This story is intended for adults above the age of 18. If you are not 18 years or older, please do not read any further. I hope all you fans of femdom literature enjoy this story. GEORGE'S MAKEOVER by Little Sissy Tippytoes (an309248@anon.penet.fi) * * * * * * * * * * George Novala wasn't sure how his secretary had figured out what he was up to; he only knew he was in serious trouble. Over the past year, the company had been in turmoil. Repeated layoffs had generated a climate of fear. Each employee was convinced he or she was next to go. People were spending more time composing resumes and arranging interviews with potential employers than they were doing their assigned tasks. And pay had been frozen for well over a year, with no real hope of a change in policy in the foreseeable future. With the economy as stagnant as it was, and job security an oxymoron, the employees of Humboldt Manufacturing were depressed. Depressed and angry. It seemed that no effort was really rewarded anymore - even layoffs seemed unrelated to performance. So, why bother trying? That was the hopeless refrain taken up by many of the workers on the line, and even in the front office. George Novala was not immune to such feelings. It just seemed this past year had been a total loss. Nothing had seemed to go right. His rent had increased, but his pay had remained unchanged. His car had finally collapsed in a geriatric heap, and he'd had to replace it, and oh, lordy, what was going on in the auto sales market? Sticker shock was an understatement as far as George was concerned. So, he seemed to be falling further and further behind no matter what he did. It really made no difference if he busted his ass to please the boss, or if he took two hour lunches and put off projects until next week. He still drew his paycheck, and worried from week to week about being laid off. His wife Miriam was no help, either. She had recently completed a course in interior design and had landed a job as a consultant-trainee at a prestigious downtown firm. It had turned out that she was a natural for this profession, possessing an innate sense of what was appropriate for each design problem she tackled, having ideas that sprang from an imagination that was spectacularly creative. She had made a deep and lasting impression on her superiors in the firm. They hoped to bring her quickly through her 'basic' training - all designers at this firm were required to go through this probationary period - so they could turn her loose on a few projects that had been languishing. These were projects where either the clients wanted non-traditional or unconventional design approaches applied, or that simply cried out for an original idea to make the whole scheme work. Miriam's superiors knew she had the capability to energize a good number of these projects. She just had to go through the training, so that her creativity could be used to enhance the work of her firm, to strengthen its reputation in the design community. Lately it seemed that no matter how much they might vary their evenings, George and Miriam simply were not connecting as they once had. Miriam would come home flushed with exciting news she could barely hold inside once the door opened. She seemed literally to bubble over with enthusiasm as, over pre-dinner drinks, or perhaps over dinner itself, she would glory over the adventures of her day. George would sit quietly, listening to Miriam recounting her triumphs and victories, seething inside because his own life had become so frustratingly dull. Although she'd been with the design firm only six months, Miriam had done so well she'd been rewarded with two salary increases. She had heard hints that when her probationary period was finished, she would be given a fixed salary plus bonuses contract, and, if she continued to excel as she had been doing, her bonuses would very likely far outstrip her salary. George's salary was, of course, frozen; had been for the past year-and-a- half. As chief financial analyst for Humboldt Manufacturing, George was responsible for all contract obligations the company incurred. It was a routine job, but one that challenged his abilities. However, with all the layoffs and the responsibilities which seemed always to be accumulating, George felt overwhelmed and under-appreciated. The idea had come to him quite by accident. He and Miriam had been enjoying an after-dinner drink on the living room couch, and she had been amusing him with a story about an out-of-town client, a big spender who had demanded an interior decoration so hideous the firm had actually refused the project, despite offers of triple the usual fees, because of their concern that it would destroy their artistic reputation. George had sighed, "Man, I wouldn't turn down an offer like that, no matter how crummy the guy's taste might be. Money's money. And right now, I ain't got any." Miriam had cooed sympathetically, running her fingers through George's longish ginger-colored hair. "Oh, I know, snuggums. It's a shame the way they treat you down there at the plant. You should just insist on a raise. Or, even better, don't ask. Just take the money and run." She giggled, slightly tipsy. Somewhere in the dim recesses of George's mind, a lightbulb went on. 