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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 - 5 (Fm, cd, v)
by Chrissie LaFemme

***

"I overheard Homer and Dutchie talking about you yesterday."

While Queenie waited for Blondie to react she started to lace 
him into the new whale-bone corset she had bought. Starting 
at the top lace and working her way down, she pulled firmly 
on the two ends of each lace and knotted them together.

For the past week she had kept Blondie isolated from Boss and 
the two boys -- she had forbade him to be even in the same 
room with them. She had confined him to the kitchen at meal-
times and locked him in his bedroom at other times they were 
around. When they were alone together she had told him 
stories -- some real, some fictitious -- though all with the 
same theme: the vulnerability of women living in isolated 
farmsteads to being terrorized by gangs of marauding men.

Right now, Queenie could see the boy was in two minds -- she 
had reckoned he would be interested in hearing what Homer and 
Dutchie had been saying about him but at the same time he 
wouldn't want to engage her in conversation. She reckoned too 
that he would want to know where Boss and the boys had gone. 

"Yes?"

"Yes," she echoed. 'Come on, girlie, you've shown you're 
interested -- you can't go back now!' she said gleefully to 
herself.

As she worked her way down to his waist she pushed her knee 
into the small of his back to gain greater leverage. She 
could see the corset beginning to compress his waist into the 
desired shape.

"What did they say about me?"

Queenie didn't reply immediately. Inwardly, she was gloating: 
'My, Blondie! Six whole words -- that's more than you said 
all of yesterday!'

Then she chuckled aloud.

"Men can be so ignorant about women at times!" she exclaimed 
with a rueful laugh.

Blondie went pale and in a hurt tone asked: "What do you 
mean? What were they saying about me? Please tell me!"

Queenie took hold of another lace and started to draw the 
ends together.

"You remember yesterday when you dropped those spoons in the 
kitchen at breakfast?" she asked. "Take another deep breath, 
Blondie."

"Yes, I do: why?" Blondie replied, puzzled. He inhaled and 
then grimaced with discomfort as the corset squeezed his 
waist further.

"You remember Dutchie wanted to go in and help you pick them 
up but I wouldn't let him?" Queenie continued.

"Yes, what about it?" Blondie answered. A warm glow briefly 
surfaced on the boy's face and disappeared just as quickly -- 
but not before Queenie noticed it.

"Dutchie's such a gentleman, isn't he, girlie," she observed 
smoothly.

"What were they saying about me?" the boy cried impatiently.

"They were talking about the way you picked up the spoons," 
Queenie replied enigmatically. She chuckled to herself 
inwardly: 'I'm teasing you, Blondie! You'll have to talk to 
me eventually -- and in the way I taught you!'

"The way I picked up the spoons ... ? I don't understand!" 
Blondie cried in frustration. "Tell me!"

Queenie didn't reply; she continued lacing the corset.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at her.

"I'm sorry, Queenie, it wasn't very lady-like of me to talk 
to you like that," he said meekly. "Please tell me: what did 
they say about me?"

"They were trying to figure out why you picked up the spoons 
like you did," Queenie responded.

"I still don't understand," the boy replied, shaking his 
head.

"They were wondering why you had to bend from the knees and 
why you had to keep your back straight," Queenie said.

"Oh."

Queenie finished lacing the corset. It was longer than any he 
had worn previously, reaching down to the middle of his 
thighs.

"Like I said: men can be so ignorant about women!" she said 
breezily. She let him digest this in silence as she handed 
him a pair of stockings from the bed.

As she watched him pull one stocking at a time up his smooth, 
hairless legs and fasten them to the suspenders, she reminded 
herself -- not for the first time either -- how most women 
would kill to have shapely legs like his.

When he was finished she passed him the first of his 
petticoats from the bed.

'This is your least favorite underskirt, girlie!' she said to 
herself as she watched him step in to the lace-trimmed 
garment and pull it up to his waist. 'You detest the way it 
squeezes your legs together! You despise, too, the way it 
makes you take little dainty steps! Most of all, you hate the 
way it makes you feel vulnerable -- vulnerable in a way only 
a woman can understand: like us, if you're threatened by a 
man, you know you won't be able to run!'

