From: nostrumo@IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg

   Subject: TG: Prairie girl by Chrissie LaFemme (1/3)

   Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

   Date: 6 Oct 1996 21:27:17 GMT

   Hi.

   Enjoy the story.

   Ciao

   Nostrumo

   >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp
knife<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

   Prairie girl

   by Chrissie LaFemme



   The driver from the orphanage sighed.

   The ranch buildings in front of him were in a dilapidated state and
stood out like a sore thumb in the beautiful but remote countryside in
which it was located.  He had driven for almost three days to reach the
place.

   It was not the ranch though that depressed him; it was the thought of
meeting the rancher and his wife that made him feel heavy hearted.  He had
seen them when they had visited the orphanage three months before.  He
remembered the rancher's rough manner and equally rough temperament.

   His wife had been different though, quieter, more subdued; 'close to
tears' was how one of the cooks in the orphanage had described her.  'A
high-born lady who'd married beneath her' was the consensus in the kitchen.

   The rancher approached him with a scowl on his face.

   "Who are you and want do you want around here?" he demanded in a
menacing voice.

   The driver explained who he was and why he was there.  "There's three of
them: they're in the back," he concluded, indicating the back of his wagon.

   The rancher gave him a smug look.

   "Ah yes, we've been expecting them," he said.  "Me and my wife have no
kids of our own so we'll treat them real good!"

   "OK you guys, we're here," the driver called, opening the canvas cover.

   Three boys clambered out and looked around them.

   The driver took out a piece of paper from his pocket and asked the
rancher to sign the form.  Before he left he warned the rancher that if any
of them escaped the others would be taken from him.

   He wished the boys good luck and as he clicked the horses away on the
long journey back to the orphanage he saw the rancher giving one of them a
cuff on the side of the head.  He wanted to turn around and take the kids
back with him but he knew it wasn't possible.  He sighed, he had seen this
situation so many times before: young boys from the orphanage being used
virtually as unpaid laborers by unscrupulous ranchers.  But the orphanage
was under pressure to make space for new arrivals so the older children
were placed wherever they could.

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

   The rancher told the three cowering boys in front of him he was to be
known as Boss.  He showed the boys to their quarters, a large, draughty
building, set a short distance from the two-storey house where Boss and his
wife lived.

   Three make-shift beds had been set against one wall.  There they met the
rancher's wife, Queenie, who was putting blankets on straw mattresses.

   "They've come," Boss grunted to her.

   "About time!" she said sharply.

   The new arrivals felt her piercing blue eyes scrutinize them.  "Look at
that small skinny one!" she hissed, pointing at the boy in the middle. 
"He'll never last a day in the fields!  You're a fool for taking him!"

   Boss looked at the boy.

   "Damn orphanage!" he cursed loudly.  "I asked for three big strapping
guys!"

   The other two boys looked protectively at the blonde-haired boy in
between them.  He hardly came to their shoulder and compared to him they
were built like giants.  They were used to manual labor from their days in
the orphanage but their friend looked like he couldn't lift a

   stone.

   Boss continued to rent the air with his curses.  The atmosphere in the
building became ominous and threatening.  The two bigger boys feared the
enraged farmer might do their companion harm.

   "I'll take him."

   "You'll what?" spluttered Boss.

   "I'll take him," his wife repeated.  "He's plainly not suitable for
outdoor work.  He wouldn't last two days out there!"

   "What would you do with him?" Boss demanded.

   "I have plenty of work for him," Queenie assured him.  "With three extra
mouths to feed I'll be stretched to my limit, but with him I'll be able to
get through the work."

   Boss looked at her incredulously.

   "He'll work with me ...  end of story," he snarled.

   The woman fell silent but the two bigger boys saw that her eyes never
left their blonde companion.

   The next day the three boys accompanied Boss out to where the herds were
grazing; the work was hard and unremitting.  The two bigger boys coped with
the workload but their smaller companion struggled.  Despite Boss's curses
and wallops the boy was not able to work any faster.

   When they returned to the ranch that evening for dinner the boy was
hardly able to eat his meal from exhaustion.  The woman had a broad smirk
on her face as she served dinner.

   The same pattern was repeated the next day; this time Boss found himself
losing his temper at regular intervals.  It was clear that the boy was not
up to the physical work in the fields.  Boss hated to be proven wrong by
his wife and especially in front of the two older boys, Homer and Dutchie.
But he was losing so much time over the slightly built youngster that he
had no choice.  He decided, however, to keep the boy one last day in the
field to at least prove his wife wrong that he wouldn't last two days.

   During dinner time Queenie asked the boy to show her his hands.  "I've
never seen such soft hands on a boy!" she exclaimed in wonderment, taking
his hand in hers.  Seeing that his hands had cuts and bruises she offered
to put ointment on them.  But Boss roared angrily at her to mind her own
business.

   Boss was to regret his decision to keep the boy one extra day.  He spent
so much time supervising the smaller boy that hardly any work was done that
day.  When they arrived back at the ranch that evening he yelled
impatiently for his wife.  Queenie appeared in the kitchen

   doorway, a knowing smile playing on her lips.  Grabbing the boy by the
collar Boss shoved him in her direction.

   "OK, you're in charge of him, do you hear!  If he steps out of line or
tries to escape, you've had it!" he roared at her.

   Queenie turned pale.

   "I'll see that it doesn't happen," she replied, recovering her
composure. Then, beckoning to the fair-headed boy she said: "In here,
Blondie."

   Homer and Dutchie watched as their younger companion shuffled slowly
towards the kitchen.

   "I'm in charge of him now, Boss: he's my responsibility now, OK?"
Queenie asserted.

   Boss shrugged dismissively: "You can do what you like with him, he's
useless!"

   Homer and Dutchie saw the woman give the boy a gloating, almost
possessive look as he passed by her.  She followed him into the kitchen and
shut the door behind her.

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

   The days that passed gradually developed into a pattern.  Queenie was
first up and when she had dressed she would go out to the building where
the boys had been locked in for the night and wake her fair-haired
assistant.  Together they would prepare breakfast for Boss and the two
bigger boys, Homer and Dutchie.  Then they would fill bags with food and
drink which Boss and his helpers would have for lunch.

   They would wash the breakfast dishes when Boss and the two boys had
saddled up and departed for the day.  Next they would tidy the house and
collect items for the laundry.  Washing was done in a large tub for which
they had to collect water in buckets from the well.

   After lunch they would feed the farm animals before going inside to
prepare the dinner.  Dinner was served at six, sometimes it was later. 
They always knew when Boss and the two boys were coming: the barks of the
dogs would herald their arrival.  After dinner Boss would lock the

   two bigger boys into their quarters for the night.  Queenie and Blondie
would then clear away the table and wash the dishes.  When she was
satisfied that the kitchen was clean Blondie too was brought out to the
out-house and locked in with the other two boys.

   Then Queenie would sit with Boss until it was time for bed.  Sometimes
they would talk but mostly they sat in silence, she sewing and he smoking
his pipe or drinking.

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

   Though they were in each other's company all day they rarely spoke apart
from Queenie giving Blondie instructions and he acknowledging his
understanding of them.

   He liked to keep his distance from her: he showed that by chatting and
joking with Homer and Dutchie at meal-times.  It irked her that when he was
in their presence he liked to behave as if she didn't exist.

   Blondie was a good worker and followed out her every command.  He kept
the kitchen neat and tidy; he did all the chores she set for him around the
house without complaint.  He had become a good cook (a fact appreciated by
Boss and the two boys).  He seemed glad not to be out

   working with the others though he never admitted it.

   Queenie, though she was glad he was a willing worker, found his presence
increasingly uncomfortable.  She realized deep down she was afraid of him.
She feared that Blondie would try to escape: sometimes she woke up in a
sweat at night thinking of what her husband would do to her if he did.

