A Boy's Bra Training And Discipline/Part Two

by Marlissa

We dropped the subject, though I would ask her for advice in the matter as school progressed. Diana stayed for dinner, all the while drinking in the sight of my pretty teen queen pet. Dino shivered whenever her eyes fell on him too long. Only once did she ask me loudly and in his presence if she would need to "spay" him. He turned ashen white, waiting for me to reply.

I paused for a dramatic moment or two, then shook my head. "No, not now anyway. He's really trying hard. Ask me again when he starts school though. If he doesn't pass, I'll need to reconsider it."

Diana left that evening with specific instructions on how to use the bottled liquid. "Just like before, except one dose should do. Give it to the dear tonight and watch him drink every drop. In the morning he should be ready to take back to Bentson with you."

I followed her instructions, and watched the skirted boy sip every drop without so much as a peep. He was of course quite used to obeying my every order at this stage and did so now. After drinking it, he fell into a deep slumber. He had grown so light-- he weighed all of one hundred-seven pounds now-- that I easily picked him up him and placed him in his bed for a what would be a very strange night of beauty rest.

I knew the next day the bottled formula had worked because I could hear Stacie whining to himself behind his locked bedroom suite.

"I have tits! I have tits!" He didn't sound happy about it.

I opened the door. He sat on his big pink girl's bed wearing a nightie. He was holding the pink lace nightie up, inspecting what was underneath resting high on his chest. They were a smallish pair of perky breasts, about the size of cut lemons! He dropped his nightie and looked up in alarm. Tears were streaming down his dark, wan cheeks. His full lips were opened up in a silent scream.

"Aren't we growing up!" I cruelly chided him. He didn't say a word, but big tears continued to fall down those soft cheeks and I left him alone to collect his thoughts.

Later I realized that poor Dino's worst nightmare had occurred. It was one thing to change the shape of his body, to make it sift and acceptable to my tastes for a young, taut teen body. The long hair, the soft skin, the make-up and dressing-- that was one thing. He had never expected this though. Now he had what he had so often lusted after-- a pair of teenage girl's breasts-- except these breast were smaller, much smaller than anything that might have attracted him. I think even a whorish pair of pumped up melon-tits would have been easier to take than the tiny nipple-teats he had sprouted. For the diminutive little things my girl-boy had now were more nipple than breast. As I searched for and found the raised dime-sized nipples underneath the sheer nightie, I guessed that at most, that my teeny-bopper would wear a 32AA brassiere at most. But that was the point Diana had made. It was precisely how I would turn the half- boy into the totally girlish lipstick lesbian teen lover of my hottest, wettest fantasies.

The night before school was to begin, I took Stacie home from the beach house, along with all his pretty new clothes. As I drove, I told him the story that Diana and I had worked out. Stacie Fox was my niece. HER parents were traveling extensively and I had agreed to let her stay with me for the coming school year. I would be responsible for her. SHE would also be in my homeroom class, and HER courses had been chosen by me. Mr. Temple had been informed already.

Stacie listened, increasingly more depressed and withdrawn. He looked up in fear when I told him there would be some new rules to follow when we got home, rules that would be followed or else Diana would be paying him a call with a scalpel. I didn't say anything more but gave him as hard a look as I could. He squirmed and kept his full lips pursed, afraid to utter a word.

The next morning I watched as Stacie Fox, my new niece, dressed. I picked out the outfit-- a pink velveteen miniskirt, a sheer white buttoned blouse, white knee socks, Maryjanes and a floppy pink ribbon to wear in his hair. Simple pink heart- shaped ear studs, pink lipgloss and pale pink nail polish completed the young lady image I wanted for him. Underneath his little flared a-line miniskirt, Stacie wore a pair of pink French-cut Hanes For Her panties.

He was tucking in his blouse when he realized his breasts were clearly visible through the material! He looked up, confounded. "May I put on another blouse?"

I shook my head firmly. "No. You look very pretty in that blouse and you're going to keep it on."

He bowed his head, then gathered all his courage up. The moment he ashamedly made his shy request, his bra training had begun.

"Then may I have a bra to wear, please?"

"Why do you need a bra, Stacie?"

He blushed. "Because you can see my breasts through my blouse, Ms. Hardy. Maybe I could borrow one of yours?" he pleaded softly.