'Take the money and run...take the money and run...take the money...' It was like one of those popular songs that one hears on all the radio stations until the melody is so embedded in one's consciousness it can't be removed. Over and over, George heard the refrain, eventually letting it fill his thoughts until an idea began to form in his mind. Of course! Take the money, indeed, and run! He no longer cared about Humboldt Manufacturing. They had repaid the loyalty of their workers with layoffs and frozen paychecks. They had repaid the hard work of the employees left behind with speed-ups on the assembly line and double-duty in the administrative offices. Everyone was frustrated; everyone was depressed. George thought, 'That's right. We're all getting screwed by the company. We'd all like to get back at those vultures, any way we can. And I *can* get back at them. And maybe take home a little extra payday as a reward.' He thought about how he might exact his revenge. He would have to be careful, whatever he did. He certainly had no desire to lose his job - not in this economy - and lose any good references he might have had. Neither did he have any desire to go to jail. So, whatever he did would have to be done on a fairly small scale. There had to be enough financial reward to make it worth the effort; but, the amount would have to be small enough that it would be difficult to detect ('Hopefully impossible,' he thought). But, finally, several weeks after the idea had originally entered his mind, George thought he had come up with a foolproof scheme. It was, coincidentally, during another after-dinner relaxation time with Miriam. She had finally completed her probationary period, and had been given the task of designing an entrance foyer for a new office building which would house several high-power brokerage houses and law firms. The developers wanted a design that would convey a sense of power, but in an elegant, subtle way. Miriam was full of ideas, and was so excited that she'd drunk a couple extra glasses of wine and was slightly tipsy, giggling happily as she described some of her plans to George. He was a million miles away, wrapped up in his own thoughts and schemes. Frankly, he'd become increasingly annoyed by Miriam's success. She was on the verge of a career breakthrough, poised to fly into the limitless realm of artistic and financial success. He was stagnating at the hands of a company that seemed mired in the mud, spinning its wheels and going precisely nowhere. 'I can tap into the retirement fund,' he realized. 'No one else even examines that account, except me. And the auditors, once a year. I can transfer funds from that account and at audit time, transfer some other funds around to cover the holes. If I'm careful, and juggle things just right, no one will ever suspect, especially the auditors.' George could hardly sleep that night. All sorts of speculations crossed his mind. He weighed the advantages of his scheme. He especially weighed the disadvantages. He could create a dummy retiree, and siphon money into this bogus account; he could forward income tax withholding, medicare, and other debits into a petty cash account outside the retirement fund altogether, to make it look like these deductions were being paid out. But, was it foolproof? Could it work? George figured to begin with small transfers and deposits, to see if anyone became suspicious. As time went on, he could gradually increase the amount he was skimming. But he hadn't reckoned on his secretary uncovering his scheme before he'd barely put it into operation. Valerie. Valerie the Valkyrie. She had originally been a bookkeeper, and a very good one at that, in a small accounting firm. The only reason she wasn't a CPA was that her husband, who had owned the firm, had walked out on her while she was going to night school, still three courses shy of her degree. He had left her for a far less ambitious woman who stayed home nights and waited on him hand and foot. Needless to say, he had fired Valerie the same day he left her. And he had also emptied out their bank account, leaving her penniless and in desperate need of income. She had managed to land a job in the same division that George was in, and she'd stayed there, earning far less than her potential, but enough to survive and even to continue her schooling, though at a much slower pace. Needless to say, Valerie subscribed to the "All men are - (fill in the blank)" school of modern American womanhood. Whenever the subject of male- female relationships came up among the women in the division, and it came up frequently, Valerie was one of the loudest and most strident voices raised against 'male privilege' and 'the double standard.' She had become so divisive in her militancy that when a list of ten names of employees whose jobs could be terminated at the next downsizing was circulated among the division's managers, Valerie's name had topped the list. But, she was a survivor. She had anticipated the possibility, indeed the probability, of being let go, and had signed up for an onsite cross- training class. So, when the bosses gave her the pink slip, she immediately went to Human Resources and was reinstated as a typist in the office typing pool. Although she lost some income as a result, she did manage to remain at Humboldt Manufacturing. She didn't even miss a paycheck. When another 'consolidation' took place, and