2011

POWERLESS! By Joe. A KRYPTONITE ATTACK STRIPS SUPERGIRL OF HER POWERS AND LEAVES HER AT THE MERCY OF THE SKEPTICAL AUTHORITIES.  HER DOCTOR SUGGESTS A NEW UNIFORM: A SCANTY HOSPITAL GOWN AND A STRAITJACKET. OF COURSE, SHE'LL HAVE TO SURRENDER HER OLD UNIFORM FIRST.... Part 1 "I notice that you're rubbing your shoulder," the doctor said, gently.  "Are you alright?" "I resisted when they brought me through the front gates, and two of your orderlies were pretty rough," Supergirl replied. Dr. James Phony smiled.  The thought of SUPERGIRL being manhandled by two orderlies at his asylum was almost too good to be true. He still couldn't believe that the famous super-heroine was now an inmate. Supergirl had been briefly exposed to gold kryptonite during her last battle with Lex Luthor and had barely escaped with her life. Naturally, when the police found the powerless and dazed heroine in the wreckage of the building with a tiny cut on her hand, they knew what to do.  After all, the Metropolis County Asylum processed at least three or four "super-hero" wanna-bes a week. Dr. Phony smiled as the heroine stood awkwardly in front of his desk nursing her shoulder.  Physical pain was a new concept for Supergirl, but a delighted Dr. Phony was determined that it would be the first of many lessons she would learn today. "I have good news and bad news, Supergirl," he said.  "The good news is that I know that you really are Supergirl." "Thank goodness!" she said.  "I keep telling people, but without my super powers, they think I'm just some crazy woman in a cape.  Thank goodness you believe me!" "I remember you vividly, Supergirl," the doctor said. "I'll never forget the way you picked me up over your head and threw me into that brick wall. My shattered legs kept me in the prison hospital for nearly a year -- which is what gave me the idea of posing as a doctor when I got out."  Supergirl looked at the man in stunned silence. Her doctor was a criminal...a criminal SHE had arrested! "If you tell them who I am, I promise I'll talk to the judge about reducing your sentence," she said, earnestly. "I have a better idea, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes," he replied.  "Rather than let you OUT, and go back to jail, I'm going to keep you IN, and have some fun." "You'll never get away with it!" she threatened. "Won't I?" he asked, rhetorically. "There are two "Supermen" in Ward 3, and a "Wonder Woman" in Ward 4. You'll fit right in. And if you start ranting about how I'm a criminal you once arrested, that will convince everyone you've found your new home.  "I don't treat patients with actual mental or medical disorders," he went on. "Even for me, that would be unethical. I specialize in helping rich men dispose of beautiful, unwanted women who are making a nuisance of themselves.  It's easy enough to toss a beautiful heiress into an asylum on her 21st birthday, and it's less expensive to commit a trophy wife than divorce her!" Dr. Phony smiled and toyed with the pen on his desk. "Tell me, since you're without your super powers, how many people believe you're actually Supergirl?" The girl ground her teeth in frustration.  She hadn't been able to convince the police, the ambulance drivers, the nurses, or the orderlies at the asylum.  Ordinarily, the police treated Supergirl with dignity and respect.  But, as soon as the cops realized she was powerless, the deferential treatment ended. Supergirl had been ashamed and humiliated when the horny policeman had commanded her to "place your hands on the roof of the car and SPREAD 'EM." He took his time with the search, groping her breasts and even reaching under her short skirt to fondle her through her famous red panties. She blushed as she recalled the way the fat cop had playfully swatted her bottom as he turned the handcuffed heroine over to the asylum's ambulance drivers. "Here's another one for the Magic Kingdom, boys," he sneered. "Don't do anything with her I wouldn't do." Supergirl recognized the police officer from previous encounters, and she was surprised that he didn't recognize her. Was it possible that the lecherous cop was taking advantage her powerless state to grope and abuse her?  She grimaced at the thought, but she suspected she was right. The patriarchal male police force resented her powers and abilities, and many openly protested their reliance on "a woman's help." And the press continued to call her "Supergirl," even though she had been pleading with them to refer to her as "Superwoman" since her 18th birthday. Even Supergirl had to confront the ugly face of sexism in America.... Dr. Phony's voice returned her to her present predicament.  "If you cooperate, Supergirl, then things will be easier on you," he said, in a patronizing voice.  "Of course, if you resist me in ANY way, then you will have a lot more to worry about than that little boo-boo on your shoulder!" Supergirl rubbed her shoulder as she weighed her options. She knew he was right...that she'd have to play along with him for now. But the effects would not last long, and she could already feel her x-ray vision starting to return.  When her super-strength came back, she would toss her "doctor" through the ceiling like a rag doll.  Even now, she was relishing the image of him flying through the air.... "Now tell me, Supergirl, what was your name on Krypton?  I think 'Supergirl' is far to grand a name for a twenty-year-old of such obviously limited abilities." "Kara," she said, softly. "Very good.  You see, that wasn't so hard, was it?  We're making progress already." He quickly filled out an admissions form for Kara Doe. Then he copied her name and inmate number onto a sticker and taped the sticker to a cardboard box sitting on his desk.  "The next part of the process is even easier," he said, his voice oozing reassurance. "I want you to take off your all your clothes and put them in the box."  She looked at him in stunned disbelief. "S-surrender my...my uniform?" she stammered. "In front of YOU?" "Yes, dear, take off your clothes. Don't be shy. Remember, I'm your doctor now."   She shook her head. This couldn't be happening! "Of course, if you'd rather, I can call in the orderlies who bruised your shoulder. I'm sure they'd be happy to give you a hand." "NO!" she shouted.  "I'll do it!  