Message-ID: <4457eli$9709291238@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: chlafemme@aol.com (ChLaFemme) Subject: TG repost: "Prairie girl" -- 4/6 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19970929144500.KAA22262@ladder01.news.aol.com> Prairie girl -- 4/6 by Chrissie LaFemme ++++++++++++++++ Most of the time Homer and Dutchie ignored Blondie; it simply didn't make any sense to risk a beating by conversing with their former friend. They acted as if Blondie didn't exist. Queenie found it amusing to watch Blondie as he sought to covertly attract their attention at meal-times. He would dawdle at their table when he thought she wasn't looking or give them unsolicited extra helpings. But his efforts were wasted on Homer and Dutchie: they had decided he wasn't worth the trouble of antagonizing Boss and they carried on as if he didn't exist. Their aloof attitude gave Queenie the opportunity to impress on Blondie the reality of his new situation. She told him he as a "woman" he would have to live with the fact that men would treat him as a second-class citizen. However, if Blondie was willing she would show him how to gain and keep their attention. She could see he was interested in finding out how but his pride wouldn't allow it. One morning she rose earlier than usual and instead of fixing his hair into two pony-tails she set about arranging his long blond tresses into a french braid. She interleaved a silk ribbon between the braids of hair, creating a stunning effect. From the corner of her eye she watched the boy's reaction. She could see that Blondie was interested but he was trying hard not to show it. When she was nearly finished she held up a small mirror at the back of his head so he could see in the mirror in front of him the intricate braiding of hair and ribbon. It was the kind of hair arrangement that would catch any man's attention -- and he knew it. Then, to his complete astonishment, she undid everything. Soon his hair was back to the point from which she had started. She handed him a brush. "You do your hair the way I've just done it -- and be quick!" she said curtly. The boy tentatively dragged the brush through his hair and grabbing locks of hair tried to tie them into a braid. The result was a complete and utter mess; however, Queenie refused to remedy the situation and made the boy serve breakfast as he was. He had to suffer the humiliation of the guffaws of laughter from Boss and Homer seeing the dishevelled state of his hair. Only Dutchie seemed to show sympathy for his plight by not joining in their laughter; he just looked quizzically at Blondie's normally neatly coifed hair. "Being sleeping in the hay, girlie?" Boss snorted with laughter, winking lewdly at Homer. When Boss and his helpers had saddled up and departed for the day, a stern-faced Queenie dragged her hapless assistant up his bedroom. "You disgraced me and every woman with your appearance!" she stormed. She pushed the cowering boy into a chair and then secured him to it by running a cord around his waist. "Just look at your hair! You just don't get it, do you girlie?" she spat. "Men judge you and me not by our brains but by our appearance! How are you going to earn their respect if you can't even arrange your hair? They were laughing at you, girlie! Boss even said you look like a whore!" She picked up a brush. "Do you want to look like a whore, girlie?" she demanded ominously in a low voice. "Do you want men to laugh at you? To mock your appearance? To call you a frump or Plain Jane behind your back?" The boy shook his head. "Of course not -- you're not a dumb blonde! You want to learn to look after your hair, to be able to braid it and plait it, to curl it, and to arrange it so it looks pretty! Don't you, girlie?" Queenie demanded. "Do you want to take pride in your appearance? Do you want to command their respect?" After a moment's hesitation, Blondie nodded his head. "Say it, girlie!" Queenie shouted. "Say it like you really mean it!" "I want to do all these things; I want to make my hair pretty!" the boy sobbed. Queenie beamed. "Good girl, we'll start with a simple pony-tail. I'll do it first and then you'll do it second. I'll make you practice every day until you can do it backwards, sidewards, upside down, inside out and with your eyes closed!" she declared. ++++++++++++++++ Queenie never missed