the typing pool was eliminated, it looked as though once again Valerie was going to lose her job. But, as part of this downsizing, early retirements were offered to employees with a certain number of years of service in the company. If enough people took early retirement, fewer younger and more junior employees would have to be laid off. Once again, Valerie survived. George's secretary, who had been in the company a long time, had chosen to retire. George had asked for another 'girl' to replace her; but his superiors instead chose Valerie, since she knew the work of his division, was by far the best employee in the typing pool, and was obviously the most qualified candidate. And she had agreed to tone down the rhetoric. So, in an ironic turn of events that would change George's life forever, Valerie returned to her old division. She was determined never to be let go again. * * * * * * * * * * "Well, well, well," Valerie's sarcastic taunt shattered the morning calm. "What have we here, oh boss of mine?" She stood in his office door, tapping a printed document against her hand. Despite her ability to get under her supervisor's skin with her continual bitter barbs aimed at the male sex, George admired her abilities. She really was an asset to his operation. She was, he had to admit, an improvement over his former secretary in one other way, as well. His previous 'girl' had been an affectionate, grandmotherly sort of late middle-aged woman, someone who 'mother-hen'ed' the office, providing tea and sympathy to one and all. Valerie was young, in her mid-twenties, and a knockout. She stood about five-feet-six with generous breasts, slim waist and delightfully contoured hips tapering into long, slender legs which were designed to show off miniskirts. Her thick, curly orange-red hair contrasted nicely with her pale skin; her face was a soft oval punctuated with large green eyes and full lips that pouted just enough to make George want to kiss them whenever he was in her presence. But, despite her beauty, despite her obvious sexual aura, he never felt comfortable around her. He had the feeling she was testing him in some way, and that no matter what he did, he flunked her exam. There was the bitterness brought about by her disastrous marriage that had shaped her attitude, causing her to be relentlessly sarcastic; but, and George couldn't pin it down exactly, there was something else, some sense he had that she was mocking him, putting him down, treating him as if she were the superior and he the subordinate. Whatever it was, George never felt quite at ease around her. Perhaps it was her take-charge demeanor: George, for all his talent and expertise, never quite felt very confident with people who were as talented or as expert as he. He blamed his height. He was only five-eight, and slender. In her heels, Valerie was actually taller; not by much, but enough that he felt a little intimidated by her, especially when she was in attack mode, like now. "What do you mean, Val?" he said, looking up from where he had been studying the monthly figures. "What's that you're waving around? And, by the way, don't you ever knock?" "No need to, big guy," she crowed. "Not any more. Not where you're going." She sat down in a small chair on the opposite side of the desk from where George sat in his large, plush leather executive chair, crossing her legs so that her skirt rode up to mid-thigh, causing his heart to jump - a little, anyway. "What's this all about?" he asked. "Oh, we'll get to what this is all about in due time. Say, you got any coffee made?" "No. You ought to know that. You're the one who puts the pot on every day." "Oh, yes. I guess I do. Well, I don't feel like it this morning. Why don't you make the coffee today, bossie dear? Then I'll let you know why I'm so happy." George gave her a puzzled look, then stood up and left the office to put a pot of coffee on. He was gone several minutes, but finally returned holding two cups in his hands. Valerie was sitting in her chair, gorgeous legs still crossed, filing her nails and humming under her breath. George handed her a cup, then sat down in his chair. He took a sip of the steaming coffee, set the cup down in front of him, and said, "Now, suppose you tell me what's got you all worked up this morning, hmm?" Valerie smiled and winked. "I gotcha," she said. For just a moment, his hands twitched. What had she said? 'I gotcha?' He tried to remain composed, cool. "What does that mean, Val? What the hell are you talking about?" "Last week, I spotted it, but I wasn't sure. But this week, oh ho, I am sure. And you're in deep shit, to put it mildly, oh boss of mine." His upper lip was growing moist. "I still don't know what you're talking about," he said, though with a note of uncertainty in his voice. "Come on, George," Valerie responded. "Don't try to bullshit me. You know very well what I'm talking about." ('Oh, fuck. Could she have - ? But, how - ? It was so well hidden -') He tried to stay calm. "No, I don't know what you're talking about. Would you mind filling me in?" Valerie looked directly into his eyes. It was like facing two gun barrels - cold and deadly. "I've uncovered your little scam. It's all here in this printout." She held up the document. George's face froze. Very cautiously, very quietly, he said, "May I see that, please?" Valerie laughed, "Sure, Georgie. It is yours, after all." She handed him the printout. He glanced nervously at it. 