   Her other great fear was that some day he would attack her before
escaping and by the time Boss returned home he would be long gone.  In this
scenario she pictured herself as a defenceless female at the mercy of a
vengeful man.

   The responsibility of watching him all day was a much greater mental
strain then she had anticipated.  She tried to reassure herself that if he
did attack her she would be able to defend herself.  She knew she was
stronger than him: she had just been able to lift a bag of corn

   while he could barely budge it.

   Yet there were times she was glad he was around.  Before his arrival she
had a long day on her own and even when Boss was at home in the evenings
sometimes he hardly spoke to her.  Though she only gave orders to Blondie
at least she was communicating with another person.  She was uneasy though
because she never knew what was going on in his mind.  She imagined he must
hate her -- particularly for making him do women's work.

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

   One day Queenie sent him out at noon to feed the hens.  When he hadn't
returned after a quarter of an hour, cold fear clutched her heart.  She ran
outside calling him: there was no answer.

   Trembling with fear she searched the out-buildings.  To her horror she
could hear her husband's dogs in the distance; she realized that he must be
coming home early.  Panic-stricken, she intensified her search for the
missing boy.  Even if she saw the boy, she said to herself in a

   panic, with her long skirts she would never be able to catch him.

   She had searched all the out-buildings bar one: an old shed where a
young calf was tethered.  Opening the door cautiously she caught sight of a
movement beneath the straw.  She pounced and dragged the boy out of his
hiding place.

   Queenie was white with anger.  The boy lay shaking with fear on the
ground while the calf tied to a ring on the wall looked at both of them in
dumb curiosity.

   What happened next was like a blur to Queenie, a searing anger exploded
deep inside her obliterating all her natural instincts.  She seized a
length of rope and struggle though he might, Queenie soon had the boy's
wrists tied behind his back.  She hauled him back to the house and then to
the spare bedroom upstairs.  There she opened a large empty closet and
pushed the boy in locking the solid wooden doors behind him.

   She rushed downstairs to meet her husband to explain what had happened.
When she opened the kitchen door there was no sound from the fields.  No
dog barked, no voices could be heard.  With relief she guessed the dogs
must have been chasing a coyote or something and had come close to the
house.

   Still trembling with shock, Queenie sat down in the kitchen.  It would
be another five or six hours before Boss would be home.  She knew she had
been lucky ...  very lucky: the boy had probably heard the dogs too and had
come to the same conclusion that she had -- which was why

   he had hidden in the out-building.  He was probably even more afraid of
Boss than she was.  If it hadn't been for the dogs barking he would have
run off and she wouldn't have had a chance to catch him in her long skirts.

   The knowledge though that she was physically stronger than the boy
comforted her.  She had been able to tie him up and drag him into the
house. But Blondie would run off again, she thought to herself, of that she
was sure.  Then she would have to face Boss's rage -- there

   would be no lucky escape like today.

   How then to keep him from escaping?  Queenie knew she couldn't keep him
tied up or locked away all day.  How could she shackle him so that escape
was impossible?

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

   When Boss and the two bigger boys arrived back for dinner that evening
their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

   "What's ...  what's ...  going on here?" Boss spluttered, wiping the
sweat from his face.

   "What do you mean?" Queenie replied nonchalantly.

   "I mean ...  him!  What's he doing in those clothes!" her husband
roared, stabbing a dirty finger at the fair-haired boy.

   "That's his uniform ..." she started to reply.

   "Uniform!  Why the hell does he need a uniform like that?" Boss
interrupted in a demanding voice.

   "Because I say he needs a uniform and don't forget I'm in charge of
him!" she flashed back angrily.

   Boss was momentarily taken back by Queenie's sharp retort.

   "He doesn't need a dress for a uniform!" he fumed.

   "Who's in charge of him?" Queenie demanded, her hands on her hips.  "You
or me?"

   "You are.  But --"

   "And if he's going to do a maid's work then I say he's going to dress in
a maid's uniform," she interrupted.

   "But --" Boss repeated.

   "But what?" she challenged.

   Boss, tired and weary from a day's toil and confused by his wife's
maddening logic, banged his fists on the table.

   "Where's my dinner?" he shouted.

   Queenie nodded to the fair-haired boy who started to serve the meal. 
Dinner was eaten in silence except for Boss loudly slurping his soup.  The
two bigger boys each got a cuff from Boss when he caught them staring at
his wife's helper.

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

   "I've put them away for the night," Boss grunted to his wife after
dinner.  She and Blondie were clearing away the dishes.

   Queenie nodded.

   "I'm going to keep him in the spare room from now on," she told her
husband, indicating the boy beside her.  "That way I can get him up earlier
and make him work longer and harder."

   "How long are you going to keep him in that?" Boss asked, pointing at
the boy with distaste.

   "In what?" Queenie asked, feigning innocence.

   "In that dress, damn you!" Boss exploded.

   "For as long as its needed," she replied insouciantly.  "Why should it
bother you?  You said I can do anything I like with him ..."

   Boss looked at her in astonishment; then he threw his arms up in
disgust.

   "Have it your way," he replied wearily.  "I think you're crazy."

   He sat down on his favorite chair and picked up a half- finished bottle
of whisky.  Soon his snoring resounded throughout the house.

   "Upstairs," Queenie ordered the humiliated boy.  "I'm not finished with
you yet."

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

   The next morning Queenie was up earlier than usual.  She washed and
dressed while her husband slept on in the bed.  She went down the
passageway and taking a key from her pocket she quietly unlocked the door
to the spare bedroom.

   The boy was still asleep.  While he was rousing she secured a length of
cord to each wrist.  Then she released the rope that tied his hands to the
head of the bed.  Before he could react she dragged him out of the bed and
forced him to face the foot of the bed.  Despite his struggles

   she effortlessly tied the cord attached to his left wrist to the
bed-post and then the other wrist.

   "What are you going to do with me?" he asked sullenly, his face suffused
with the twin humiliation of being bound and finding himself still wearing
her clothes.

   "You'll see soon enough," she replied curtly.

   Queenie first took off his night-gown, untying each wrist as necessary
to take off the garment.

   Then she passed a cotton chemise over his head and pulled it down over
his slim frame.  She released each wrist at a time to do the sleeves and
then retied it to the bed.

   Next she attached a pair of black stockings on his legs and held them in
place with garters.

   The boy's face fell as he saw what was coming next.

   "No, no, no, not that, please, please, ..." he beseeched.

   "Do you know how tight I'll make it?  Tighter than yesterday!" she
sneered, placing the corset around his middle.  She started lacing it at
back, tugging each lace as hard as she could.

   "That's tight enough--" he gasped.  "I can hardly breathe!!!"

   Queenie redoubled her efforts.  "I want to <tug> show off <tug> your
figure!" she panted.

   Next she put on five petticoats, trimmed with lace and ruffled to give
them volume, followed by a purple dress.  The dress was put on in the same
laborious way as the chemise: she would release one arm at a time so she
could put it through the sleeve before retying it to the

   bed-post and doing the other arm.

   She buttoned up the dress at back and taking a length of string she tied
the two top buttons together.

   "You won't be able to get out of that dress without me!" she crowed,
running her hand over the dress to smooth out any wrinkles.

   Next came a white, full-length apron and then his feet were squeezed
into a pair of lace-up ankle boots.

   Finally, she worked his blonde hair with a brush and then pinned on a
snood, a loose bag-like ornamental net which held his hair at back.

   "Why are you making me wear these clothes?" he cried piteously as she
untied his wrists.  "Why are you doing this to me?  What are you going to
do with me?"

   Queenie gave him a hard, spiteful look.

   "What am I going to do with you?  I'm going to see that you never, ever
escape from me again!" she hissed venomously.

   Before she led her hapless assistant down to the kitchen she dusted his
face with scented powder.

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

   Boss was astonished at breakfast to find the boy still dressed in his
wife's clothes.  The meal, like the previous evening's dinner, was eaten in
tense silence.