I laughed. "There's no way. You couldn't fill it out by a long shot. Besides you need a special kind of bra. The kind girls wear when they start to get their little breasts. What kind is that, Stacie? What kind of bra do you need?"

He looked at his Maryjanes humbly for a moment, then forced the answer out. "A training bra, Ms. Hardy. I need a training bra."

I nodded approvingly. "That's right, Stacie. And I bought one for you-- just for your little breasts." I pulled it out of my briefcase and handed it to him. "Go put on your very first training bra Stacie. We're going to be late for our first day at school."

Stacie took the packaged training bra, the tag still hanging off it. The disconcerted expression on his prettified and softened face told me that it would take my Stacie a while before he would comfortably accept the unfamiliar feminine garment's new role in his teenage world. I could only look forward to his journey toward girlhood with pleasurable anticipation!

He returned, ready for the drive to school. I noted with approval that Stacie had donned his training bra quickly and without questions. Good-- he could dress himself without questions. I could clearly make out the training bra underneath the sheer white material of the blouse. It was a darling contraption made of soft snow white cotton, with wide straps and full chest covering cups. It was almost a half-chemise, with pretty white lace trimming that gave only the barest hint of budding breasts under the too-generous cups. In fact, the training bra didn't even hook in the back, but was worn by pulling it over the head. The whole effect was to announce that the wearer was ready to begin her real girlhood, but still underequipped for the new stage. Stacie scrunched his shoulders, his fingers constantly straying to position an errant strap or scratching his back where the big backstrap offered unneeded support. It was so cute!

As we drove, I informed Stacie that he would be expected to obey certain private rules I had already formulated. The reason for this was that I needed to be convinced that Stacie was being a very good girl and therefore didn't require my brand of discipline. As I told him the first rule, he turned pale.

He looked up at me, a nervous wreck. "Oh, must I, Ms. Hardy? Shan't I be drawing attention to myself?" I had taught him to speak as a properly brought up young lady over the course of the past summer and to always use a frivolous charming turn of phrase.

"That's the point, Stacie. You'll do as I've instructed because it is important that everyone be aware of your concern for your appearance." I added, unnecessarily, that he knew what would happen if he didn't obey this rule. He gave me a short nod, though his full lips were tightly shut.

Stacie was surprised as I assigned him a seat that was surrounded by his former summer school chums-- Jed Taylor, Frankie Farino, Samantha King and Beth Simpson. He must have hoped against hope that the four would recognize him, but I watched that hope die as the kids looked him over as dully as they did their required reading. It was as if they had never known him at all. I knew that Stacie was reeling at the shock and was pleased. I wanted my darling girlie Stacie Fox to understand that Dino Fazio may as well have never existed.

I introduced Stacie to the class, though made no mention of our relationship. I had suggested to Mr. Temple that if the other kids knew Stacie was my niece they might suspect me of favoritism. Stacie was so informed as well and told to keep the relationship secret. Samantha and Beth couldn't have taken cared less about the new "girl" but I saw a brief predatory leer from the Stacie's two male neighbors, Jed and Frankie.

All was preceding normally when I decided to cue Stacie. I had told him the signal would be my taking off my glasses and putting them in the breast pocket of my jacket. To the rest of the class, this would be a meaningless gesture, but to Stacie it would begin the most memorable era of his bra training.

At first his frightened expression concerned me. My back-up plan would be to activate the Tutor and he knew this, which was probably why he grudgingly raised his hand. I stopped my lesson, a discussion of grammar rules, and recognized him.

"Yes, Stacie?" I asked archly, acting annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of my discourse.

His pretty made-up face blushed a crimson red. He opened his wide lipglossed mouth and spoke demurely. "May I be excused to go to the Girl's Room, Ms. Hardy?"

I hid my smile. "And why, Stacie?"

His face darkened in shame, but he knew he had to continue. He had no choice. "I must adjust my training brassiere, Ma'am."

As the class erupted into laughter, I couldn't help but join in. "Yes, Miss Fox, you may go adjust your training bra-- by all means, young lady!" Beth and Samantha were doubled over in chuckles and Jed and Frankie gave Stacie cartoonish "hubba hubba" looks. All the girls in the class were healthy sixteen year olds with nicely shaped chests and the request only emphasized how flat Stacie was compared to them. That a sixteen year old girl still wore a training bra absolutely shook them into gales of derisive laughter-- a laughter I freely shared.