'Holy shit,' he thought. It was all there. The phony accounts, the transfers into them. The whole sorry plot. George looked at Valerie for a long time. "How did you - ? When - ?" Valerie grinned. "George, how could you forget? Your password and mine are linked together. Remember? So that I can be on top of your comings and goings? You know, the efficient little helper? Well, I've been preparing for my exams, and I thought some actual, real-world financial situations would help make some of the theoretical stuff I've been studying easier to understand and remember. So, for the past couple of months I've been following the activities of the master, my boss-o. And, of course, last week, I saw some activity going on that didn't make any sense. You were setting up these accounts for people who didn't exist. And you were doing it in a way that instantly signaled you wanted these accounts kept out of the mainstream. Of course, I didn't know why you were doing this until Friday afternoon. But, I figured it would be fun to follow along. So, knowing that my i.d. has the same permissions as yours, I just checked in each day to these accounts to see if there was any action. And on Friday, bingo! There it was. Money pouring in! Figuring out where the money came from, however, was a bit of a trick. But I soon discovered the source. Shame on you, robbing from all those old retired folks." She continued grinning. George's face fell. 'Fuck! The first hit on the payroll and I'm blown sky-high!' He looked at Valerie nervously. His neck was red and his lower lip was trembling. Underneath the desk, his hands were shaking. "What do you intend to do about this, Valerie?" he asked. The grin disappeared. She looked sternly at him. "You realize, of course, that embezzlement is a serious felony. You could do some very long jail time." He nodded his head, slowly. His eyes focused on his desk. "Look at me, George," she commanded. His eyes slowly raised to meet hers. She could see the fear in them. 'Good,' she thought. "Are you interested in going to prison?" she asked. "No. Of course not." "Well, maybe if you play ball with me, we can keep this little scheme a secret. Maybe we can both make a profit on this little venture of yours. Make no mistake about it, George. I've got you by the balls. You will either deal with me, or you will deal with the federal authorities." "What do you have in mind, Valerie?" George asked, trying to sound interested. His mind was so filled with panic, however, he could barely absorb what she was saying. "I don't know yet, exactly. I'm still working out the details. But, I can tell you this, little Georgie, there are going to be some serious changes around here. You can be absolutely certain of that. Serious changes." "Can you give me a hint of what you might have in mind?" "You want a hint?" she asked, locking her eyes on his. He gulped, knowing this was not going to be to his liking. "Yes," he mumbled. "I guess so." "Ok," she said, arrogance dripping from her words. "Here's a hint: by the time I'm finished, I will own you. And I mean that literally." His eyes betrayed his puzzled uncertainty. Valerie continued, "That's your choice, George. Hard prison time. Or belonging to me. I'm going to give you an hour to think about it. One hour. Oh, and thanks for the coffee. Would you like to refill my cup?" She smiled, and her smile seemed to freeze in a sneer. She handed her cup to George who silently took it, walked out to Valerie's office to refill it, and returned, handing it to her. She took it, then stood and said, "One hour." As she turned to leave the office, she fixed George with a hard stare. "By the way, don't think about trying to undo the damage. I've already backed up the disk you set the phony files up on. I've also reset the security codes so you can't erase them. And, I've changed our password and reset the permissions, denying you entry." She smiled coldly at him and left, closing the door behind her. * * * * * * * * * * The next hour was probably the longest George had ever experienced in his life. He thought about prison. Although the amount he had diverted to his phony accounts was only about $10,000, small by comparison with some embezzlement schemes, he knew he would spend at least five years behind bars. His reputation would be shattered. His marriage would collapse. He'd never find decent work again. On the other hand, he was afraid of Valerie. Her comment that she would literally own him frightened him. He knew she was a vindictive bitch; he knew she'd been waiting for just such a moment as this. Surrendering to her might seem preferable to surrendering to the state and federal authorities. But he was terrified; it might end up worse, far worse. And so he paced back and forth, wringing his hands, moaning in despair. His choices were bad and worse. A voice in the back of his mind kept repeating, "Jail is only for a little while. Valerie could be for life!" He didn't want to believe it. Surely, she couldn't be so cruel that she would want to punish him for the rest of his life. That was the question that kept forcing itself into his mind. Did she literally mean 'literally'? What did she mean by 'own'? What form would this 