   All eyes in the room were on Blondie.  Boss and the two boys, Homer and
Dutchie, embarrassed and confused by the boy's feminine attire, threw
clandestine glances in his direction; Queenie, hovering in the background,
watched his every movement like a cat with a captive mouse.

   'I can tell from your face that you don't like any of this.  Why did you
let her make you wear her clothes yesterday?' Boss said to himself as the
shame-faced boy served coffee.  'What happened between the two of you
yesterday?  Why are you so silent today?  Why don't you say

   something?'

   Boss observed how subservient the boy had become: Queenie scarcely had
to raise her voice and Blondie would scurry to carry out her orders.

   The dinner that evening was eaten in an equally strained atmosphere. 
Gone was the boy's usual good-natured banter with Homer and Dutchie,
instead his downcast eyes sought to avoid meeting theirs.

   The following day passed and went, as did the next and the next.  Boss
was no nearer understanding the reason for Blondie's womanish attire then
he was at the start.  The silence which had characterized meal-times was
slowly punctured; first by he and the two bigger boys

   speaking in whispers and then gradually talking in their normal voices.

   Queenie excluded Blondie from their conversations by confining him to
the kitchen; he only came out when she told him to.  Boss was astonished
how -- without a murmur of protest -- the boy would let her fuss over his
lace bonnet or re-tie his apron.  The control that she seemed to exert over
Blondie through dressing him in female clothing unsettled Boss and, if the
truth be told, it unsettled him greatly.

   He thought it was unnatural and unwholesome of Queenie to make the boy
dress in her clothes.  But whenever he raised the matter with his wife she
always had a ready answer for him.  She would clinch her argument by
pointing out that Blondie wasn't complaining ...

   He fretted too that Queenie was spending too much time with the boy in
the evening -- she no longer sat with him after dinner ("I'm too busy right
now ...  perhaps tomorrow," she would say).  As he sat alone in his
favorite chair he could hear the two of them in the spare bedroom upstairs.
Occasionally, he would hear his wife's raised voice and the sudden
scuffling of heels on the floor.

   Boss came to regret putting Queenie in charge of Blondie: it had been a
mistake on his part.  He knew too that Dutchie and Homer secretly blamed
him for what was happening to their friend.  In his mind he saw the boy
running away to escape the humiliation he suffered at the hands of Queenie.
He thought he would use this excuse to wrestle control of the boy from his
wife and he sought her out one evening after dinner.

   He found the two of them in the spare bedroom.  Blondie was sitting in
front of a mirror with a large sheet wrapped around him; his wife was
trimming the boy's long blond hair.

   "What are you doing woman?" he growled.

   "Can't you see?  I'm cutting his hair," she replied testily.  She seemed
to resent his presence in the room.  "What do you want?"

   "I think he's going to escape -- I've seen that look in his eyes; he's
going to try to escape, mark my words!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed.

   "Not while I'm in charge of him!" Queenie snapped back.

   "No!  He's going to try and escape!  I know it!" her husband persisted.

   "He's not going to escape, I tell you!" Queenie rasped.

   "How can you be so sure?" Boss demanded.

   Queenie gave her husband an exasperated glare and whipped the sheet off
the boy.

   "There!" she said triumphantly.  "Do you think he'll escape now?"

   Her husband looked sheepish seeing that the boy's hands had been tied to
the back of the chair.

   "You can't keep him hog-tied like that all day!" her husband challenged
furiously.

   "I don't need to!" Queenie retorted.  "I can control him well enough in
other ways."

   "How?" her husband demanded.  "What's to stop him running away when he's
out of your sight?"

   Queenie went around to the front of the boy.  Lifting up the hem of his
dress and all but the inner-most petticoats she pointed to the remaining
lace-trimmed underskirt.

   "See that?" she said, blazing with anger.

   "Yeah, what about it?" Boss replied impatiently.  "You're going to tell
me that a frilly underskirt is going to stop him running away?"

   Queenie smirked.

   "That's exactly what I'm going to tell you," she retorted.  "That's a
hobble skirt he's wearing -- do you know what that means?"

   Boss shook his head.

   "It means that it restricts his leg movement so he can't move more than
six inches at a time!" she told him.

   Her husband sneered.

   "Oh yeah!  What's to stop him taking it off?" he demanded.

   "His dress."

   "His dress?" her husband repeated incredulously.

   "Yes, his dress; he can't take his petticoats off without taking off his
dress and I fixed it that he can't take off his dress without me!" Queenie
replied as if she was explaining something very simple to a not-very-bright
small child.

   Boss glared at her.

   "You think women aren't as clever as men, but we know how to impose
discipline in our own way," Queenie snapped.  Then, going on the offensive,
she added: "Where are your two?  Do I see that the door of their quarters
is open?"

   Her husband went over to the window in disbelief and then with a roar
rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

   Queenie bolted the door closed behind him and draped the boy with the
sheet again.  Taking up her scissors she looked at the his reflection in
the mirror.

   "Men!" she snorted derisively.  "Take my advice: don't have anything to
do with them!"

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

   Homer and Dutchie missed their friend; they only saw him at breakfast
and dinner during the week and at lunch on Sundays.  He was not allowed to
talk to them on Queenie's express orders.  She got Boss to punish them if
she caught either of them talking to him.

   They felt sorry for Blondie seeing the way Queenie treated him.  They
both agreed that despite Boss's physical maltreatment of them they
preferred working with him then her.

   "She never lets him out of her sight," Homer said one evening after Boss
had locked them in for the evening.

   "Yeah, she's a right devil!" agreed Dutchie who was the smarter of the
two.

   "She gives me the creeps!  Those eyes -- like they can read your mind!"
Homer exclaimed.  "I don't know how Blondie sticks it."

   "I don't think he has a choice.  I heard Boss roaring to her the other
night not to keep him tied up all day -- " Dutchie said.

   "You're joking!  She keeps him tied up all day?" Homer breathed in
horror.

   "That's what Boss was shouting, anyway," Dutchie responded.

   "But he can hardly move as it is, with all those skirts!" Homer
commented.  "I was watchin' him on Sunday and he could only shuffle along!"

   "I know, I know," Dutchie agreed wearily.  "She knows that he can't get
very far in those clothes -- I bet that's why she makes him wear them!"

   "I wish there was something we could do for him," Homer exclaimed. 
"Boss won't do anything for Blondie -- he's washed his hands on him!"

   Dutchie nodded.

   "I'd give my bottom dollar to help him escape," he said.

   "But he can't escape, Dutchie!" Homer pointed out.  "She has eyes like a
hawk -- she misses nothing!"

   He clambered up to the loft above them.  He gave Dutchie a low whistle
and waved him to come up.

   Through the only window in their quarters they watched as a light came
on in the spare bedroom over in the farm building.  They saw Queenie drag
the femininely-dressed boy into the room.

   "Look, Dutchie!" Homer exclaimed in horror.  "His hands ARE tied behind
his back!"

   "Poor fellah!" breathed Dutchie.

   Then Queenie closed the curtains but the boys continued to watch.  They
could faintly hear their friend crying and pleading; then there was
silence.

   The light went out fifteen minutes later.

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

   It was just after noon and though it was still only early spring it was
very hot.  They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose leafy
branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.

   Queenie felt relaxed and comfortable despite the heat.  Her fingers
deftly worked the needle in and out of her embroidery frame.  She glanced
briefly at her companion and decided to let him suffer for another while.

   "My, it's hot out here!" she said a few minutes later.  She gave him a
smile (she smiled a lot these days) and squeezed his arm.  "Blondie, you've
a lot to learn," she said.  "But I'm disappointed that you're not very
willing pupil today.  But time is on my side, Blondie, and I can wait --
all day if I have to.  I told you yesterday I was going to teach you
embroidery and teach you embroidery I will!"

   She shifted closer to him on the bench.

   "Would you like an extra layer, Blondie?" she whispered.

   There was no response from the boy.