Just keep those goons away from me!" "It's not like you to be afraid of some muscle-bound apes," he teased.  "I see you're learning how to be docile, afraid, and submissive...just like a woman should be."  "Now, take off your cape," he said, with a cruel smile. "A cape is far too grand an accessory for a helpless little nut case like you." Biting her tongue at the insult, Supergirl unfastened her cape, folded it neatly, and put it in the box. "Now, take off those cute little booties." Awkwardly standing on one foot, she pulled off first one shiny red boot and then the other, laying them in the box. "There's something submissive about a barefoot woman, don't you think, Kara? I mean, here I am, sitting comfortably at my desk, fully clothed and relaxed. And you're standing there with your delicate, dainty feet on that hard, cold linoleum floor. I love watching you scrunch up your toes to try and keep your little tootsies warm." She immediately stopped moving from foot to foot, but she was only able to maintain her resolve for a few seconds.  Discomfort from cold was a new sensation to her, and the floor was freezing. "I think women should be kept barefoot and pregnant," he said. "And the barefoot part is taken care of." He smiled and eyed the helpless heroine lasciviously. "Knocking you up will be easy now that those tiny little fists of yours are so girly and useless." She perceived that her super-hearing was returning, and she could hear the male orderlies who had manhandled her lounging outside the room, joking about that "cute piece of blonde ass in the trick-or-treat outfit."  She resolved to teach the brutal orderlies how to treat a lady once her super-strength returned. "Now take off your yellow belt, but don't put it in the box." the doctor directed. "Hand it to me." She took off her belt and obediently handed it to the grinning doctor. "Now slip off that darling little red skirt," he ordered.  "I want to take a nice long look at those cute red underpants you love to flash." She felt warm as the blood rushed to her face. Was she actually blushing?  Like the pain in her shoulder, blushing was a new sensation for her, and the unfamiliar emotions made her feel all the more disoriented.  She had seen men look at her with lust before, but she had always been the one in control, the definitive "woman in charge." But now, as she meekly folded her skirt and put it in the box, she felt utterly helpless. The doctor was using Supergirl's strip search as an excuse to teach her a lesson in sexual submission. She was beginning to understand what the women of Earth had been complaining about for years. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't pick this creep up and throw him through a wall. Instead she had to meekly submit and surrender her uniform, the emblem of her power. Now she wore nothing but her blue top with the famous logo and her trademark red panties. "Now things are getting interesting!" Doctor Phony grinned. "What do you say, Kara?  What's next?  Tops or bottoms?" "Tops, I think," she said, nervously, trying to forestall the unveiling of her most private areas to the lascivious pervert who was now in charge of her life. "That's tops, SIR," he said, correcting her. "You have to remember that I'm an important and respected DOCTOR. You, on the other hand, are just another scatterbrained female." "Tops, SIR," she repeated.  Reluctantly she turned her back and reached down to grasp the hem of her blue top. Swallowing hard, she slowly began to peel her shirt off in front of her amused captor. He let out a long wolf whistle as her beautiful bare back came into view. "I see you're not wearing a bra," he observed. "I guess 'the woman of steel' wouldn't really need one, now would she? Of course I imagine that now that your super powers are gone, your titties will be all soft and bouncy, won't they?" He let the suspense build for a moment before he spoke. "Why don't you turn around and show me, Kara?" Reluctantly, she turned and faced her adversary, using her arms to cover her bare breasts. Her cheeks were red with shame, and she was too embarrassed to make eye contact. Instead, she just stared at her feet, which were still twitching and squirming on the cold floor. "A lot of you crazies try to smuggle things in," he said, with mock concern. "I'm going to have to ask you to put your arms at your sides, so I can make sure you're not concealing anything." She said nothing, but reluctantly put her arms down. "Very nice, indeed!" he said. After taking a moment to admire her figure, he began his lecture. "The insane asylum has traditionally been a place where men could strip difficult or recalcitrant women butt-naked and use the tools of medicine to teach them their proper place. Why do you think they call it the 'booby hatch?' "Now, I want you to lift up each breast by the nipple, so I can see that you don't have anything taped underneath," he directed. She stared at him with undisguised hatred. He grinned back at her in triumph. After a long pause, she reluctantly followed his humiliating command and lifted her breasts. He whistled once again. "Those sure are cute little honkers you have, Kara. The asylum does occasionally allow me to release patients under guard for short periods, as part of their occupational therapy.  I can arrange for you to get you get a job at Hooters.  Would you like that?  Would you like to fetch beer and pretzels while all those horny guys ogled you?" Kara squirmed as she held her breasts aloft by the nipples. He ignored her plight and continued to describe her new life in vivid detail. "They will even give you a uniform, although it won't be as grand as the one you're used to. But I think you'll look just darling, prancing around in your little orange short-shorts with those cute tits of yours jiggling under your tight t-shirt.  "But that's enough about your future career, Kara. You can let go of your titties now."  His smile broadened.  "It's time to hand over your cute red underpants, so we can get on with the rest of your processing. I have a lot of pretty little ears of corn to husk today, and I can't waste all day shucking you down!" She bit her lip, turned her back, and slowly slid her red underwear down her long legs. He whistled yet again as her upturned bottom came into view.  