Four more petticoats followed; then, instead of giving him 
the dress she had laid out on the bed she went over to the 
closet and picked out a Sunday outfit. She knew he'd realise 
the significance of her choosing a frilly dress rather than 
the week-day dress on the bed: it meant the men weren't 
around, it meant not having to tidy up after them, not having 
to cook, it meant having a day to themselves, a day of 
tranquillity, a day embroidering up at Lady's View with only 
the babbling sounds of the river below to disturb them.

"Where did they go last night?"

It was the question Queenie had been expecting all morning.

"Did the men not tell you?" she asked insouciantly, taking 
the dress off its hanger. "Maybe they didn't want to frighten 
you!"

"Tell me what?" the boy asked, mystified and alarmed. 
"Frighten me about what?"

Queenie gathered the dress up in her arms and lifted it over 
the boy's head.

"Newsome's homestead -- a half a day's ride from here -- gang 
of five men looted the place -- killed Pa Newsome," she said 
in between guiding one arm into the sleeve and then the next 
and lowering the dress down over his slender frame.

"They killed someone?!" Blondie asked, horrified.

"Sure did," Queenie answered, pulling at the hem of the dress 
to make it sit better on the layers of petticoats. Then, she 
added ominously: "And they raped Ma Newsome and her two 
daughters ... "

"They what ... ?" the boy breathed in horror.

Queenie closed her eyes momentarily as if in silent prayer 
and nodded her head.

"Where are they now?"

"Who?"

"The gang -- the men who raped ... "

"Don't know, girlie. Boss and the boys have gone to join a 
posse to find them."

"But they could be coming this way!" Blondie yelped. "Who's 
going to protect us ... what will we do if they come, 
Queenie? We're defenceless ... !"

Queenie finished buttoning his dress at back.

"Don't fret, girlie," she commented comfortingly. "If anybody 
comes just stay close to my side. I'll see that nothing 
happens to you."

Inwardly, Queenie was exhilarated: Blondie was reacting in a 
way that exceeded her wildest dreams. 'I can't wait for the 
new potion that Anita is sending to arrive!' she thought 
ecstatically to herself as she tied the sash of his dress at 
back.

"What'll happen if they realize I'm a ... " the panic-
stricken boy started to say.

Queenie put her finger to his lips.

"You mean what will happen when they realize you're a virgin? 
That's what you meant to say, girlie, isn't it?" she replied 
soothingly but with a menacing undertone.

Blondie nodded his head nervously.

"I won't let any man near you and even if they did they 
wouldn't be able to take off that corset!" she said jokingly 
to show him she wasn't worried.

She ran her fingers through the lace frills of his bodice and 
looked into his terror-filled eyes.

"I guess that's why the men didn't tell you anything, 
girlie," she said softly, leading him over to the mirror to 
do his hair. "They didn't want you to get all jittery or 
anything, girlie ... there's nothing worse than a man hates 
in these situations than a panicky female ... "


++++++++++++++++


The sun was just past its zenith by the time they reached 
Lady's View. Below them the river snaked lazily to the east.

"I join you in a minute, girlie," Queenie said. "I'm just 
going to pick some flowers over there."

Blondie nodded and spreading out his skirts sat down on the 
bench.

Queenie walked on for a few yards stooping to pick flowers 
here and there. When she returned she saw that Blondie had 
started on his embroidery frame.

"You look so pretty!" she exclaimed admiringly. "You know I 
wore that dress for my eighteenth birthday!"

The boy blushed and nodded.

"Yes, you told me," he confirmed in a low, whispered voice.

"Everyone admired it on me; I felt so pretty and ... so 
special!" Queenie replied dreamily. "So special ... I wanted 
to wear it forever!"

She sat down on the bench beside him.

"I never dreamed anyone else would wear it!" she exclaimed. 
"But it looks gorgeous on you, girlie, and you know how to 
look after it!"

Blondie blushed again.

There was silence before Queenie spoke again.

"Who taught you, girlie? Who taught you how to look after a 
dress like that?" she asked.

"You did!" he replied hesitantly.

Queenie shook her head.

"No, girlie ... leastways, I wasn't the first! I was 
observing you out of the corner of my eye when you sat down 
on the bench. I saw you smooth your skirts behind you when 
you sat down. It was an instinctive thing; you didn't have to 
do it -- you knew I wasn't watching!" she pointed out. "It 
was a revelation to watch you, girlie: you did it so 
naturally, so unconsciously! I bet my bottom dollar that's 
what a pretty dress does to you!"