   "That's what I'll do, Blondie -- I'll add another layer!  You've been
disobedient for not wanting to do your embroidery lessons!" Queenie said
playfully.  She waited to see his reaction: he was already wearing four
extra layers of petticoats!  Each demeanour was punished by another layer
being added to the standard five he wore; Blondie knew the rules: obey her
-- or face the consequences!

   Tears trickled down the boy's face.

   "Oh, Blondie!  Don't cry!" Queenie consoled him in an insincere voice.
"Maybe embroidery lessons wouldn't be so bad after all?"

   The boy nodded.

   Queenie reached over and untied the cord binding his wrists together. 
The boy tenderly rubbed his wrists; the red weals made by the cord were
clearly visible on his skin.

   "I'll leave the sash the way it is, Blondie," she told him.  The boy
nodded tearfully: Queenie had undone the sash of his dress when he had sat
down on the bench.  Then she had slipped the two ends of the sash between
the wooden bars of the bench before retying them again.  In this way he was
secured to the bench.  The boy knew from bitter experience how Queenie
loved to tether him in this way; he knew too it was impossible to reach
around to free himself, leaving him at her mercy.

   Acting on impulse and even though she knew it was an over- kill, she had
even tied his ankles together.  She remembered looking up and seeing the
hot tears of humiliation welling in his eyes as she had reached under his
skirts.  Best of all, she remembered expecting resistance but it never
came: he had meekly submitted to her binding his slim ankles together with
a length of silk ribbon.

   "The gag can stay on too," she added with an imperious smile.

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

   When Queenie had dressed Blondie in one of her night-gowns one evening
and tied his wrists to the bed, she laid out his clothes for the following
day.

   "You're going to look very pretty in this dress, girlie," she smiled,
showing him the dark green garment.  She hung it in his closet and verbally
checked off his uniform: "Chemise, stockings, corset, petticoats, apron,
lace bonnet!  All your pretties ready for you tomorrow!"

   She did a final check on the cords securing his wrists to the bed-post.
Satisfied, she splashed his neck and wrists with eau-de-cologne.

   "Sweet dreams, girlie!" she whispered softly before blowing out the
lamp. She locked the door behind her.

   Downstairs she took out the letter she had started writing to her
cousin, a herbalist living near a city on the east coast.  She read what
she had written so far:

   "Dearest Anita.

   I hope this letter finds you in good health.

   All is well here and if the weather continues to hold it

   looks that we will have a good year on the ranch.

   I am most grateful for your letter and package which finally

   arrived last month.  I have been administering the contents

   of the green bottle to Blondie.  Of course, he does not know

   that I am giving it to him.  But you were right!  He

   complains of extra tiredness and of weary limbs.  He is like

   a lamb now -- so docile!  It is a great mental relief to me

   to know that I can give him this to sap his boyish energy!

   Anita, it is so amusing!  When he complains of tiredness, I

   tell him he is a weakling -- that he is just like a girl!

   Then, he gets offended and tries to stand up!  But he soon

   runs out of strength and has to sit down again!  I don't say

   anything but I let him know by my expression that I have been

   proven right!  Of course, I have been adding extra petticoats

   underneath his dress and the weight of these adds to his

   difficulties!  Just lifting his skirts takes its toll!

   If only, Anita, I had the excuse to dress him in female

   clothes from the start!  I remember when he first worked

   under my supervision, I was so apprehensive about him

   escaping.  Now that his movements are dictated by the

   From: nostrumo@IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg

   Subject: TG: Prairie girl by Chrissie LaFemme (2/3)

   Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

   Date: 6 Oct 1996 21:27:57 GMT

   2
_Prairie_girl___________________________________________by_Chrissie_LaFemme
_

   constraints of hoops, long skirts and voluminous underskirts

   with which you and I are so familiar, I feel so relaxed

   knowing that he can't abscond.

   My 'girlie' (how he hates the term!) has always coped well

   with his domestic chores but now he has to re-learn how to do

   them wearing a dress!  He's found that simple things like

   picking something up from the floor have to be done

   differently.  for a start your corset doesn't allow any

   flexibility at the waist and, secondly, young ladies are

   'trained' not to show their petticoats!

   I have begun instructing girlie in the finer points of

   femininity.  I have started him on embroidery and though he

   doesn't know it yet I will soon teach him to braid his hair.

   Of course, Boss is jealous of the attention I give to

   Blondie.  But, Anita, I don't care!  I dedicated my life to

   Boss up to now and never got any thanks or recognition in

   return.  Now, I've got Blondie and, believe me, I don't

   intend to let him go!  Boss has his two boys, Homer and

   Dutchie, so in a way he's happy too.

   My life has changed, Anita, for the better.  It has got a

   purpose now, I have somebody to look after and I know that

   while it will take time I can mold Blondie in the way I told

   you about in my last letter.

   It is richly ironic but I am as strict on girlie as my mother

   was on me!  How I hated her authoritarian ways and how I

   detested her attempt to turn me into -- what I thought then

   -- was the personification of a porcelain doll.  delicate,

   beautiful to look at but voiceless!  But now I look back and

   realize the value of what she was trying to do, she knew

   then, as I do now, that until women receive emancipation we

   will never be treated as equals by men.  While we wait for

   our rights our only hope is to sit pretty and attract a

   husband who hopefully will come to recognize our qualities.

   I ran away with Boss before my mother could teach me about

   men -- a mistake I do not intend to make with girlie."

   Then Queenie finished the letter with a few more sentences describing
how female clothing was shaping Blondie's behavior.  She related with
relish how Blondie had learnt to lift his skirts off the ground when he
went anywhere and how he smoothed the back of his dress when sitting

   down.  She recounted how one day at dinner Boss and the boys had noticed
a bruise on Blondie's forehead; even they had laughed when she explained
that he had tripped on his skirts and fallen against a chair!

   She sealed the letter in an envelope; she would tell Boss to post it the
next time he was in Stuger City.

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

   Queenie knew her next task was to put as much distance between Blondie
and the other two boys as she could.  Keeping him tied up and locked in the
spare bedroom at night while they slept in the out-house heightened his
sense of isolation from things masculine.

   She forbade him to talk to the boys at meal times threatening dire
consequences if he did.

   One morning Boss did not come down for breakfast and it was Queenie who
let Homer and Dutchie out of their sleeping quarters.

   Blondie served them their breakfast while Queenie busied herself in the
kitchen.

   Dutchie touched Blondie on the arm and pointed questioningly to Boss's
empty place.  Blondie, nervously looked back to the kitchen and seeing that
Queenie had her back to them, signalled to them that Boss had been
drinking.

   'Last night or this morning?' Dutchie tried to signal back.

   Blondie stared at him blankly.

   Dutchie repeated the signal.

   But still Blondie did not understand what he wanted to say.

   Exasperated, Dutchie whispered: "Was he drinking last night or this
morning?"

   Blondie looked around again and saw that Queenie still had her back to
them.

   "Last night," he whispered.  "He nearly drank a whole bot--"

   "YOU WENCH!  I CAUGHT YOU, YOU WENCH," Queenie shouted.  "I CAUGHT YOU

   TALKING!"

   She strode into the room, grabbed Blondie by the arm and dragged him,
skirts flying, back into the kitchen.  She slammed the door shut behind her
and then proceeded to slap him across the face.

   "I told you <slap> you're not <slap> allowed to talk <slap> except when
I tell you," she hollered.

   The boy tried to ward off the blows but this incensed Queenie even
further.

   "I know how to sort you out!" she snarled through clenched teeth.  She
took a length of cotton and gagged the boy as tightly as she could.  She
pushed the muzzled boy back into where the two boys were sitting and told
him to finish serving the meal.

   "What's ...  what's ...  going on here?" Boss said groggily he as came
into the room.

   "Blondie here was disobedient and I had to punish the wench," Queenie
said calmly.

   The muzzled boy looked at Boss with beseeching eyes.