Damn him! She was going to bust him up good! "Now turn around, and show Doctor whether or not you're a natural blonde, Kara." She turned around and revealed her sparsely-haired blonde sex. He ordered the blushing heroine to place her hands on top of her head and turn slowly in circles.  As she complied, he made humiliating compliments about her "tight little ass" and "cute yellow fuzz." For the first time in her life, Supergirl felt like a piece of meat.  The experience was unspeakably degrading, but somehow she also found it strangely...exciting.  Over the years, she had occasionally fantasized about being stripped of her powers. What would it be like to be forced to submit to the indignities that average women had to endure everyday?  She could play-act in her secret identity, of course, but she had to be careful not to get herself into any truly dangerous situations that might force her to use her powers and blow her cover.   The fact that there was never any real danger always made the experience strangely flat. But her humiliation now was sharp, painful, and anything but flat. Her enemy was appraising her like a slave girl on the auction block.... She twirled helplessly in front of his desk, desperately wishing she could use her hands to cover her privates. Her beloved uniform, long the symbol of her power, lay casually discarded in the cheap cardboard box.  She wondered how many other Supergirl costumes were in the storeroom right now.  She knew that professional costume shops made uniforms identical to hers, and no doubt some of the other mental patients had used them. The precious box that held key to her freedom would quickly be lost among the countless other "costumes."  Her priceless, precious uniform was now the inconsequential byproduct of just another routine strip search. Dr. Phony made a big show of slowly taping up the cardboard box while Supergirl looked on, too mortified to speak. He took his time.   He knew that her uniform was the emblem of her identity, and taking it away from her was as traumatic as the loss of her powers. With her uniform on, she was Supergirl! She was invincible, and every man in the world from the President on down hung on her every word.  Without her uniform, she was just another crazy, helpless scatterbrained female in the insane asylum, forced to bow and tremble before minimum wage orderlies, sadistic nurses, and phony physicians. "I'll put this away somewhere safe," he said, patting the box. "Once this is dispensed with, we won't have to worry about anyone mistaking you for Supergirl, will we? If someone came into the office right now, they wouldn't see a super-hero. They'd see just another naked bimbo, twirling around in the loony bin," he snickered. He patted his knee. "Now, stop spinning and climb over the doctor's knee. It's time for you to take your medicine!"

I'm pretty sure this is in regards to the "Baby Susie: Super Soaker at age 35, Baby Mama having Babies" or something like that. The titles are massive and truly stand out...

Chapter 3 — Nothing Escapes Ellen Ellen I knew before he did. I want that on the record, since he has spent a whole chapter telling you how cleverly he hid it. He hid nothing. A man cannot hide anything from the person who does his laundry. I have washed this family's clothes for thirty years, and a woman who has washed thirty years of clothes can read a laundry basket the way a doctor reads an X-ray. The body leaves its news in the wash. I knew when each of the children was sickening for something before they did. I knew, once, that Thomas had started smoking, from a single shirt, and I knew when he stopped. And I had known about Mark, in the smallest way, for years. Not the flood of it, not what was coming, but the first faint edge of it, the occasional underpants that came to the basket with a trace they would not have carried ten years before, the little after-mark of a man whose body was beginning, very quietly, to let him down. It was nothing, then. I want to be fair to him about that, because he has spent a chapter being hard on himself. For a long time it genuinely was nothing, a few times a month, caught by the cloth, the ordinary small toll of getting older, and I did what a wife does, which is wash it without comment and let him keep his dignity and say nothing, because there was nothing yet to say. I had been quietly laundering the beginning of this for years before he ever stood in the bathroom at two in the morning frightened of a coin-sized spot. So when his underwear began arriving in the basket at the wrong intervals, and then stopped arriving at all for days at a time, and then arrived smelling faintly of a sink rather than of a man, I did not need a confession. I had been reading this particular page for a long time. I only needed to see that it had turned. I counted. That is the first thing to understand about me. I do not panic and I do not guess. I gather. Six pairs the first week, when there should have been four. Then long gaps, which meant he was washing them himself, badly, somewhere I was not meant to look. The towel rail in the upstairs bathroom hung at an angle a tidy man would never leave it, which meant something had been draped there to dry and removed before I woke. The downstairs toilet became his preferred one, the far one, the one nobody uses. He started wearing dark trousers every day, a man who had owned exactly one pair of dark trousers for a decade and now apparently owned several. And the day he came back from the client meeting, the car smelled of upholstery cleaner and the driver's seat was damp in a ring he had missed in the dark, because he had cleaned it in the dark, and a man does not shampoo his own car seat at six in the evening for no reason and then say nothing about it. So no. He did not get away with it. He got away with nothing. He got six weeks of believing he had got away with it, which is not the same, and which I gave him on purpose, and I will come to why. People think, because I am the way I am, that I am hard. The children think it, fondly. Mark thinks it, less fondly, when I have made him do something he did not want to do that turned out to be correct. I am not hard. I am simply not interested in pretending, because pretending wastes the one thing none of us gets more of, which is time. I had a husband with a problem. The