Stacie scampered out of the class, completely humiliated and returned a few minutes later. As he resented himself, careful to keep his skirt close to his legs, Jed stage whispered "All set, Dolly Parton?" and the class broke into chuckles all over again. Stacie sat and kept his head bowed down.

That was the beginning of the bra training I subjected Stacie to. He was required per my rule to utter the phrase "my training brassiere" at least once a school day for two weeks. He had to say it in my presence at my cue loud enough to be heard by the entire class. After the first time, it was up to him to come up with ways to use the phrase that made sense. To be honest, his ingenuity impressed me. The next day, at my cue, he raised his hand. We had been discussing adjectives. How would be make a connection between his training bra and adjectives? I recognized him.

"In a way, adjectives are things that make others things pretty, is that right, Ms. Hardy?"

"How do you mean Miss Fox?"

He blushed again. "Like my training brassiere makes my figure prettier? Like that?"

Again, the class broke down. And it was like that for the next two weeks. Every time Stacie raised his hand, the class began to get the giggles, though by this time the girls were getting disgusted. Stacie had no self-pride to keep bringing up her small bust, they said. She was clearly doing it to get the attention of boys in some weird way. But the boys thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Another affect of what was seen as her odd behavior was that Stacie was unable to make any friends. The girls thought she was too strange and the boys couldn't care less about a girl who thought so little of herself, though Jed and Frankie seemed to have a private joke about their feminine classmate that made them eye her with special interest. In any case, Stacie was isolated which was precisely what I wanted. I hardly needed him getting chummy with some boy or girl and sharing the story of his ongoing training, let alone his biological sex.

Two weeks had passed and Stacie had obeyed my rules thoroughly. I complimented him at home, though he responded only with a wan sad smile. I knew he dreaded getting up in the morning, hated being put in such humiliating situations constantly and that school for him was more literally a prison for him than any of his classmates could imagine. But regardless of how I knew he must feel inside, I could find no fault whatsoever with his behavior. He dressed in his schoolgirl wardrobe without so much as a cross look. His walk was graceful in his Maryjanes and saddle shoes and his makeup applied ever more expertly as days progressed. No-- Stacie was acting like the perfect little lady at Benson High.

And that was why I decided to reward my little Stacie. Sunday evening I told him I wished to speak to him. He put down his Glamour magazine (he was responsible for reading at least one fashion magazine a week now) and looked up demurely. By now he had learned the tricks of the teenage girl of how to look pretty without too much work, which his casually ponytailed black hair demonstrated. He looked up, not directly at me, but down at my shoes-- an acceptably respectful demeanor.

"You've been a good girl, Stacie."

He continued to look down, but I saw the wince. He still didn't like being referred to as a girl, even though he made such a convincing one by now.

"Good girls get rewards."

He looked up hopefully now, batting his lashes excitedly. Then he saw what I had in my hand and all his anticipation collapsed. He took the gift pettishly, his brown eyes clouding in pouty anger.

"What do you say, young lady?"

"T-thank you, Ms. Hardy." There was a trace of hurt in it but I let it pass. He held the garment doubtfully.

I instructed him to put it on. Sluggishly, he pulled off his pink blouse. Without effort he slipped the training bra off over his head. But now his hostility was softened by curiosity. He shyly toyed with the soft wireless cups of his peach colored cotton bra.

"It's a Missy Petite, an Olga For Girls, size 32 AAA-- the smallest they make. But it is a real bra. What do you think Stacie?"

His curiosity was winning the better of him. "It has a hook in the back, Ms. Hardy-- not like my training brassiere." He was fingering the soft cotton, playing with the hook.

I nodded. "That's right, Stacie. You'll have to hook it in the back. Put it on." I watched as his trembling fingers drew his small bare breasts into the snug comfort of the new bra. Unlike the training bra, this one gave his small bust small but visible shaping. He now looked like a girl- a flat chested girl, but definitely a girl with a pair of petite breasts! Almost instinctively, he slipped the bra on, hooking the bra skillfully in the back and pulling the thin shoulder straps up to give his boobs a tiny shelf-like look. Against his will, I could tell he enjoyed admiring the new figure my gift gave him.

"Better than your training bra, hah?" I teased.

He gave me a sphinxlike smile and a pretty little nod.