   Boss made his way unsteadily to his place, clutching on to the table to
balance himself and sat down.  He rubbed his blood-shot eyes with the back
of his hand; he avoided looking at Blondie.

   "What's going on here?" he repeated in a hollow voice.

   Queenie leant against the kitchen door with her arms folded; a scornful
look appeared on her face.  "I forbade Blondie to talk to the boys at the
table and the wench disobeyed me.  Now Blondie's paying the penalty," she
said smoothly.

   "But he needsstht to talhk!" Boss stuttered incoherently.

   "I'm in charge of Blondie, remember, and I'll decide what the wench can
or cannot do!" she snapped.

   Boss opened his mouth in amazement.  Homer and Dutchie looked on with
bewilderment: was he going to let her talk back to him in front of them
like this?  Surely he was not going to allow her to punish Blondie like
this?  'Come on, man,' they silently urged, 'get up and show her

   who's boss around here!'

   The boy too continued to silently implore Boss with his eyes.

   It was Queenie who broke the eerie silence.

   "Blondie, come here to me!  NOW!" she ordered.

   The boy gave a last, despairing glance at Boss who averted his eyes.  He
lifted his skirts and slowly walked over to where Queenie was standing.

   "Turn around: your gag is loose," she said in an imperious voice.

   The boy slowly turned around to face the men at the table while Queenie
made a great show of taking off his gag and retying it with as much force
as she could muster.

   She spun him around to face her.

   "There, that'll still you.  You listen to me, Blondie: you answer to me
and to me alone.  Is that clear?"

   The boy nodded his head.

   In a louder voice Queenie continued: "Let everybody be a witness to
this: in this house you do woman's work and since I'm the mistress of this
household I -- and I alone -- will punish you as I see fit," she
pronounced. "Now, get Boss his breakfast."

   From that day on Homer and Dutchie knew that Blondie's fate was sealed;
it was clear that Boss would never even try to intervene on Blondie's
behalf again in the future.  It was their first sign that Boss's absolute
authority was on the wane.

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

   Queenie made her hapless assistant change clothes twice a day.  He
started the day wearing stiffened petticoats and a dress.  Then when Boss
and the boys had gone out to the fields she put him into hoops.  She liked
the idea of the widest possible crinoline on Blondie -- the wider the
spread of his dress the more difficult it was for him to maneouvre (and to
escape).

   When he thought he was out of her eye sight he would try to undo the
buttons of his dress to take the hoops off.  She would smile to herself
when realizing the futility of what he was doing he would give up in
despair.

   Queenie deliberately created a claustrophobic atmosphere of enforced
feminine helplessness into which she sucked Blondie and from which there
was no escape: she never let him out of her sight; she kept him permanently
dressed in constrictive feminine clothing; she kept him tethered to his bed
at night; she isolated him from the three other males in the household;
and, by her actions and commands, constantly reminded him of his feminized
state.

   An important key to emphasizing his newly imposed femininity she
discovered was his hair.  Queenie kept his blonde hair long and only
trimmed it to keep the locks even.  At night she would braid his hair
before pinning on a lace sleeping cap.  In the morning she would fix his
hair into plaits or some other equally feminine arrangement.  During the
day he was not allowed to wear his hair bare -- it had to be covered by a
cap, snood, veil, or bonnet.  At random intervals -

   during the day or night -- she would strap him to a chair and would
spend ten, fifteen or twenty minutes combing and brushing his hair. 
Queenie let a fringe grow at the front and was pleased when every five
minutes Blondie would have to sweep the hair out of his eyes and tuck it
behind his ear.  Though he was not yet conscious of it Queenie quite liked
this feminine mannerism she had developed in Blondie.

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

   Boss was felt isolated by his wife's increasingly preoccupation with
Blondie.  She no longer kept company with him in the evening or on Sundays.
Her attitude to him had definitively cooled; she was not as affectionate or
responsive to him as before.  She became outright

   hostile if he brought up the subject of Blondie.

   'She only has time for you, Blondie!' he muttered to himself.  He
remembered the strange dream he had the night before in which he could hear
himself explaining to a stranger: 'My wife always wanted to have children
...  especially a daughter ..  yeah, I know, women always have

   this thing about daughters ...  but she's barren and can't have children
...  so must've made up her mind: any daughter would do ...  !'

   Then he remembered the visit to the orphanage: it had been her idea --
she had wanted to adopt a young boy and girl.  He had bullied her instead
into accepting his proposal to offer the orphanage a home for three older
boys.  He shifted uneasily in his chair recalling how she had nearly cried
the whole journey to the orphanage and back.

   Pushing the memory of her tears to the back of his mind, Boss contented
himself with his growing relationships with Homer and Dutchie.  They were
good guys, maybe a little lazy at times but, hey, who wasn't at some time.
He worked them hard but they had good fun together too.  Yeah, Homer and
Dutchie were definitively OK.

   Boss's thoughts then turned back to his wife and her assistant. 
Definitively there were times he felt Queenie and Blondie were in another
world, a world in which he did not belong and clearly was not wanted.

   Idly, he wondered what they talked about all day as they cooked, cleaned
and polished together.  He looked at his empty whisky glass while he
pondered an answer.

   'Women's talk!  That's it!' he laughed out aloud.  'Women's talk!'
Pleased with his own wittiness, he poured himself another glass of whisky.

   There was no let up in the stifling, suffocating feminine 'prison'
regime for Blondie.  On Sunday afternoon when Boss was asleep inside the
house and the boys were messing down by the river, upstairs in her bedroom
Queenie was dressing Blondie for their Sunday stroll.

   She fastened her widest crinoline around the boy's waist and followed it
with a succession of petticoats.  Then after a few minutes deliberation she
fitted him in one of her heaviest and most elaborate dresses.

   "Purple is such a lovely color on you, Blondie," she told him, tying the
sash at back.  Then, she turned him to face the mirror and added with a
leer: "You look so pretty -- and I haven't finished with you yet!"

   She grinned as the boy's face burned red with embarrassment and
humiliation.

   She lightly brushed the ringlets she had set in his hair that morning
and dabbed eau-de -cologne on his neck.  Queenie muzzled the boy securing
the gag with a tight knot at the back

   of his head.  Then she took a wide brimmed bonnet from the bed and
carefully placed it on his head.  Releasing a pin she allowed a heavy,
cream-colored lace veil draped on the brim of the hat to fall down and to
touch his shoulders.  The veil was one of her favorite touches: it allowed
the

   boy to see where he was going but nobody looking at him could see
through it that he was gagged.

   When she was satisfied that he was ready she got dressed herself.  Right
from the very beginning she had decided to dress in front of him.  Though
initially she found it disconcerting to have a male watch her dress she
persevered.  She reasoned that it would further undermine his

   sense of male identity because he'd realize that no woman would ever
willingly permit a male (unless he was her husband) see her undress in the
privacy of her own bedroom.  Her policy of letting him see her in her
underwear would send him the very clear but subtle message that she

   did not consider him a male.

   When she was finished dressing Queenie untied the cords securing
Blondie's wrists to the bed-post.  She forced his hands into a pair of
white gloves and with a length of white ribbon tied his wrists together in
front.  She unlocked the bedroom door and propelled the feminized boy down
to the kitchen.

   "Hold this in your left hand, girlie," she ordered, giving him a lace
parasol.

   Knowing what was coming, the boy cautiously reached out for the parasol.
Taking another length of white ribbon Queenie strapped the parasol to his
hand so he could not let go of it even if he wanted to.

   "Hold your skirts up with your free hand," Queenie said, stressing the
word 'free' with sarcastic irony.  The boy gathered his voluminous skirts
with difficulty with his right hand while still keeping his parasol upright
in his other hand.  Queen watched with detached amusement.

   "I think you'll be too preoccupied to run away from me this afternoon,
girlie!" she joked.  "Better still, if Homer and Dutchie see you, they'll
think how daintily you're holding your pretty parasol!"