problem was not interesting to me as a problem. Bodies fail. I have buried both my parents and I have brought three people into the world through a process nobody describes accurately to you beforehand, and I have long since lost any squeamishness about what bodies do. A bladder that has started letting go is a household matter, like a roof that has started letting in. You do not weep about a roof. You find out how bad it is and you fix it or you manage it and you get on with your life under it. What I could not get past, what kept me awake on my side of the bed in those weeks while he lay rigid on his pretending he was asleep, was not the wet underwear. It was the hand. Let me tell you about the hand, because he will not have, because he does not know how much I noticed. For thirty years there has been a way we find each other in the evenings. I will not embarrass either of us with the details; you have an imagination. It is a current. You learn it early in a marriage and if you are lucky you never unlearn it, and we had been lucky. After the children it changed shape, the way everything changes shape after children, but it never went away. Less often. Never gone. A reduction, he would say, being a man who thinks in cooking now that I have trained him. Stronger for being less. And then, in those weeks, he started taking his hand away. The first time I told myself it was the deadline. He does get like that, lost in the work, and I have made my peace with the work; it pays for cruises. The second time I put my hand on his chest, the old way, the way that has meant the same thing since before he had grey in his hair, and he took my hand, and he held it, and he pressed it as if to thank it, and he put it aside. And he rolled away from me. And he said he was tired. I lay in the dark and I felt something I had not felt in this marriage in a very long time, which was shut out. I knew it was the leaking. I am not a fool, and I had counted the underwear, and I could see the shape of the thing entire: he was afraid it would happen there, in the bed, at the worst possible moment, and rather than risk my face changing he had decided to close the door himself. To go without. To protect the thing by killing it slowly. It is the most male solution to a problem I have ever encountered, and I have raised two sons. And it broke my heart a little, if you want the truth, which I do not hand out often. Thirty years, three children, a mortgage paid, a life built, and the man would rather lie awake an arm's length away in his own quiet misery than turn over and let me see him. As though I had not already seen him through everything. As though there were a version of him I had not already loved on sight. He thought he was sparing me. He was insulting me, and he had no idea, and that is the part that is hard to stay angry at, because it came from love wearing the stupidest possible disguise. So I made a decision, the way I make decisions, which is quietly and completely and some time before anyone knows I have made it. I was not going to wait for him to find his way to telling me. He had shown me, over six weeks, exactly how long that would take, which was forever. I was going to give him a little more rope, watch one more time to be entirely sure I understood the whole of it and was not about to confront him over something half seen, and then I was going to take this household matter in hand the way I take all household matters in hand. I did not expect the moment to arrive at Sunday dinner. But I was ready when it did, because being ready is what I do. It was a good evening. I want to say that, because of what I did to it. The boys were home, both of them, loud in the way they are only loud here, dropping back into being seventeen the moment they cross the threshold. Thomas was telling the cat litter story, which he tells well, and Daniel was eating like a man who does not yet own enough pans, and Mark was laughing, properly, head back, for the first time in weeks, and I sat there with my own glass and watched my husband forget to be afraid, and I was glad of it. I thought, let him have the evening. The rest can wait until the boys have gone. Then, under Thomas's voice, I heard it. I doubt anyone else in that kitchen could have. Thomas was mid-sentence and Daniel was laughing and the window was open to the street. But I have spent thirty years listening for the sounds underneath the sounds, the cough that means a fever is coming, the particular silence that means a teenager is lying upstairs, and I heard, under the noise of my happy family, the small unmistakable sound of water finding the floor. I looked at him. Half a look. Less. And I saw his face, and I did not need any more than that, because his face was the face of a man going under in plain sight at his own table, in front of his children, and finding that there was nothing, nothing at all, that he could do about it. I have read, since, that in a true emergency the mind goes very fast and very cold. Mine did. I did not decide to do anything. The decision arrived already made. There was a problem on the table, and the problem was about to become visible to my sons, and there was exactly one object within my reach that could put a different and innocent stain over the true one, and I had perhaps a second before the soaking became something the boys would see. I knocked my wine into his lap. A full glass, near enough, a good Sauvignon I had been enjoying, straight across and down, and I was up and out of my chair before it landed, loud, clumsy, cross with myself, a woman who has knocked over her own glass at her own table and is making a production of it the way clumsy women do. Oh, Mark, look at that, it's gone everywhere, go and change before it sets, go on. And to the boys, sharp, to give their hands something to do and their eyes somewhere to go that was not their father: don't just sit there, the kitchen roll, by the sink. And it worked, because people see what they expect to see, and nobody at that table expected anything except that their mother had been clumsy. They laughed. Of course they laughed. Daniel fetched the roll and Thomas teased me and refilled the glass I had spent, and not one of them looked at Mark as he stood up in the commotion with the wine spreading dark over the darker