"Good. You'll wear your new bra from now on. You may retire your training bra to your undies drawer. We'll keep it-- and if you ever start to act like a little girl, it will go right back on." He blushed and I continued. "But for now, your behavior has earned you the right to wear a real bra. In fact, you should be so happy about your new bra, that you shouldn't hesitate to tell everyone about it."

Stacie's face fell. As he must have suspected, his gift would have strings attached.   "So tomorrow in class, I'll expect you to follow a new rule." As I explained the rule, he grew more despondent. I left the room, leaving him to think about how he would follow the new rule in school tomorrow.

As we drove in, Stacie remained silent, though he offered a smile now and again. He had clearly reached some decision as to how he would fulfill the new rule I had laid down the previous night. As he took his seat, I saw the boys that sat next to Stacie were looking over with new interest. I had dressed Stacie to draw this kind of attention by putting him in a cute red form-fitting bolero top over a ribbed white shirt and a matching red skirt. For the first time Stacie had a bust and the boys noticed right away.

I was dying to see how my teen pet would obey his mistress' new rule. But throughout the class, he remained demure and quiet as always. Finally I knew he needed a push. And I gave it to him.

"All right class. Let's use some of the vocabulary words in real sentences, shall we? Use the work 'exquisite' in a sentence. Now who haven't I heard from today?' I paused and searched around the room, my eyes landing on Stacie. "Stacie. Stand up and use the word 'exquisite' in a sentence."

He looked up, his courage screwed to the highest pitch. Without missing a beat, he skipped up on his heels. "Yes, Ma'am." He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, then said "I look exquisite in my first real bra."

The class again broke out into uproarious laughter. As the students bellowed, I could see it was taking Stacie all he had to hold onto his composure. Beads of perspiration were forming on his smooth forehead and he patted his black bangs down nervously, until I told him to sit down. "Fine, Stacie. And thank you for informing us of your new bra."

And so it was that Stacie was required to use the phrase "my first real bra" every day in front of the class just as he had been required to say "my training brassiere" the previous two weeks. By now he had figured out a way to do it, slipping the humbling phrase in whenever he could get away with it. He obeyed the new rule with complete resignation now, enduring the laughs and jibes of the other kids without a word. But Frankie and Jed were eyeing him now in a way that made him uncomfortable. He brought this up as we drove home one night.

"They both look at me, at my breasts! I hate it, Ms. Hardy! Please move me to another seat!"

I shrugged. "Please, Stacie! As a pretty young thing, you'd better get used to the stares of boys. With such a small chest, you think you'd be happy to attract them. Why Beth and Samantha are even getting a little jealous!"

He looked at me with frightened eyes. "But I'm not a girl! I'm not! I don't want them to like me that way! I'm not gay!"

I looked him over. "Really? Well, what are you then?"

"I'm a boy!" he claimed in his squeaky-high soprano voice. But the absurdity of that concept was obvious even to Stacie and he looked down at his shiny Maryjanes in deep depression.

I let it pass for a moment. "You're a boy?" I pressed. "Really? You know how I feel about lying. Thank about that before you answer me Stacie!"

He pursed his lips. "Well, I may not be a boy anymore but I'm not gay. That's for sure!" he seemed so proud of this complex thinking.

I smiled. "Fine. You don't like boys. Do you like girls?"

He shook his head, his long black tresses shaking wildly. "Oh, yes, Ms. Hardy!"

"Tell me why."

He fell into a rhapsodic explanation of why he found girls attractive. "Girls are soft and sexy, so smooth and pretty. They have such nice curves and they're so much nicer that boys. So much more attractive. They wear the prettiest clothes, the most precious make-up, the sexist perfume. They're just so dreamy!"

I let it go at that. I was pleased that Stacie was so in love with his budding femininity. That he had no interest in males was perfectly fine-- I wanted Stacie as my lesbian lover, not as a plaything for the teenage boys in my class. And he was developing so nicely, which made the next new rule even more fun. As we drove home, I explained to Stacie what was expected of him next. I handed him the tiny ruler he would need.

"But why?" he demanded shrilly, though taking the ruler obediently. "Do I have to?"

"As if you have a choice, young lady! As for why, it is important that we track your development. Perhaps you're just in a holding pattern and your growth may kick back in. You never know at this age. And stop acting as if your small breast size doesn't bother you-- I know the boy and girls make fun of you, don't they?"