   Linking arms with her hapless companion she led Blondie along her
favorite walk, to the small hill overlooking the ranch and the river. 
Years ago she had gotten Boss to make her a wooden seat under the shade of
a tree, and this was usually where she brought Blondie.  Boss had

   labeled it Lady's View and the name had stuck.

   "Here we are!" she announced.

   The boy looked at her hesitantly.

   "Relax, Blondie!  You can sit down on the bench today!" Queenie laughed
(she liked to keep him guessing what she intended to do with him: sometimes
she would keep him standing in the blazing sun until he would scream
through his gag from pain and exhaustion, at other times she

   would sit him on a rug but bind his ankles and wrists together).

   She settled the boy on the bench, spreading his skirts about him.  She
released the parasol, untied his wrists and removed his gloves.  Next, she
carefully lifted the veil off his face and pinned it back up on the brim of
the bonnet.  Then, much to his relief, she took off his gag.

   Finally, she gave him his embroidery frame, threads and needle.

   "What color are you going to make the dress?" she asked chattily.

   The boy glanced at her and then looked at the outline of a woman printed
on the fabric stretched taut over the frame in his hands.  He looked back
up at her with a defiant look in his eyes.

   Queenie picked up a cord and waved it warningly in his face.

   "Purple!" the boy replied hastily.

   Queenie laughed.

   "Off you go, girlie!" she said, sitting down beside him.  For the next
hour she watched as he embroidered, his slim fingers working the needle and
colored threads through the fabric as she had taught him.  She stopped him
occasionally to correct a mistake or to teach him a new technique.  He had
come to like embroidery -- Queenie had rightly figured that he'd find it
preferable to spending the afternoon bound and gagged.

   Queenie was about to pick up her own frame when she heard shouts.  Then
she saw Homer and Dutchie swimming in the river below.  Even from where she
was sitting it was plain that they were naked.  Blondie looked up from his
embroidery.

   She rummaged through her basket and pulled out a cotton scarf.

   "You're not going to gag me, are you?  Why?" the boy gasped in dismay,
the blood draining from his face.

   "No, girlie, I'm not going to gag you," Queenie replied, getting up and
standing in front of him.  "I'm going to blindfold you."

   "Why?  Why are you blindfolding me?  What have I done?  Please, tell me
why?" the boy pleaded.

   "Because impressionable young girls should not be exposed to the sight
of male nudity until they're married!" she replied sternly, tying the
blindfold tightly at the back of his head.  Once more she released the
heavy lace veil, allowing it to fall down over the brim of the bonnet

   and obscure his face.

   She waited for his response.  'I know what you'd like to say,' she said
to herself, 'you'd like to say: "But I'm not a girl -- I'm a boy just like
they are!" But you know that's not the answer I want to hear!'

   There was a silence before the boy replied.  "I won't be able to
embroider now," he said in a small, subdued voice.

   Queenie smiled broadly.  "That's men for you, girlie!  They always spoil
things on us," she

   said, patting him on the hands.  "But maybe it's for the best.  You
listen to me, girlie: I'm a married woman with plenty of experience -- and
you're a virgin with a lot to learn -- so it's an opportune time to give
you another heart- to-heart talk about men!"

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

   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 feel 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 eyed him beadily.

   "Sorry, 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 silkily: "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 ...  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 get you into this dress," she offered
in a friendly voice.  "I'll freshen your make-up too -- you don't want them
to see that you've been crying."

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

   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.

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

   "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-boned 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 three days 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 -- sometimes real, sometimes fictitious -- though all with
the same theme: the vulnerability of women living in isolated farmsteads to
being terrorized by gangs of marauding men.

   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 the

   men 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 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 each stocking up his leg 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 potion that Anita is
sending to arrive!' she thought ecstatically to herself.

   "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 ...  "

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

   "Girlie!  What brings you here?"

   "Oh Dutchie -- you gave me such a fright!" Blondie gasped, his hands
automatically clasping his bosom.

   "Where's Queenie?  How come she's let you out on your own?" Dutchie
demanded.

   "Shssssshhhhh!  She's in the kitchen.  Don't talk so loud -- she might
hear us -- she'd give me a scolding if she caught me talking to you!"
Blondie whispered.

   "Why doesn't she allow you to talk to us?" Dutchie asked, perplexed. 
"You haven't said a word to me or Homer in months!" The younger boy's pale
face colored with embarrassment.  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. 
"Come on, Blondie!" Dutchie pressed.  "You must know a reason!"

   From: nostrumo@IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg

   Subject: TG: Prairie girl by Chrissie LaFemme (3/3)

   Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

   Date: 6 Oct 1996 21:28:32 GMT

  
Prairie_girl___________________________________________by_Chrissie_LaFemme_
3

   "She ...  " the younger boy started but didn't finish.

   "Why, for pete's sake, Blondie, why?" Dutchie exploded impatiently.

   "She says ...  she says I've nothing to learn from men," Blondie
answered in a low voice.

   "You've nothing to learn from men?!" Dutchie repeated incredulously.

   Fighting back tears, Blondie nodded.

   "What have you learnt from her?  How to look like a woman?  How to wear
a dress?" Dutchie demanded, his voice rising in anger.  "How to be a woman
...  eh, Blondie?"

   Blondie made no reply but his expressive, limpid and kohl- rimmed eyes
silently implored Dutchie not to continue.

   From her hiding place which allowed her to see and hear everything that
went on in the barn Queenie grinned.  'You could cut the silence in there
with a knife!' she gleefully said to herself.

   'You've got two ways in which you can react, girlie,' she thought.  'You
can pretend you're still macho underneath your feminine finery or,
secondly, you can respond in the way that corresponds with the way you look
and with the way I've taught you.' Her intuition told her that he would
follow the latter course.

   She congratulated herself on the new dress she had purchased for
Blondie. It simply radiated femininity; rose-coloured in a mixture of silk
and cotton voile, its exquisitely embroidered bodice hinted at a developing
bust-line.  Beside the large and muscular Dutchie, the dress made Blondie
look petite and delicate.

   Back inside the barn it was Dutchie who eventually broke the silence. 
"It's not raining in here, is it?" he said curtly, looking at Blondie's
head.

   "Uh ...  !?!" Blondie gasped in bewilderment.  Then, realizing what
Dutchie was referring to, his slender hands rose and carefully lifted off
the shawl covering his hair.  The boy subconsciously tucked a strand of
stray hair behind his ear.  He noticed Dutchie glaring at the

   shawl in his hand.

   "You don't have to worry with your short hair -- but mine takes ages to
dry!" he pouted defensively.  Then he added in a hollow voice: "Anyway,
Queenie made me!"

   "Does she really make you wear a dress all the time?" Dutchie blurted
out.

   Blondie, his cheeks reddening, was about to make a reply when a movement
caught his attention.

   "Oh look -- a foal!  It's so pretty!" he cooed, lifting his skirts and
going over to the animal lying in the straw.

   "You poor creature, you're shivering!" Blondie exclaimed.  "Is she
frightened of me, Dutchie?"

   "I guess she's never seen a boy in a dress before" Dutchie commented
acidly.

   Blondie flinched but said nothing.

   "How old is she?" he asked, gently stroking the foal with his hand.

   "She's three days old," Dutchie replied.

   "Where's her mother?"

   "Out back yonder -- she doesn't want to know," Dutchie said.  "That's
why I'm looking after her."

   "The poor thing!" Blondie cooed sympathetically.  Then, he gave a squeal
of delight: "Look, Dutchie, she's licking my ring!  She thinks it's food!
Isn't it pretty, darling, look at the way it sparkles in the light!"

   There was a silence before Dutchie spoke.  "Does Queenie still keep you
tied up?" he asked.  "Me and Homer saw you once with your hands tied behind
your back."

   "You saw me like that?  When?" Blondie asked, surprized.