truth, and walked out, and went up the stairs to deal with it in private, which is all he had wanted in the first place. To deal with it in private. I gave him that. It cost a glass of wine and ten seconds of looking like a fool in front of my children, and I would pay it again a hundred times and not feel the price. I sat back down and served the crumble and asked Daniel about his shelves. And when Mark came back, dry, in different trousers, white around the mouth, I gave him one look that I hoped said it is dealt with, sit down, eat your pudding, and I let the evening close back over it. The boys went home at ten with their leftovers, none the wiser, and they are none the wiser to this day, and they never will be, because there are things a parent carries so that a child never has to. That is the only rule I have never once broken in thirty years of marriage. Whatever is wrong, the children are protected from it. It is older than this business by decades. When we nearly lost the house the year Daniel was born, they never knew. When my mother was dying badly and slowly and I was driving two hours each way to sit with her, they had a calm mother at breakfast and no idea. When Mark's brother did the thing with the money that we still do not speak of, the children were told nothing and are still told nothing. The adults carry what the adults carry, and the children get a quiet house and the belief that the ground is solid. So whoever else finds out about this, and I will tell a saleswoman and a pharmacist and a ship full of strangers, in time, and you will watch me do it and think me shameless, it does not touch them. But not them. Never them. The wine was for them as much as for him. I let two days pass. Not out of cowardice. Out of strategy. I wanted him off balance and I wanted myself certain, and I wanted the boys safely back in their own lives before I opened it, so that whatever happened in this kitchen stayed in this kitchen. On the Tuesday I did the wash, and I did not hide that I was doing it. I set the basket on the kitchen table where we eat. I put the car key beside it, because I had checked the seat again in daylight and there was nothing to find now, but he did not know I knew that, and the key would do its work. And I made coffee, two cups, and I sat down, and when he came down at his usual quarter past seven, showered and dressed because that is the rule, he saw the basket and the key on the table and he stopped in the doorway. I have thought, since, that I should have been gentler in the staging. But I am not a gentle stager. I am a woman who lays the evidence out and asks the question, and I have found over thirty years that this is, in the end, the kindest thing, because it ends the lying fastest, and the lying is what hurts, not the truth. "Sit down," I said. "Your coffee's there." He sat. He looked at the basket. He looked at the key. He looked anywhere but at me. "You've been wondering about Sunday," I said. "Whether I meant to do it. I'll save you the trouble. I did. I heard it before the boys did and I put the wine over it on purpose, and if you go back over the last six weeks with that in mind, a great many other things will make sense to you." He opened his mouth. I did not let him have it yet. "I have known since the start. The washing. The dark trousers. The car. You did not hide it, Mark, you only spent six weeks exhausting yourself believing you had. I let you, because I wanted to be sure, and because I hoped you would come to me, and you did not come to me. That is the part we are going to talk about. Not the bladder. The bladder I can manage in an afternoon. The not coming to me is what I will not have." And then I stopped, and I drank my coffee, and I waited, because I had said the hard part and the rest had to be his. He sat there for a long moment. My husband. Fifty-four years old, clever, kind, proud, with his coffee going cold in front of him and his hands flat on the table on either side of the basket of evidence. And I watched him decide. I watched the precise moment he gave it up, the whole six weeks of it, the watching guard he had been mounting alone on a wall against an enemy that was only ever his own shame. I watched his shoulders come down. Not slumping. Releasing. An inch, maybe less, the set of a man putting down something heavy he has been carrying so long he had stopped feeling the weight, and the relief on his face when it was down was so plain and so total that it did something to me I had not been expecting. Because I will be honest with you, since this is my chapter and he is not reading it. When my husband's shoulders came down, when he looked up at me at last with everything finally on the table and let me see him, let me back in, handed me the whole problem the way a child hands you a knot they cannot undo, something in me sat up very straight and went quiet and paid close attention. It was not pity. I know pity; pity I have felt for him and it is not this. This was nearer to appetite. A sense of a door opening onto a room in our marriage I had not known was there, a room I had perhaps always wanted without the words for it, where he hands me the knot and I undo it, where he stops guarding and lets himself be held, where I am not the manager of the household but the manager of the man, and he is, for the first time in thirty years, entirely in my hands and visibly, helplessly, glad of it. I did not say any of that. It was far too early, and I was not yet sure of it myself, and one does not lay a foundation by describing the house. I said, "Tell me everything. From the first time. Leave nothing out, I will know if you do." And he told me. All of it, the coin, the stairs, the ring road, the toilet paper, the two in the morning at the sink. It poured out of him the way the truth does once the dam is breached, and I sat and listened and did not interrupt, and made my notes in the back of my head, the notes I would later make in a real notebook, and by the time he had finished his cold coffee and his confession I had already, privately, made an appointment, chosen a strategy, and understood, dimly, the way you understand weather coming, that our marriage had just changed direction and that I was the one with my hands on the wheel. "Right," I said, when he was done. I stood up