Sunday, October 24, 2010
Chapter 12: Home for the Summer
“Why is my son in a skirt Miss Summers?”
“Mr. Manning, it’s called a kilt. Notice this flap right here. It’s part of his uniform.”
“It still looks like a skirt to me, no matter what you call it.”
“Well, its design does seem to make your son be a little more modest when he’s running around. I’m not going to lie, the uniform does have a purpose in his behavioral training. And besides, he doesn’t mind, in fact he told me he likes it.”
“Is that true son?”
I thought of the pictures of the panties, the dirty diapers, every other bit of incriminating evidence she had on me, and the fact that I’d really be punished if I disagreed with her. I knew I must give an overwhelming approval to her choice if I didn’t want to be in a dress for the next few weeks.
“I don’t mind it Dad. Lots of people in Scotland wear them.”
“Yeah, but we’re not in Scotland.”
“Well, I think it’s darling,” my mom said smiling.
At the end of the month, I was allowed to go home for summer. Almost three months away from Miss Samantha and I couldn’t wait. At first I was as good as ever around my parents, but toward the middle of summer, I had slipped back into bad habits. I was lazy, I didn’t clean my room, and I started talking back to my mom. It was like old times.
I was happy being my old self again, and not worrying about panty punishments all the time. The freedom lasted for a while, but it all came to a head one day when I wanted to go to a different pool with my friends. The pool was a few miles away from my safe zone, and that concerned my mom.
“I don’t think I want you going all the way over there by yourself. You could get hurt.”
“But Mom, I won’t be by myself, I’ll be with my friends.”
“And who’s going to look out for all of you. Your friends? I doubt that. I don’t think it’s a good idea, so you can’t go.”
“I said ‘no’ now go and tell your friends that you can’t go.”
“I hate this stupid house!”
I don’t know if I meant it or not, but in anger I swung my beach towel in a whipping motion and it caught my mother’s porcelain collection on the shelf pulling many of the pieces to the floor. They crashed at my mother’s feet, and one piece rolled and cut her and made her bleed. She looked down incredulously and didn’t seem to know what to do. Finally she ran into the other room and started crying.
I felt bad and asked her if she was all right through the bathroom door. All I could hear were muffled sobs.
The next day, my bags were packed, and I was on my way back to Miss Samantha’s.
“Please! I’m sorry. I don’t want to go back there!” but my mom heard none of it and we drove in silence back to the country.