He nodded, a teardrop descending down his soft made-up cheek. Just that day, Stacie had returned to his locker to find written on it in indelible ink, "Stacie Fox is a carpenter's dream-- flat as a board." Before this his breasts had been so new to him that he couldn't have cared less about size. He had resisted accepting that he even had breasts at first. Then he had grown used to them, his attitude swinging between indifference and curiosity. But now the constant comments had driven him to a self-consciousness that was almost painful to watch. He had begun to examine himself so critically as he dressed in his girl's clothing with such eagle eyed attention to his appearance that at first I thought he was beginning to enjoy his new clothes. It was only when I noticed how much time he spent on his tops and arranging his bra that I knew he was finally growing embarrassed about the small size of his bust. The kids' comments and my rules had at last caused him to crack.

The next day Stacie put up the chart I had made him draw up. It was a big piece of paper which he taped to the inside door of his locker, with a big calendar on it. It was labeled "Stacie's Bust Size" with two columns: "Measurement" and "Cup." He put it up furtively between classes but the subterfuge couldn't last for long. That was because he was expected to measure his chest in the girl's lavatory after lunch with the micro ruler I had given to him in full view of the other girls. I gave myself an excuse for going into the girl's room to make sure he was doing as he was told. Sure enough, there he was with top and bra off, placing the micro ruler against the small puce boob as he looked redfaced into the mirror. The girls had been laughing when I entered the room but quieted down as I walked in. I looked oddly at Stacie, shrugged my shoulders and walked out. As I did, the laughing began again. Three minutes later, Stacie, fully clothed again though still redfaced, gave me a pouty look and walked to his locker. Opening it quickly, he took out a big pink marker and jotted in the first chart entry: "32 AAA."

Poor Stacie hated this part of the day. I think he would have preferred to have returned to the verbal humiliation than undergo this new daily ritual. But even as he followed the new procedure, I noticed him growing more anxious about the possibility that in deed his breasts would grow. He often asked if I thought his breasts might grow and I assured him that anything was possible. I was very pleased that he now wanted his breasts to grow-- even though there was no way I would allow that. I liked his tiny breasts, the girlish buds. I had long ago decided that I would have the womanly breasts and my teen pet would have to do with his pretty juvenile bumps. I thought it only emphasized his girlishness rather than subtract from it.

I don't want to make it seem that Stacie's life was all about his breasts or lack thereof. Actually, he was becoming quite a proper young schoolgirl. His oddness to the other kids prevented him from forming any friendships so he spent most of his out-of-school time devouring the romance novels and teeny bopper magazines I limited him to: Teen Beat, Cosmo, Glamour, Seventeen, Redbook and the like. As I corrected papers, he was allowed to watch soap opera after soap opera, drinking in the daytime dramas that glamorized the ultra-femininity I wished Stacie to strive for.

And he was, with every day that passed. Gradually he had stopped fighting his training, and as days passed, was grudgingly coming to accept it. His make-up skills were improving dramatically and he now needed virtually no coaching to put on his face in the morning. Ditto for his long straight black hair. At first I put him through a series of daily style changes, styles which were featured in his fashion magazines-- one day a pretty French bob, the next day a throwback Farrah look, the following a "big hair" mall walker look. Finally we discovered his prettiest look-- a simple ponytail, his long black hair tied up high in the back and swishing gently over and down his shoulders. An unexpected spanking one morning convinced my little male missy to keep his legs and underarms smoothly shaved and he remembered the lesson because I never had to remind him after that. No pantyhose was allowed-- his legs were too sexy. I gave him another dose of the same medicine when I saw that he had been biting his nails. That spanking was a great deal more severe but when it was over my sissified boy swore in tears that he'd never ruin his nails that way again. To make sure this was the case he presented them every morning for me to examine. His raw fingers were then quickly transformed by the long red polished nails he soon grew.