and took the basket off the table, because the evidence had served its purpose and there is no sense leaving washing where you eat. Then I took my phone from my cardigan pocket and found the number for the practice, and I dialled it, there, at the kitchen table, with him sitting across from me. He understood what I was doing about a second too late to stop it. I watched it cross his face. He half lifted a hand, the way you reach after something already falling, and then the receptionist answered and it was too late, and he had to sit and listen. "Good morning," I said. "I'd like to make an appointment for my husband, please. Mark Peters, he's a patient of Dr. Meyer's." I gave them his date of birth. "It's urinary incontinence. Several weeks now, and getting worse, not better. No, no blood, no pain, just the leaking, and an accident now and then when he can't get there in time. Yes. As soon as you can, please. He works from home, so any time suits." Across the table my husband had gone a deep and total red, the red of a man hearing the worst six weeks of his life summarized in four sentences by his wife while a stranger types it into a computer. He stared at the basket. He could not look at me. I held his gaze anyway, the part of it I could reach, and I did not soften the words, because softening them would have meant they were shameful, and they were not shameful. They were a list of facts about a body. I have read shopping lists with more drama in them. "Thursday, twenty to ten," the receptionist said. "With Dr. Meyer." "Thursday, twenty to ten. That's perfect, thank you." I wrote it on the back of my hand with the pen from the crossword, because the notebook was still upstairs, and then I would copy it into the notebook, where it would become the first line of a record I am still keeping. "We'll be there. Thank you. Goodbye." I put the phone down on the table between us. "There," I said. "Thursday. I'm coming with you." "Ellen." His voice came out rough. "I can handle this myself." I looked at him. He had the grace to hear it as I had heard it, six weeks of handling it himself laid out in a laundry basket, and he closed his mouth. "No," I said, not unkindly. "You can't. That's all right. That's what I'm for." And I put the wash on, and I poured the cold coffee down the sink and made him a fresh cup, and set it by his hand, and he caught my wrist as I did it, just for a moment, and held it, and did not say thank you because he could not yet, and I let him hold it, and then I went and got on with the day. The day does not organize itself. But that morning, for the first time in six weeks, neither of us was carrying it alone.

The site took a database hit a few years ago that corrupted the story form.  So, if it has been a while, that may be what bit some of the works.

Katchase Stories Like many readers Katchase was an early and delightful discovery. Unfortunately most all of his stories are incomplete. So here is a selection of two wonderful beginnings from Katchase. Who knows, they may inspire a more dedicated writer.  A CHANGE OF CLOTHING  by Katchase. They say that clothes make the man and that may be true but I found out that clothes also make the woman or in my case unmake her as I recently found out. I had flown down to Florida to attend a business conference and afterwards spend a few days taking it easy visiting my aunt and my 14 year old cousin whom I hadn't seen since I had acquired my position as assistant planner in a prestigious computer firm three years ago at the ripe age of 21. I had arranged to have my luggage delivered to my aunt's house so I could go straight to my conference which I did and after a grueling 8 hours later, I was looking forward to taking a hot shower and getting out of my stuffy, confining conservative business clothes and into something a little more revealing and comfortable  and trying my luck with the local guys. I arrived by taxi to my aunts house only to discover when I got there that my luggage had not got there yet and after a call to the airlines was no closer to knowing where they were.  My aunt assured me that she would find me something of my cousins to wear as we were basically the same size now as she had just gone through a growth spurt and I was so petite (only standing 5' 1'' tall and weigh 98 pounds) she was sure it would probably fit me, Totally exhausted and just wanting to get a hot shower and relax, I agreed and went to get a shower.  After getting out of the shower, I looked around on the floor for my underwear only to find it gone and sitting on top of the toilet seat was a plain white training bra and a pair of full cut pink and white flowered panties with pink trim adorning the top and leg openings. Laughing out loud at what I saw, I figured what the heck, I'll try them on, I'm sure they'll never fit me their for a preteen not a full grown woman but  much to my amazement the bra actually fit me, though snugly and actually made my small breast look almost non existence and when I pulled the panties on they were actually a little big on my small hips and rode so high on my waist I felt like they  came up to my belly button and it reminded me of when I was a child and wore panties of the same style and as I stared into a full length mirror on the back  of the bathroom wall, I saw an average looking teenage girl in her underwear staring back where a sharply dressed woman had stood a mere 30 minutes ago.               Feeling kinda strange wearing underwear designed for a girl just entering puberty instead my usual sexy, silky thong underwear and lacy push up bra, I could only wonder what else my aunt had left for me and it only took me a minute before I saw a pattern forming. There on the toilet seat sat a plain white baby doll dress covered in little pink flowers. The dress had a high empire waist and when I put it on it came to just mid thigh in the front and rode higher in the back to the point of threatening to show anyone who cared to see my cotton flowered undies if I made any sudden movement from side to side.               