an opportunity to emphasize to Blondie that in the men's eyes he'd crossed an invisible line beyond which he would be considered weak, helpless and feminine. This she planned to bring home to him in the most daring scheme she had yet devised. Even Blondie was surprized one night with the length of the night-gown that she dressed him in -- it trailed on the floor behind him as Queenie led him over to the mirror to fix his hair for the night. But unlike previous nights too Queenie did not braid his hair into two strands which she would wind clock-wise around his crown. Instead she curled his hair using small strips of white cloth which she tied around each lock of hair. When she was finished she smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "When I was your age I hated boys seeing me look like this –– so I can understand how you feel, girlie!" she commented sympathetically. "You know, it used to make me feel so different from them; while they were out enjoying themselves or doing something important I had to sit patiently for hours while my mother curled my hair! But then, as I've told you many times before, men just don't realize the trouble we take to look after our appearance!" Blondie said nothing; soon he was tucked in bed with his wrists tied to the bed-post. Queenie blew out the candle and softly locked the door behind her. "Wake up, girlie!" Queenie shouted, shaking the boy's sleeping frame. "Whattssss the maaaaaattttter!?!" Blondie replied groggily. "There's a fire outside! Hurry! Get up!" Queenie cried, untying his wrists. "The old shed is on fire!" Queenie dragged him out of the bed and quickly shod his feet in a pair of high heeled ankle boots. The boy shivered in the cold night air. "Come on, girlie, let's go!" Queenie urged. "I'm freezing in this! Can't I wear something else ... ?" the boy beseeched her. "We don't have time, girlie!" Queenie snapped impatiently. Then she stopped, opened a closet and handed him a shawl. "Here, put this around you -- this will keep you warm." When they got outside they saw that Boss and the two boys were already fighting the fire. Flames were leaping from the shed and Boss was shouting orders to Homer and Dutchie. "Stand by me, girlie," Queenie directed. She stood a safe distance away from the fire and positioned him so that he was slightly behind her. After an hour Boss and the boys had the fire under control. Queenie called out: "Boss, are you all right?" Boss nodded, sweat pouring down his smoke-grimed face. "Yeh, I'm fine. Homer, Dutchie: you OK?" The two boys nodded. "Oh ... I'm so relieved you're not hurt!" Queenie cried in the most gushing, effusive and emotional voice she could muster. "Blondie and I were ... were so afraid! We wanted to help but we couldn't -- could we, girlie?" Boss and the two boys looked at her and then at Blondie. 'Feast you eyes on girlie, boys!' Queenie said gleefully to herself. 'Isn't Blondie the picture of feminine helplessness??? One hand holding a silk shawl around him to keep warm and the other holding his pretty night-gown up off the damp grass! Take a look at his hair!?! Gentlemen, have you ever seen a head so festooned with ... ribbons? I can guess what you're thinking: girlie's too busy making himself look pretty that he couldn't put out a fire let alone a candle!!!' Boss spat at the ground. Then, a slow smile creased his face and he turned to Homer and Dutchie. "Y'know, the more I see of the value of some women, the more I like dogs!" he quipped to Homer and Dutchie's raucous laughter. ++++++++++++++++ >From time to time Blondie had what Queenie would describe as 'teenage tantrums'. She learnt to recognize the warning symptoms and the treatment she devised was remarkably successful in smothering any rebelliousness. The tantrums were usually sparked off by Blondie venting his anger and frustration at new rules she imposed on him. Sometimes the sense of being hopelessly enmeshed in the feminine net she was gradually tightening around him caused the boy to erupt. His gradual loss of physical strength was another source of intense frustration as were her restrictions on his diet. Occasionally, she would deliberately goad him into a tantrum: the easiest way to do that, she found, was to remind him how he had been rejected by men for men's work (by implication he was only suitable, therefore, for women's work). Two