   "Oh, I don't remember when exactly ...  it was a long time ago, we saw
you through your bedroom window."

   "That was a long time ago," Blondie agreed.

   "So she doesn't tie you up any more?"

   "No, not now ..." Blondie responded slowly.  "I guess she knows I won't
..."

   "Escape?" Dutchie finished.

   Blondie nodded.

   "Why not, girlie, I mean, Blondie?  Why couldn't you escape?" Dutchie
pressed.

   Blondie sighed and stood up to face Dutchie.  He shook some straws from
his dress.

   "Look at me," the youngster said.  "What do you see?"

   Dutchie looked confused.

   "I see you ..." he replied slowly.

   Blondie shook his head impatiently.

   "I've changed, Dutchie, I'm no longer the person you knew," the slightly
built youngster said.  "Queenie's changed me -- look at me again, Dutchie,
and tell me what you really see!"

   "I see a boy in ...  in a dress ...  " Dutchie began slowly and then
stopped.

   "Go on," Blondie prompted.

   "That's all," Dutchie said weakly.

   "That's all?  Oh, Dutchie, there's much more -- much more!" Blondie
exclaimed with feeling.  "Look at my hair: it's braided.  You know who
braided it this morning?  I did!  Yes, Dutchie, I braided it.  Yesterday I
had pony-tails, I did them too!  I can do every thing a girl can do with
her hair!"

   Dutchie said nothing.

   "Do you know what happened to me yesterday?" Blondie went on.  "I
finished my first ever embroidery frame without any help from Queenie!"

   Dutchie shook his head in silent astonishment.

   "I'll let you in on a secret, Dutchie: do you know what gave me my
biggest thrill lately?"

   Dutchie shook his head again.  He saw Blondie suck in a deep breath of
air.

   "You see this dress I'm wearing?" Blondie asked.

   Dutchie nodded: "Yeah, what about it?"

   "I got it two weeks ago --" Blondie started.

   "What about it?" Dutchie repeated.

   "Oh, Dutchie, don't you notice anything?" Blondie asked in exasperation.
Seeing the blank look on his companion's face he went on with a sigh: "You
wouldn't notice these things but a woman would."

   "Notice what?" Dutchie snorted.

   "First of all, it's a new dress and it's all the fashion on the East
Coast--" Blondie began.

   "And that gave you your biggest thrill?  That it's fashionable on the
East Coast?" Dutchie asked in wonderment.

   "No, ...  well, maybe a little bit," Blondie conceded.  "No, Dutchie, my
biggest thrill was that it was my first dress!"

   "Your first dress?" Dutchie asked, confused.

   "Yes, Dutchie, this is MY dress," Blondie answered quietly.  "You see,
up to now I've being wearing Queenie's hand-me-downs.  They never really
fitted me.  Queenie got this dress specially for me.  I know you won't
understand, Dutchie, but it makes me feel like a new person ..."

   From her hiding place Queenie could see the look of distaste on
Dutchie's face.  She decided it was time to intervene; she was pleased with
how Blondie had reacted so far.  Her intuition told her that Blondie was
ready for the second acid test of femininity she had planned for him.  She
called Blondie making it sound like she was calling from the kitchen.

   "Dutchie, that's Queenie calling, I've got to go!" Blondie said to
Dutchie in a panic.

   "What did you come here for?" Dutchie asked quickly.

   "Queenie asked me to get a bag of potatoes," Blondie replied.

   "They're over there," Dutchie said, pointing to the far corner of the
barn.

   Blondie went over and tried to lift the bag.

   "Dutchie, could you help me please?" he asked blushingly.  "It's too
heavy for me: I need someone big and strong like you."

   Dutchie's mouth fell open in astonishment; then without a word he went
over to where Blondie was standing and effortlessly lifted the bag over his
shoulder.

   "Thank you, Dutchie, you're such a gentleman!" Blondie smiled up at him
in gratitude.

   Dutchie grunted in embarrassment.

   Seeing that it was still raining outside Blondie threw the shawl over
his head and keeping his skirts lifted off the wet grass led the way back
to the house.

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

   "I feel sick!" Blondie announced suddenly.

   "What's the matter, girlie?" Queenie asked.

   "My tummy feels like I've a cramp," Blondie complained.

   "Maybe you'd like to lie down for a little while?" Queenie suggested
sympathetically.  "Come with me."

   Surprized, Blondie nodded and followed the woman upstairs to his
bedroom. She made him take off his ankle boots and lie on the bed. 
Dampening a cloth in a bowl of water she wiped his brow.

   "You see if you can get some sleep," she said softly.

   The boy looked at her with suspicion but then his eyes closed as he
drifted off to sleep.  The woman smiled: he plainly wasn't used to this
caring treatment from her.  She left the room and went downstairs.

   Later in the evening she went up to the room.  The room was bathed in
moon-light and she saw that the boy was half awake.

   "There's a full moon tonight," Queenie commented conversationally as she
closed the curtains.  The boy tried to sit up in bed.

   "How are you now, girlie?" she asked.

   "OK, ---" he started.  Then, he groaned in pain: "Something's not right
...  my drawers feel wet ..."

   "Let me have a look," Queenie said commandingly.  She peered between his
petticoats and then reached in to take off his drawers.

   "Just a little bit of blood," she said calmly, showing him the soiled
drawers.

   "Blood!" the boy moaned in terror.  "I'm going to die!"

   "There's no need to worry, girlie, I'll put something on to soak
anything more up," Queenie replied soothingly.  "The first time is the
worst.  You'll be all right in a few days.  In the meantime, get plenty of
rest."

   Queenie refused to answer any of his queries regarding the discharge of
blood but assured him that it would pass.

   The boy was excused from duties for the next two days.  He stayed in bed
and Queenie attended to him day and night.  Gradually, his cramps
disappeared and his appetite returned.

   Four weeks went by and then the cramps re-appeared.  Queenie gave him
the same sympathetic treatment as before excusing him from work.  She
changed his soiled drawers regularly.  At night-time she sat by his bedroom
window doing her embroidery in the light of the moon.  Queenie guessed he
was too proud to ask her what was happening to him but she knew that he was
scared.

   As before and as Queenie had foretold, after two days he was well enough
again to return to his duties.

   One morning a week later they were getting ready to do the laundry. 
Queenie was an irritable mood that day and had given Blondie a number of
verbal tongue lashes.  She sent him up to her bedroom to collect clothes
for the laundry knowing full well what he would see.  They washed the
clothes outside in the large wooden tub; Blondie made no comment when a red
stain ran from her white drawers.

   Three weeks later Blondie's cramps returned.  This time she didn't allow
him to go to bed despite his obvious discomfort.  Instead she brought him
up to his bedroom every few hours to change his drawers.

   When Boss and the boys returned that evening they found Queenie had
prepared their favorite meal.  She even allowed the boys to have beer with
their dinner -- something she had never allowed before.  It wasn't long
before the sound of shouting and drunken laughter filled the room.

   She and Blondie had their dinner in the kitchen.

   "I think they're finished inside now, girlie, bring in the dishes,"
Queenie told her assistant a little later.

   Queenie watched as the boy gathered his skirts and check his appearance
in the mirror as she had taught him before going hesitantly into the room
where Boss and the boys were eating.  Queenie noted with glee how the men
made fun of Blondie's pale and drawn appearance.  Then winking to each
other the men raised their empty beer mugs.

   "More beer, girlie!" they teased him, pulling at the sleeves of his
dress to grab his attention.

   When Blondie returned to the kitchen Queenie noticed that he was close
to tears.

   "Why didn't you allow me to lie down today like the last time?" he
complained bitterly.

   "Because you don't see me lying down, do you?" she snapped.

   "But you don't have ..." the boy started and then fell silent.  Queenie
smiled to herself: he had made the connection.  She took Blondie by the arm
and led him up to his bedroom.  She sat the puzzled boy down on the bed.

   "Look out the window," she told him.