Feeling even more vulnerable than ever I sat down on the toilet seat to put on the little white half socks and the little white sneakers i found and realized that unless I sat with my legs tightly together anyone would be able to see my panties also. Standing in front of the mirror again I was shocked at the little girl looking back at me. Without my push-up bra , I literally looked flat chested and with no hose on my legs looked skinny and white like a little girls and in the short dress I definitely felt insecure and vulnerable like a child instead of a smart confident woman whom just attended a high power meeting a mere few hours ago. Opening the door to the bathroom, I saw my aunt standing in the hallway waiting for me and she squealed in delight at my new appearance but insisted that I should try a new hairstyle to complete my new look and before I could protest I found my usual beautiful golden locks that framed my face seductively pulled back into two pigtails complete with bangs making the illusion complete that I was an preteen girl instead of a woman of 24.  Amazed that with just a change of clothes, I could be reduced to a status of that of a child. I tried to argue with my aunt that these clothes were better suited to be worn by my 14 yr old cousin and not me when she happen to come through the door with a few of her friends and before I knew what had happen I was accepted into the group just like one of the girls to the point that I was invited to a slumber party that night but that is another story. Finding myself surrounded by a group of 14 year girls dressed as an average teenage girl was strange enough but to have to look up at my own cousin who stood a good three inches taller than me thanks to a recent growth spurt all but stripped away whatever self-confidence away I had left leaving me feeling like the little girl I now appeared as.  Sensing this, my cousin took the opportunity to force me to agree to attend a slumber party she was having that night, though not as an adult but rather a plain looking geeky 14 year-old whom would be known as her little cousin visiting from up north. In what seemed no time at all, more girls started to arrive for the sleepover and before I knew it I was totally accepted by the girls and even my aunt had started to treat me like a child instead of an adult woman. After a snack of pizza and soda pop, my aunt suggested everyone should get into their pajamas and then pulled me aside and said she had a pair of special pj's for me that would look so cute on me.  Seeing a lot of the other girls come down from changing in just a tee shirt or long night shirt and a pair of shorts, I figured that is what she had in mind and followed her upstairs. Unfortunately I wasn't even close for she had laid out for me a childish baby-doll pj top and matching cotton panties for me to wear. Pleading with her for a grown-up pair of pj's was like talking to a brick wall and as she helped me undress I truly felt like an embarrassed little 13 year-old when she commented on my small breasts and how maybe I would grow some when I got older. In no time at all I found myself in a little baby doll top with puffed sleeves and short enough to see my full-cut cotton panties and this time she braided my hair and then shooed me downstairs to where the other girls were only to have them laugh at my childish outfit. My cousin came over and had me set down by her all the while talking to me like now I was younger than her. I was humiliated beyond words and as I stood up to yell at the girls teasing me after my aunt had left the room, I was quickly pulled down into the middle of the circle and each girl started to spank my bottom until it was red and I was crying like a baby. Feeling totally humiliated and like a scared little girl sitting with all the big girls now, I didn't say a word and quickly got into my sleeping bag and went to sleep hoping that tomorrow morning my luggage would come and then I could once again regain my adult status.  Unfortunately, I woke up in the morning to a wet sleeping bag and a circle of laughing girls surrounded me laughing about how the old hand in the water tricked worked. Enraged I stood up and started to yell at them all the while feeling the wet panties bunching up between my legs and as I stood there in my urine soaked panties humiliated. My aunt walked into the room and saw me and commented that it appeared that her niece was not even old enough to go potty by herself and would have to wear diapers, but then that is also another story. BABY TALK Part One In her new outfit, it was quite apparent to Mrs. Bouchard that little Abbie would be a welcome addition to the school Halloween party whether she actually wanted to participate in it or not. Abigail Winters was the newly appointed speech pathologist for the exclusive Bouchard prep school which catered only to the wealthy offspring of some of today's richest citizens quickly found herself elevated to her new position in the exclusive school hierarchy by being informed that she was required to chaperone the annual Halloween ball being held in ten minutes in the school's gymnasium and costumes were mandatory. Thinking quickly, Abagail started to look around her spacious classroom that she used for speech lessons in which to help the girl's learn to enunciate their words in a proper manner, a social skill which is so important when you are of a higher caliber,,or at least that is what she has to tell the these spoiled little rich kids, she thought to herself bitterly. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a nearby window, Abbie stops to take stock in her appearance, At 22, she was already a licensed speech pathologist and looked every bit the part. She wore a nice tailored blouse and skirt set with a pair of sheer nylon that encased her legs in a silky prison and a pair of black high heels with a 4 inch heel which help to give her a height advantage over the girls she taught, something very important to her since she stood no more than 5' tall in stocking feet and was very petite in stature and while she was not overly endowed in the chest area she made up for this with a beautiful face and gorgeous long blond locks that she wore up in a bun while she taught to give her a more authoritarian look something she believed was very important in giving her an edge over these spoiled rich kids and their 'I’m rich and I’ll do what I want attitude.''.  