'ownership' take? He paced and worried, worried and paced. Finally, the hour ended. George had come to no conclusion. He was visibly shaking in fear when the door latch turned and Valerie entered the room. She was smiling broadly. Slowly, deliberately, like a queen, she crossed the room, and sat down in George's large, plush leather executive chair. She watched him as he tried to compose himself, thinking to herself what a pathetic specimen he was. "Well?" she demanded. "Um, I haven't yet decided, Valerie. Can I have a little more time?" "No, you can't," she replied, and leaned forward to pick up the phone. George nearly leaped across the office. He placed his hand on hers. "Please, Valerie. Don't do this. Don't turn me in. Look," he said, desperate, "I'll put the money back. I'll close those accounts. It will look like nothing ever happened. Please. Give me a break. I didn't intend any serious harm to the company. I was just...fooling around, trying to see if I could do it. Please. You've got to understand." His voice now had a whiny tone. Valerie looked up at him as he leaned over the desk, his hand on hers. She spoke in a voice filled with menace, "Take your hand off me, George." He lifted his hand as though he'd placed it on a white-hot burner. She continued to glare at him. "Choose, George," she murmured, cold as ice. "Can't you at least give me some little idea of what you intend for me?" he whined. "You want a little idea?" she mocked. "Yes," he mumbled, clearly defeated. "No. Now, choose. Choose, or I pick up this phone and turn you in." Uttering a low groan, George finally surrendered. "Alright. You win. I'll do whatever you want." "Very good," said Valerie, slowly removing her hand from the telephone. "Here's what I want you to do for starters. From now on, in the privacy of my office and yours, you will address me as 'Miss Valerie.' Is that understood?" George seemed a little puzzled. He frowned, but then said, "Ok. Sure. That seems reasonable." "You will stand at attention when you are in my presence." Hesitation. "Ok." "You will obey my orders, both direct and implied." "Alright." "Good. Wait here," she instructed. "Stand right here in front of the desk, facing what used to be your chair. Then wait for me." George moved to stand at the center of the desk, at a position more or less resembling attention. Valerie stood and walked past him, disappearing into her own office. A few minutes later, she returned, quietly shutting the door behind her and locking it. She walked slowly past her nervous boss, and seated herself in what she said used to be George's chair. He looked at her. She was holding a pair of flowery, satin bikini panties in her hand. They were lovely, trimmed with lacy edges. "I want you to take these panties down to the men's room, George. I want you to remove your own shorts, and I want you to put these on. But, before you do, I want you to masturbate into your drawers, and I want you to carry them back here to this office to show me you've followed my order." George stared across the desk at her. Her hand began to move slowly toward the phone. George swallowed hard, took the panties and put them in the pocket of his suit coat, turned on his heel, and began to leave the office. "Wait," Valerie said. "Aren't you forgetting something, George?" He stopped, a puzzled frown on his face. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said. "Aren't you forgetting to say, 'Yes, Miss Valerie'?" "Oh, of course," he said and, turning to face her, he said, "Yes, Miss Valerie." She smiled benignly at him. Several minutes passed. Valerie sat quietly looking out the window and reading reports which George had been examining before she'd dropped her little bomb on him. She imagined him in the men's room, in the cramped stall, trying to remove his trousers without making too much of a commotion, beating off with one hand while holding his underpants in the other, ready to catch his sperm when he came. She imagined him looking uncertain, afraid, as he put on the panties. She imagined him hiding the cum-soaked shorts in his suit coat as he returned to his office. She smiled and sighed with contentment. Finally, the door opened and George entered. He crossed the floor to stand in front of his desk. Valerie looked up from the report she had been studying. "Well?" "I followed your instructions, uh, Miss, uh, Valerie." "Let me see your drawers." He placed the shorts on his desk. "Where's the cum? I don't see any cum. Show it to me." He unfolded the underwear and pressed it flat. A clearly damp-looking stain was visible. "Did you enjoy yourself, George?" "Not really. Uhhmm. Miss, uh, Valerie." "Let me see your panties." George's eyes widened. But, deciding to press ahead, he unhooked his belt, opened his trousers, and pulled them down. The panties, clearly a size too small, were a vivid pink, with a pattern of tiny white flowers. George's penis bulged against the skimpy fabric. "Very cute, George. Do they feel as nice as they look?" He looked at her nervously. "Answer my question, George. Always you must answer my questions." "I-I guess so, M-Miss, ahem, Valerie." "Well, you look sweet in them. I want you to wear them the rest of the day. Understand?" He nodded. "Yes, Miss Valerie," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "And when you get home, before