His clothing never became an issue because he had no choices as to what he might wear, at least for the first couple of weeks. Living in Florida was a luxury for any smooth, long legged beauty like my Stacie so I constantly kept him in outfits that would show them off. "Small breasted girls need to depend on other assets to catch an appreciative eye," I explained to him as I'd pick out a flirty little miniskirt or a pair of short-shorts. From time to time, I'd put him in a tight pair of Chic jeans which really showed off his shrinking waist and curvy backside, but generally I liked him to feel the air between his legs-- I liked this reminder of his essential feminine vulnerability. Plus it forced him to walk with the grace of a cat lest he reveal a flash of the panties underneath. Tops were bright colored, often midriff, t- shirts or tank tops. I liked him in his Maryjanes with a pair of lacy socks, but I permitted him to wear a more mature pair of pink flats. Increasing I had him to slip on his pair of red three inch heels which he disliked. Underneath Stacie of course wore his original soft cup Junior Missy Olga bra, though he now had a choice of a peach, pink and yellow colored bra in addition to his original white bra. His panties were all cotton in the French-cut bikini style of the Hanes For Her brand. They seemed made for him the way they clung to the sinuous curve of his hips, disappeared snugly down and between his legs, only to emerge in a jealous vee of bright cotton to hug his tight, cupcake buns. Readying for bedtime meant slipping on a lavender cami top and a clean pair of panties. The stainless steel chastity cup flattened out his midsection so securely and thoroughly that the merest bulge remained as a clue as to his original gender. I had to remind myself that the teenage beauty, whose sexuality was only emphasized by her self-consciousness, who dressed so shyly in front of me every morning as she jumped up and down in front of the mirror to shoehorn herself into her too-tight designer jeans-- that this girl was REALLY a boy.

I talked to Diana about how easily he was softening into a little teen queen.

"It seems so much easier than I would have thought."

"Not me, my dear," she replied archly.

"But Dino Fazio was the toughest, wisecracking bully I've ever bumped into, Diana! And he's been turned into a fluffy headed, house-broken kitten!"

"Yes, but," she reminded me, " take the bully out of Dino and see what was left? Just a disobedient child longing for discipline-- which you are providing. Stacie now knows that someone cares enough about him to punish him if he's misbehaved. As much as your 'niece' acts as if he doesn't like to be told what to do, he's growing so used to obeying orders that he'll be petrified to think or act on his own. A perfectly appropriate state for your young missy to be in."

When I told my Stacie that I wished him to try out for the Bentson Bunnies Cheerleading Squad just to see how feminine he was really trying to be, I was pleasantly surprised by his reaction. He didn't throw out some lame protest. He wasn't happy about it but he didn't have a choice and he knew it.

"O.k. Ms. Hardy, I'll try-- if you think I have a chance." I think he was excited that I thought he DID have a chance.

The next day he took an extra ten minutes just making himself up and brushing his hair. This morning I didn't pick out his wardrobe but had him choose his own outfit. His pouty red lips parted as if surprised at this, then closed. Without further instruction, he picked out of his dresser his clothes and slipped them on, hesitating as if I might tell him to substitute one garment for another. But there was no need. His outfit was darling, especially for a cheerleader try-out. He slipped on a pair of bright yellow panties and matching bra, a yellow cotton mini-skirt, a black midriff tank top, a yellow bow around his ponytail and his pair of black and white saddle shoes. The colors of Bentson High were yellow and black.

Later that day, as we were driving home, I asked him how his try out had gone. He stared out the window, sulking.

"I didn't make it. I didn't get picked." He was trying to sound natural but I detected some bitterness. As if he was upset that he hadn't been chosen.

"And why was that?"

He bit his lower lip, then answered. "The coach said she wanted her girls to have lots to cheer up the boys with and that I should try again next year."

"Why next year?" He was trying to sound so nonchalant about this.

He looked into his lap, inspecting his nails. "She thought I might grow out more by then." The he looked out the window so quickly I almost didn't see the tear that was forming in the corner of his eye. Suddenly he blurted out, "If I have to be a girl, why can't I at least be a pretty girl? It's unfair!"

I suppressed a smile. "Oh, you are pretty, Stacie! Don't say that!"

He looked at it moppily. "But I'm so flat! I just hate being so flat!" He made two small fists and hit his bare knees in frustration. "Just like my locker says-- Stacie Fox the carpenter's dream!" He brooded, his brown eyes flashing in anger. "I hate being a girl!"

I didn't say a word. I pulled the car into the driveway.

"Follow me upstairs, young lady!" I commanded Stacie. Immediately he realized he had crossed a line and he was going to pay for it. He minced behind me in trepidation as I headed for his bedroom. Picking up a copy of Seventeen from his night table, I rolled it up tightly and swatted it on hard against my palm. I seated myself on his bed.