   "What's there to see?  I can't see anything," he said, mystified.  "It's
dark outside.  There's only the moon ..."

   "Only the moon," Queenie repeated cryptically.

   "That's it!  I always get the cramps ...  when there's a moon .."
Blondie said slowly, looking up at her.

   Queenie said nothing.

   "It's something about the moon that gives me the cramps!" Blondie cried.

   Queenie smiled and shook her head.

   "What is it then?  Please tell me!" her younger companion pleaded, his
voice suddenly trembling with emotion.

   She sat down on the bed beside Blondie and held his arms in against his
sides.

   "It's not the moon, girlie," she said softly.  "It's just your time of
the month ..."

   "My time of the month?!" Blondie bleated in terror.  "What do you mean?"

   "Your time of the month is now, girlie.  Next week it will be my turn,"
Queenie replied enigmatically.

   "You mean I'll have cramps every month?" Blondie cried in despair.

   Queenie nodded.

   "It's ...  it's so ...  so awful ..." the boy said wildly.

   "Who said being a female was easy?" Queenie replied calmly.

   The boy looked shocked.  Queenie had trained him to verbally deny his
gender; now she seemed to be suggesting something else.

   "Girlie, every female gets these cramps: they're your body's way of
preparing you for womanhood --" Queenie began.

   "Agggggghhhhhhh!  I don't believe it!" Blondie screamed hysterically.

   Queenie shook the sobbing, quivering boy.

   "Hush, girlie, and listen to me!" she urged.

   Blondie's sobs eventually subsidised.

   "You're a girl now -- the cramps you get prove that without a shadow of
doubt!" Queenie continued.  "Boss doesn't get them; nor does Homer or
Dutchie.  Just you and me, girlie."

   Blondie opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.

   "Men don't understand what a woman has to go through every month -- the
pain, the discomfort, the misery.  They don't know and even if they did
they wouldn't care.  Did Boss or Homer show any signs of caring earlier
this evening for what you're going through?" she challenged.  Then she
added with a wry smile: "Or even Dutchie?"

   Remembering his treatment at the dinner table, the boy slowly shook his
head.

   "I do, girlie, I know what it's like," Queenie continued softly.  "I can
help you, girlie, but you must let me help you."

   "How?" Blondie sniffed.

   Queen spoke to her younger companion for over an hour.

   "So, remember, girlie, the golden rule is ...  ?" she asked in
conclusion.

   "Women must stick together," Blondie gulped.

   "I think you can do better than that, girlie," she prompted gently. 
There was a silence.  Queenie raised her eye-brows expectantly.

   "We ...  we women must stick together," came the whispered reply.

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

   "I can't make it out," Dutchie said.

   "Can't make what out?" Homer replied.

   It was Sunday afternoon and they were lying on the river bank.

   "You know, girlie, I mean, Blondie," Dutchie replied.

   "What about girlie?" Homer returned.

   "I dunno, something's changed ...  between Blondie and Queenie," Dutchie
said.

   "Changed?  Changed in what way?" Homer challenged.  "I don't see any
change.  It's been the same for the last few months."

   "Well, take a look at them up there," Dutchie said, nodding his head in
the direction of the hill overlooking the river.

   Homer turned around and looked.  "They're just talking, that's all," he
said.

   "Well, that's a change, that's a big change!" Dutchie observed.  "In the
beginning you'd never see them talking -- or even sitting together. 
Blondie used to have to stand up all the time or sit alone on a rug. 
Homer, look!  They're laughing!"

   "Maybe you're right, Dutchie.  Queenie does seem in better form these
days.  We've had beer at dinner for the last two nights!" Homer replied
with a grin on his face.  He leant back on the grass and looked up at the
cloudless blue sky.  "I don't care what those two dames do together

   so long as I get a beer for dinner!"

   "All you think of is beer, you nit-picker!" Dutchie exclaimed.  He
continued to look up in the direction of the hill.

   "Oh yeah!  How come you always get more beer than I do then?" Homer
challenged.

   "What?  What are you talking about?"

   "You know what I'm on about.  Girlie always gives you more beer than I
get!" Homer observed sourly.

   "Hogwash!  You're imagining it, Homer!" Dutchie scoffed.

   "Yes, she does, I've seen her; she's always favoring you!" Homer
charged.

   Dutchie just laughed and shook his head.

   "She gives you more meat too!" Homer added angrily.

   "You're losing your brains, Homer, or what's left of them!" Dutchie
retorted.  Then, he got up and stripped off his trousers: "I could do with
a swim.  Last one to the far side is the loser!"

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

   It was just after noon and even though it was late fall it was still
very hot.  They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose leafy
branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.

   "If I could, I'd spend all day brushing my hair!"

   Queenie looked up from her sewing and smiled at her companion.  She
watched as Blondie's arm rose and fell in smooth even strokes.

   "A woman can never take too much care of her hair," she observed. 
"You've such beautiful hair -- it really pleases me how well you look after
it!"

   Blondie gave a light, tinkling laugh: "You're so kind, Queenie!  But I
know that look in your eyes -- it's time to do my chores now ...  right?!"

   Queenie nodded with a smile and watched as her younger companion
gathered the blonde shoulder-length hair and deftly twisted it into a bun,
securing it with a pin.  Then Blondie picked up a shirt from a wicker
basket at their feet.

   "Two holes in one day!" Blondie exclaimed in exasperation, reaching for
needle and thread.  "How does Dutchie do it?"

   "I bet he didn't even notice!" Queenie chuckled.  "Men prefer not to
notice these things -- nor do they care!  They'd sooner dress in rags then
mend their clothes.  That's why they need us women!" she added.

   They sewed in silence.

   "Blondie?"

   "Yes?"

   "Have you thought any more about what we were talking this morning?"

   "Yes, ...  a bit."

   "Am I right?"

   "Queenie, I don't believe I fancy Dutchie, honest I don't!"

   Queenie said nothing; she continued repairing Boss's night- shirt.

   "You said I was staring at him at breakfast ...  I hadn't even noticed
-- I swear it, Queenie!" Blondie continued.

   Queenie didn't reply.  She bent down and rummaged in the wicker basket.
"There's just this tear in Homer's trousers and we're finished for today.
Will you --?"

   "It can wait!" Blondie interrupted petulantly.  "Dutchie's shirt is more
important ..."

   Queenie put down her sewing.

   "Blondie," she began gently, "we've agreed never to keep anything from
each other ...  you can tell me ...  maybe I can help?"

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

   "Queenie, are you finished yet?  How do I look?" Blondie asked,
shivering with giddy excitement.

   "Blondie, will you keep still while I fix your hem?" Queenie replied. 
She stood up as Blondie struck a pose in front of the mirror.

   "That new dress really looks pretty on you!" she smiled.  "Do a twirl
for me."

   Blondie, standing on tip toes, spun around, making the long skirt flare
out in tandem.

   "Blondie, pretend I'm Dutchie: show me how you grab my attention!"
Queenie called.

   With both hands Blondie lifted the cerise-colored skirt a few inches off
the ground to reveal white lace-trimmed petticoats underneath.  Then,
moving towards her, starting with the right hand and alternating with the
left, Blondie ruffed the skirt against the petticoats making a

   distinctive swishing noise.

   Queenie smiled: it was one of the oldest feminine flirting tricks in the
book -- instead of simultaneously holding up your skirts and petticoats as
you walked you just held up your skirt giving men a glimpse of your
petticoats and stockinged ankle beneath.

   "More ...  more beer, Dutchie ...?" Blondie cooed demurely, eye-lashes
fluttering.

   Queenie kissed Blondie on the cheek.  Impulsively, they hugged each
other.

   "Queenie, what will I do then?" Blondie giggled, eyes shining bright
with excitement.

   "What will you do then?" Queenie mused.  Then, she burst out laughing:
"You tighten the noose and you rein him in ...!"

   (c) Chrissie LaFemme

   