you go to bed, I want you to wash them out and let them dry. Tomorrow, I want you to wear them again to the office." George's face turned beet-red. "Yes, uhm, er, yes, Miss V-Valerie," he mumbled. How would he hide them from Miriam? "Now, pull your pants up. You look ridiculous. Oh, yes, I want you to leave your other drawers right here, on top of the desk." They spent the rest of the morning in George's office. Valerie had him brief her on the reports she had been examining. She asked probing, intelligent questions, and by the end of the day, she was thoroughly familiar with the nuances of these reports and had a beginning familiarity with the portfolios of many of Humboldt Manufacturing's clients. She didn't need to have George explain any general aspects of the division's work. She already was an expert in that, owing to her night-school education and the typing and filing she did as George's secretary. As George passed Valerie's desk in the waiting room outside his office, she stopped him. "Don't forget now, sweetie. Wash out your panties, let them dry overnight, and wear them again tomorrow. Oh, and before you go, take this." She handed him a small paper cup filled with water and a large round pill. After he swallowed the pill and drank the water, George asked, "What kind of pill is it, Val - er, Miss Valerie?" She smiled. "Estrogen." Then she stood up and walked into George's office, closing the door behind her. * * * * * * * * * * The next morning, when George arrived at the office, he noticed Valerie wasn't there. Relieved, since he'd worried and fretted during the long train ride from his suburban village into the city, he removed his topcoat and opened the door to his office. He hung the coat on the rack just inside the door, then strode calmly over to his desk. He seated himself in the large, plush leather executive chair and picked up the morning mail. "What are you doing in my chair?" Startled, George looked up. Valerie was standing directly in front of the desk. "What? Huh?" "Get out of my chair this instant. Do you hear me?" George quickly stood up. "I explained to you yesterday where you are to stand when I am present in this office, did I not?" "Y-yes, M-Miss Valerie." "Well?" George quickly walked around to the front of the desk, stopping at the center. He assumed a position of attention, feet together, hands at his sides. "From now on, sweetie, when you are in this office, you will sit at that desk over there." George turned his head to the area of the office where Valerie's finger was pointed. He was surprised to see a small typist's-sized desk pushed up against the wall with a small, cloth-covered typist's chair before it. The person sitting there would face the wall, looking away from George's executive desk. "Now, turn towards me. Good. Let's see your panties. You do have them on, don't you?" George's face turned red. Slowly, he unzippered his trousers and lowered them enough to show he was, indeed, wearing the panties Valerie had given him the day before. "How do they feel, sweetums?" George mumbled, "T-they feel ok, uh, er, Miss, uh, Valerie." "How nice. Now, drop your trousers. Fine. Lower your panties. Just a little, so you can reach in and take hold of your little pee-pee." George's ears were burning red. He felt thoroughly humiliated. "Now, play with yourself. Go on. I want to see you have an orgasm." George looked shocked. "You want me to, uh, what?" "I want you to masturbate, and don't forget my proper title." He looked disbelievingly at her. Slowly, her hand reached toward the telephone. "Yes, Miss Valerie," he said, quickly, and began masturbating himself. "Did you wash out your panties last night, sweetie-pie?" George, sliding his hand up and down his penis, responded, "Yes, Miss Valerie," with a grunt. "And did you let them dry as I instructed?" "Y-yes, grmp, Miss Valerie." "What did Miriam have to say about all this?" Memories of the previous evening flashed into George's consciousness. The night had been a disaster. Miriam had been feeling sexy and had sat on his lap on the couch to enjoy a little husband-wife necking. But George, all too aware of his panties and terrified of discovery, had begged her not to get carried away. Disappointed, she had moved to another chair and sat listlessly reading a women's magazine, occasionally glancing at the television set until it was time to go to bed. George had waited until Miriam was in bed, then had gone quickly into the bathroom, holding the panties tightly wrapped in his hand, hoping no edges showed. He had quickly washed them out in the sink, wrung them out, and then had looked frantically about for a place to hang them so they would dry by morning. Finally, he had snuck them back into the bedroom and had stuffed them in the back of the closet. When the alarm clock had sounded at six o'clock, George had sprung from the bed, moved quickly to the closet, retrieved the panties and a pair of trousers, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he had finally emerged wearing only his panties and trousers, Miriam had looked at him quizzically and said, "That's odd. You never wear your pants into the bathroom. What's going on?" George had mumbled some excuse, hastily completed his dressing, and hurried from the room to the kitchen. Miriam had soon followed, and all through breakfas