days previously when she had caught him eating cooked meat which he was supposed to have been slicing, the most recent tantrum had developed. "Leave me alone!" he screamed as she dragged him upstairs. "I hate you!" He was sobbing by the time she pushed him into his bedroom. "I was hungry!" he wept. "I haven't eaten meat for months!" "You should have known better, you little hussy! You'll eat when I tell you can!" Queenie snapped, tying his wrists together. "How do you expect to keep your figure if you keep eating between meals?" "Let me gooooooooooooo!" the boy screamed. "I don't waaaaaaaaant to be a girrlllllll! Pleeeeaaaaaseeeee let me go!" He tried to kick her but the impact was muted by the heavy layers of petticoats and skirts he wore. "I hate you, I haaaaaaattttte you!" he shrieked. Ignoring him, Queenie went over to the closet and cleared a space between the racks of dresses. "Come over here!" she snapped. "Nooooooooo, I won't," Blondie wept defiantly. "You can't maaaaaake me!" Queenie's action was swift and decisive. "Oh, I can't, can I not?" she asked airily a minute later. "You look a pretty sight, girlie, surrounded by these lovely dresses!" Then she scoffed: "Let me know which one you want to wear when you cool down ..." She went downstairs to continue her work. When she had dressed him first, there had been twenty tantrums that month -- she remembered each and every one of them. She looked at her diary: today had been the only tantrum so far this month; there had been three in the previous month, five the month before that: the futility of resisting was beginning to sink in ... Three hours later she went back up to his bedroom. Spreading out her skirts she sat on his bed and took out her embroidery frame. The boy was exhausted from trying to keep his balance; he kept looking despairingly up at the clothes railing above his head to which Queenie had attached his wrists. She had fixed it that he could just about stand on his tip-toes in the closet. Tear stains ran like dried-up rivers through his make-up. "Let me go!" the boy sobbed. "Are you sorry?" There was a silence. She could see the boy hesitating. If he refused he would spend another three hours in the closet (and miss dinner). "Yes, ... I'm sorry, ... Queenie," he replied in a low voice. "I won't eat again ... without your permission." "I think you have suffered enough, girlie," she said. "But before I release you, have you made up your mind?" The boy looked at her and then up at his bound wrists. Queenie gloated inwardly: 'This is hard on you, Blondie, real hard,' she said gleefully to herself, 'you get punished for reacting against all this femininity and then to set yourself free you have to decide what you're going to wear for the rest of the day!' "The ... red and black check dress," he said quietly. Queenie said nothing but eyed him beadily. "Forgive me, Queenie, I meant to say: I want to wear the red and black check dress." "I'm pleased with your choice, girlie," she commented approvingly. Then, she added in a silky voice: "Tell me, girlie, why do you want to wear such a pretty dress?" Queenie waited for the boy to answer; he knew by now there was only one answer she would permit. "Because ... because ..." the boy started and then stopped. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Because I want to wear ... ," the boy continued in a faltering voice. He looked up at her and hurriedly gulped: "I want ... I'd like ... a dress that'll make men sit up and take notice of me." Queenie nodded sagely. "That's the reason why we all want to wear a pretty dress, girlie -- and the woman who says otherwise is telling a lie. We live in an age where, sadly, men don't appreciate our intellectual abilities -- you've seen how Boss and the boys just ignore you now. The only way we can impress men is to emphasize our natural attractions," she said, reaching up to untie his wrists. "Come on, girlie, let me help you into this dress. I'll freshen your make-up too -- you don't want them to see that you've been crying!" she offered in a friendly voice. Then she added with a smile: "I've a treat for you, girlie: I bought some lovely new silk ribbons that'll look real pretty in your hair!" ++++++++++++++++ Though Queenie had reduced Blondie to a passive, submissive and feminine state underneath the surface she felt there still burned a masculine