Just once, Abagail thought in envy, I wish  could be a spoiled rich girl too remembering her own childhood filled with social disappointments due to financial hardships and though it was this that gave her the drive to succeed, she secretly wished she could sometimes go back and relieve her childhood again this time though with money and popularity like the girls she now taught. Glancing at the clock, Abagail realized that by daydreaming about the past she had wasted five minutes and was now frantically looking around for anything to make a costume out of when she saw a backpack lying on the floor next to the coat rack in the back of the classroom. Abagail reached down and picked it up and examined it for a name but couldn't find one, so she opened it up hoping to find a clue inside to reveal whom it belong too, instead she found a spare schoolgirl outfit consisting of a little plaid jumper with a high bodice and flared skirt and a little white blouse with puffy sleeves and a peter pan collar to go underneath and pair of heavy white cotton tights and a pair of black Maryjane shoes , but what surprised her the most was the matching white and pink full cut underwear and little vest set that she found in the bottom of the back pack because the girls she taught were in the age range of 11-15 and this undies reminded her of a six year old's. I haven't seen underwear like this since I was a little girl thought Abagail and was stuffing all the clothes back into the backpack when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled she jumped back and felt a warm growing dampness in her panties realizing she just peed pants from the unexpected scare. Turning around with tears of shame and humiliation welling up in her eyes Abagail came face to face with the headmistress of the school Miss Bouchard, a nonsense woman in her mid-fifties who regarded Abagail with a degree of great disdain as she watch the young speech teacher shift nervously in a puddle of her own urine like a naughty little girl waiting for a severe scolding from her mother for wetting her pants. "ABAGAIL!” said the headmistress in a tone she usually reserved for students she reprimanded in her office,. ''I was wondering if this was what you would be wearing to this afternoons Halloween party but I suppose I don't have to wonder no more about that, do I ABBEY?” Abagail looked at the headmistress through tear filled eyes and didn't have to wonder long on what she meant by her emphasizing the word Abbey when she saw Mrs. Bouchard open the backpack up and started lying out the same clothes Abagail had saw earlier. Grabbing Abagail by the wrist, the young teacher found herself stripped of her blouse and skirt set along with heels. Standing there in just her bra and wet panties and nylons, Abagail became aware of how much bigger her surroundings seemed to her with out her heels on and was pondering this as she felt Mrs. Bouchard yank her wet nylons down her legs until they were around her ankles and then off her completely. Embarrassed to be standing in her own classroom in just her wet silky undies and her lacy bra, Abagail pleaded with Mrs. Bouchard not to tell anyone about this and pleaded for some clothes other than the ones layed out before her. "Don't be silly child.” Mrs. Bouchard chided Abagail. "This is one of the finest school uniform money can buy" and as her voice softened slightly. "Besides this will make a great Halloween costume don't you think?" Scrutinizing the outfit before her, Abagail had to agree with her about making a great costume and she had always wanted to be one of the little rich girls. This way she could attend the party and cover up her wetting accident and when the party was over she could go home and no one would ever find out about her little accident, she had no other choice. With a long sigh, Abagail reached over to pick up the dress when Mrs. Bouchard grabbed her wrist with one hand and gathered up the outfit with the other and after checking the hallway for students dragged her into the bathroom to get cleaned up before she would be allowed to wear a uniform so rich in tradition and history. With her body trembling from standing in only her bra and panties on the cold tile floor, Abagail was totally stunned when Mrs. Bouchard came up from behind and with one swift motion had succeeded in totally stripping away the last of her undergarments leaving her completely naked and totally vulnerable. Before the stunned girl could react, she found herself pushed into a waiting shower and handed a bottle of scented body soap which she quickly rubbed all over her body in attempt to remove the urine smell from her body. Glancing quickly at the label to see what brand it was Abagail was shocked to find it wasn't perfumed soap at all but a depilatory and as the warm water washed over her body removing the smell of stale urine from her body. The special soap had removed her womanly bush of curly golden hair leaving in its place a set of bare lips strongly resembling those of a young girl. Stepping out of the shower and drying off, Abagail was acutely aware of her loss of adulthood as she dried off and felt the soft terry towel brush against her skin like it did when she was a little girl after a nice long bath. Glancing in a nearby mirror, Abagail was shocked to see that the body soap had another side effect as well, her golden tan that she was so proud had been removed by the special body soap and now Abagail's skin was a stark white, almost pink in color but the most devastating thing to Abagail was the freckles that had appeared across and on both sides of her nose, giving her face the appearance of a young girl once again. With new tears welling up in her eyes Abagail looked at her appearance in the mirror and could barely reconcile the image the looking glass held and the self image she had in her mind of that of a young professional speech therapist. Standing naked in front of the full length mirror with her stark white skin without make-up and her long blond hair now put up in two pigtails framing her young freckled face she looked every bit a girl of 13 especially with her small breast and being devoid of any pubic hair it would be hard to convince anyone any different an unbeknownst to Abagail this is just what Mrs. Bouchard was counting on.                                                                                                                     The End