on the east coast.
She read what she had written so far:
"Dearest Anita:
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
All is well here and if the weather continues to hold it
looks that we will have a good year on the ranch.
I am most grateful for your letter and package which finally
arrived last month. I have been administering the contents of
the green bottle to Blondie. Of course, he does not know that
I am giving it to him. But you were right! He complains of
extra tiredness and of weary limbs. He is like a lamb now --
so docile! It is a great mental relief to me to know that I
can give him this to sap his boyish energy!
Anita, it is so amusing! When he complains of tiredness, I
tell him he is a weakling -- that he is just like a girl!
Then, he gets offended and tries to stand up! But he soon
runs out of strength and has to sit down again! I don't say
anything but I let him know by my expression that I have been
proven right! Of course, I have been adding extra petticoats
underneath his dress and the weight of these adds to his
difficulties! Just lifting his skirts takes its toll!
If only, Anita, I had the excuse to dress him in female
clothes from the start! I remember when he first worked under
my supervision, I was so apprehensive about him escaping. Now
that his movements are dictated by the constraints of
voluminous underskirts, hoops, and long skirts with which you
and I are so familiar, I feel so relaxed knowing that he
can't abscond.
My 'girlie' (how he hates the term!) has always coped well
with his domestic chores but now he has to re-learn how to do
them wearing a dress! He's found that simple things like
picking something up from the floor have to be done
differently: for a start your corset doesn't allow any
flexibility at the waist and, secondly, young ladies are
'trained' not to show their petticoats!
I have begun instructing girlie in the finer points of
femininity: I have started him on embroidery and though he
doesn't know it yet I will soon teach him to braid his hair.
Of course, Boss is jealous of the attention I give to
Blondie. But, Anita, I don't care! I dedicated my life to
Boss up to now and never got any thanks or recognition in
return. Now, I've got Blondie and, believe me, I don't intend
to let him go! Boss has his two boys, Homer and Dutchie, so
in a way he's happy too. Anyway, I've got a plan to get Boss
to quit cribbing about how I treat Blondie. If it works --
and I am sure it will -- I can get on with molding Blondie in
the way I told you about in my last letter.
It is richly ironic but I am as strict on girlie as my mother
was on me! How I hated her authoritarian ways and how I
detested her attempt to turn me into -- what I thought then
-- was the personification of a porcelain doll: delicate,
beautiful to look at but voiceless! But now I look back and
realize the value of what she was trying to do; she knew
then, as I do now, that until women receive emancipation we
will never be treated as equals by men. While we wait for our
rights our only hope is to sit pretty and attract a husband
who hopefully will come to recognize our qualities. I ran
away with Boss before my mother could teach me about men -- a
mistake I do not intend to make with girlie."
Then Queenie finished the letter with a few more sentences
describing how female clothing was shaping Blondie's
behavior. She related with relish how Blondie had learnt to
lift his skirts off the ground when he went anywhere and how
he smoothed the back of his dress when sitting down. She
recounted how one day at dinner Boss and the boys had noticed
a bruise on Blondie's forehead; even they had laughed when
she explained that he had tripped on his skirts and fallen
against a chair!
She sealed the letter in an envelope; she would tell Boss to
post it the next time he was in Stuger City.
++++++++++++++++
Boss was surrounded by his drinking cronies in the Thunder
Mountain Salon when the owner, a widow by the name of Hettie
Baldwin, approached holding a bottle of whisky.
She was a small, compact woman in her early forties and
though more comfortable in female company had an easy way
with her mostly male customers.
Though Boss was an infrequent visitor to her salon in Stuger
City, Hettie had recently learnt a great detail of
information about him. Information which lowered her already
low opinion of him.
Boss, she learnt, had been married for over ten years and as
his wife was infertile had no children of his own. When his
wife had suggested adopting a girl and a boy from an
orphanage, he had refused to entertain the idea. A few days
later, he suddenly reversed his stance. But his wife's joy
was short-lived; instead he bullied her into accepting his
proposal of firstly taking boys only and, secondly, taking
older boys who could help him on the ranch. His wife had
cried on the journey to the orphanage and back but he had
remained unmoved by her tears. The matron of the orphanage
had tried to facilitate her original wishes but could not do
so without her husband's consent.
Hettie learnt that the orphanage had provided Boss with three
boys, one of whom was physically unsuitable for manual work
and whom his wife had fashioned into a domestic help. When
this boy had tried to escape she had punished him by dressing
him in female clothing. This unorthodox form of punishment,
she had found, was very effective in preventing him from
escaping again. Though she recognised that being dressed as a
girl was initially very humiliating for the boy, in time she
believed -- from what she had seen and learnt about him --
she could convince him that he was fated for femininity.
The only fly in the ointment was that Boss was continually
threatening to take the boy from her control.
As Hettie approached the table where Boss and his friends
were sitting, she could hear them talking about recent
hangings in the town.
"Evening, boys," she greeted them.
"Hello, Hettie," they chorused.
"Couldn't but overhear you talking about hangings," she said,
pouring them a refill of whisky ["The drink's on me," she
told them]. Looking directly at Boss she said: "Ever hear of
what happened to Wally Segard?"
"Wally Segard? No, who's he? What about him?" Boss replied.
"You never heard about poor old Wally!" Hettie exclaimed in
surprise.
Boss shook his head.
"He was murdered six months ago," Hettie continued.
"Murdered? By who?" Boss quizzed.
"His wife --" Hettie replied.
"His wife!" Boss interjected.
"Yes, it seems she wanted children but couldn't have any of
her own. Seems too she wanted to adopt a girl from an
orphanage but Wally wouldn't let her," Hettie said.
"He wouldn't let her?" Boss repeated, suddenly going red.
"That's right. So, she got a knife and cut off his manhood
while he was in a drunken sleep," Hettie said calmly.
"Oh man!" Boss moaned and involuntarily crossed his legs.
"Yes, it was terrible!" Hettie said. "So they arrested her --
Wally died a few days later -- and questioned her why she'd
did it. She said she'd wanted a daughter so bad that she'd
kill anyone who got in her way. And it seems Wally got in her
way ..."
"She did that because ... that's unbelievable ..." Boss
stuttered.
"No, it happened, Boss," Hettie confirmed. "Every married
woman longs for a daughter ... it's a woman thing ... we've
this intense craving for another female with whom we can
share our inner-most thoughts and secrets. Seems Wally
couldn't understand that desire in his wife -- not that most
husbands do --"
"That's hogwash!" Boss interrupted. "Women are just plain
irrational!"
"Maybe so, Boss," Hettie said softly, "but, Boss, just
remember this: when someone tries to get in the way of that
mother-daughter relationship, the female is the most
dangerous of the species!"
She walked away before Boss could reply.