Blondie shook his head.

"Is no the true answer, girlie?" Queenie asked softly. "You 
recall I told you about Mrs. Mellon's throw away remark that 
all you lacked was a dress to be taken for a girl but that 
hadn't always been the case in the past?"

Blondie said nothing and pointedly continued with his 
embroidery.

"I thought you might be interested to hear that I wrote to 
her last month for clarification. She told me the story ... 
or maybe you'd like to tell me yourself, girlie?" Queenie let 
her question hang in the air.

She saw her companion's lip tremble but he said nothing.

"This is hard on you, isn't it, girlie? Your past catching up 
on you," she murmured sympathetically. "It was your big 
sister who started it, wasn't it?"

Blondie didn't reply.

"Mrs. Mellon said she was a real beauty who loved pretty 
clothes, but she was frustrated being the eldest of four boys 
and not having any sister to enjoy!" Queenie said. "So when 
you came along -- as a baby, you were weak and undersized for 
your sex -- she resolved to make a sister out of you. Of 
course, she couldn't do that without your mother's knowledge 
and approval with whom she had a very close relationship. 
Having provided your father with four male heirs, your mother 
concluded that she had made her contribution and turned a 
blind eye. Being both the youngest and physically small for 
your age, you were picked on unmercifully by your four elder 
brothers. Your sister offered to protect you from your 
heartless brothers. Her protection, though, came with a 
price: you had to become her little sister! Once she had you 
in a dress and looking pretty, she made you feel safe! But, 
best of all, she made you feel cherished and appreciated -- 
and beautiful!"

Queenie paused to see if Blondie would say anything but he 
remained silent.

"She transformed you into such a sweet and winsome little 
sister that it wasn't long before your mother put her 
inhibitions behind her and she too became involved!" Queenie 
continued. "And with your father being away in the navy they 
had a free hand! Catching the fever at the age of three gave 
your sister the pretext to move you into her room so she 
could nurse you. The only thing, girlie, was this wasn't a 
temporary move, this was for good -- you never moved back in 
with your brothers again!"

"The two most powerful women in your life, girlie, dressing 
you up as a girl! They made you feel special and wanted! And 
you loved every minute of it! You were the center of their 
attention and you loved it! You adored feeling pretty! You 
were captivated by the beautiful clothes they dressed you in! 
They taught you everything about being a girl -- and you 
lapped it up like a sponge!" Queenie went on. "And being the 
'new' girl in your family, your brothers dared not touch you 
for fear of bringing the wrath of your mother and sister on 
top of them! You were safe! But you were only secure as long 
as your mother and sister treated you as a girl. You had to 
constantly reassure them that not only did you like dressing 
as a girl but you wanted to be like one as well! And that, 
girlie, was how you lived the first seven years of your 
existence!"

Queenie reached over and squeezed Blondie's arm.

"Then, one by one, your family was struck down by the 
plague," she went on. "You were heart-broken and going to the 
orphanage nearly destroyed you. Suddenly, you had to put all 
your past behind you and to survive the orphanage you had to 
be Mr. Tough Guy! But deep inside you, buried deep in your 
innermost core, were those feminine qualities, waiting for a 
moment -- any moment -- to reveal themselves!"

"That's ... that's not true!" Blondie whispered hoarsely. 
Queenie saw tear drops falling on his embroidery frame.

"Yes, girlie, it is true!" Queenie asserted quietly and 
firmly. "Only some last vestige of misplaced masculine pride 
is preventing you from revealing your true feelings! You're 
not in the orphanage now! Leave your tough little guy act 
behind, girlie! It's artificial, a sham -- I've seen through 
it! You're here with me, girlie! I want you to be the real 
you! I want the little girl --"

"Nooooooo!" Blondie wept, his face in his hands.

"Listen to me, girlie! You were raised as a girl -- and you 
loved every moment of it! I want the little girl in you to 
return! To feel pretty and dainty! Embrace your feminine 
nature, girlie, stop running from it! Accept it and enjoy 
it!" Queenie said gently. "It's your destiny, girlie: you 
can't change your fate any more than the river below can 
change its path. You're fated for femininity!"

Blondie shook his head.

Queenie sighed.

"If I can't convince you now, then maybe you'll listen to 
your body," she said cryptically.