ego. He still acted as if he had nothing in common with her. He would only choose his clothes for the following day if she made him. Queenie decided it was time to step up his acceptance of his femininity. She wrote a letter to her cousin Anita explaining what she had in mind. ++++++++++++++++ "Hey, Dutchie, you still awake?" "Yeah." "You know what I saw when Boss sent me back to fetch the ax?" Dutchie turned over in his bed to face Homer. They'd forgotten to bring an ax with them when they'd left in the morning and Boss had detailed Homer to go back and get it. Normally, Boss didn't like them going off on their own in case they'd try to escape. Just like Boss, Dutchie reflected bitterly, to give a job like that to somebody who was less smarter than himself. "No, what?" he replied. "I saw Blondie --" Homer started. "So what? You see Blondie every day," Dutchie interrupted irritably. "When is the last time you saw Blondie tied up and gagged?" Homer prompted. "You saw Blondie tied up and gagged?" Dutchie replied in surprise. "Sure did!" Homer asserted. "Why? Why did Queenie do that? What did she say to you?" Dutchie demanded. "Queenie? She never saw me!" Homer replied triumphantly. "Homer! Are you playing tricks on me?" Dutchie exclaimed warningly. "You know Queenie would see -- and hear -- you coming a mile away!" "But I didn't ride all the way back to the farm --" Homer started. "You didn't ride all the way back? Why not?" Dutchie challenged. "Well, you know, ... we've both wondered what Queenie and Blondie get up to each day," Homer replied slowly. "So, I decided I'd leave my horse near the bend in the creek and sneak up to the house!" Dutchie nodded. He had felt insanely jealous of Homer's good luck; now he felt that jealousy returning. "So that's what kept you so long," he observed sourly. "Yeah," Homer replied. "I didn't see them outside so I figured they must've been inside. I made it up to the kitchen window unnoticed --" "What did you see?" Dutchie demanded impatiently. "Like I said, I saw Blondie with his hands tied behind his back and gagged!" Homer replied. "How? What!?!" Dutchie couldn't contain himself. "Quit interrupting, Dutchie!" Homer exclaimed. "Blondie was sitting on a chair beside the table and on the table was this bottle and beside the bottle was a spoon with this red liquid!" "Go on!" breathed Dutchie. "What was Queenie doing?" "Queenie was talking to him and she was pointing to the spoon. She was motioning to take it but Blondie kept shaking his head!" Homer said. "What did Queenie do then?" Dutchie asked. "She pointed to a plate of food on the table and shook her finger!" Homer replied. "And what happened then?" "She took the plate and walked off!" Homer said. "Did Queenie see you?" Dutchie demanded. "No, she never saw me -- but Blondie did!" Homer replied excitedly. "Blondie saw you?" Dutchie whistled in surprise. "Yeah ... looked real frightened!" Homer continued. "Frightened?" "Yeah, that's right, real frightened," Homer continued. "Kept motioning his head at the spoon on the table!" "The spoon on the table?" Homer nodded: "Yeah, the spoon with the red liquid. Then Blondie started doing this." Homer sat up on the bed and threw out his chest as far as he could. "Yeah!?!" Dutchie whispered in amazement. "Yeah," Homer went on. "Throwing out his chest and nodding his head at the spoon!" "Go on!" Dutchie urged. "Then Blondie started pressing his legs together like this," Homer continued. He sat on the edge of his bed and pressed his upper legs together and drawing in his hips as tight as he could, pushed his rear in rocking motions deeper into the mattress. "He was doing that? Why?" Dutchie asked, puzzled. "Don't know ... couldn't make it out!" Homer replied, looking at Dutchie hopefully. "I thought you might be able to figure it out!" "No, I can't ... this red liquid made Blondie stick his chest out ... and keeping his legs together, made him pull something in ... no, it doesn't make sense, Homer. But I'll sleep on it!" Dutchie replied slowly. "What happened then?" "Blondie burst into tears; kept pleading with his eyes for me to do something!" Homer replied. "But then Queenie came back and I had to run!" Later, as Dutchie fell into an uneasy sleep, images of the spoon with the red liquid flashed through his uncomprehending mind. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /