FAMILY CONTROL

                               by

                             Joe Doe


     A SPOILED TROPHY WIFE LEARNS THE MEANING OF CONTROL 



The accident hadn't been Brittany's fault.  It was a stupid place 
to put a gas pump, and she was barely over the legal limit, which 
was way too low anyway, if you asked her opinion, which no one did, 
which was like...totally unfair. 

To make matters worse, she got a female judge.  Brittany thought 
the sentence of community service was totally unfair, even if it 
was her fifth offense.  I mean, it was only her fifth offense if 
you counted that accident with the patrol car.  And that clearly 
wasn't her fault, no matter what all those policemen said. 

Brittany had dressed sexy for court, expecting a male judge.  But 
her appearance did little to impress the female judge, and she was 
certain that she heard the whispered word "bimbo" when her lawyer 
was asked to approach the bench to discuss "inappropriate attire." 

"It's obvious that you don't know how to control a car --  or 
yourself, for that matter," the judge admonished her.  "I should 
put you in jail.  But, given your husband's standing in the 
community, I will accept your attorney's plea arrangement for 
community service." 

When it came time for her service assignment, Brittany decided to 
double down and wear the same outfit.  However, the woman (what 
luck!) at the county office seemed even less impressed than the 
judge had been.  She declared Brittany "too stupid" to tutor kids, 
"too puny" for manual labor at the park, and "too ditzy" for office 
work. 

"I could put you with the prisoners at the county jail, working on 
the chain gang.  Of course, since you would be shackled together 
with the male prisoners, the guards would probably need to strip 
search you.  And you'd probably have to shower with the male 
inmates," she added, with a wicked smile. 

"Is there ANYTHING else?" Brittany asked.  "That list you're 
looking at seems huge!" 

"Well, you're just not qualified for much, dearie," the woman 
patronized.  "Ever done any modeling?" 

Brittany brightened.  "Why, yes, I have.  I was in a Victoria's 
Secret catalog once.  And I almost got a trip to Paris when...." 

"Whatever," the woman said.  "They need a model at the college.  
Be at Steiner Hall, Room 103, 7:00 tonight, and do everything 
they say.  If you don't show up, or you give them any hassle at 
all, I fill out a pink form, and you do 90 days of hard time at 
the State Correctional Institution for Women." 

"And if you end up at state, I wouldn't recommend wearing the 
little outfit you have on now," the woman said, with a cruel 
smile.  "The bulls would eat you alive, honey buns." 

Brittany left the office with the assignment slip in hand.  She 
was determined to be on time. 

		******************************             

"Now, if you'll just get undressed, you can change into this robe," 
the professor said. 

"Undressed?" Brittany said.  "But I don't understand.  I thought 
this was supposed to be an art class." 

"Indeed it is, Art Appreciation 101.  Not the most respected or 
rigorous class in our community college curriculum, to be sure, 
but a field of no small import.  Last week, we went to the local 
art museum.  The week before, the students brought in coloring 
books and colored, which led to a spirited discussion of the 
nature of art."

He coughed. 

"But this week is, I dare say, the one that our students have most 
been looking forward to.  Indeed, some of the cynics on the faculty 
have suggested that this session is the reason that our class seems 
to be populated mostly by males, or by females of a rather...shall 
I say, masculine?...sexual orientation.  We will study the female 
form....  The nude female form." 

"Nude!"  Brittany gasped.  "No one said anything about nude!" 

"Be that as it may, young lady, nude it shall be.  Of course, if 
you'd rather, I can call the Sheriff right now, and I'm sure he'd 
be delighted to escort you to the female correctional facility of 
his choice. 

"Or...," the professor smiled and picked up the short white robe.  
"You could exchange your present lovely but nonetheless far too 
concealing habiliments for this." 

His fancy words didn't fool Brittany; she could tell by the look 
in his eye that this entire "art class" was just a charade 
designed to strip her naked.  But what could she do?  She was 
rich, to be sure -- at least her husband was.  (He was not 
physically very attractive, but money was usually one of the 
advantages of marrying a man thirty years your senior.) 

But she had been so embarrassed by her accident that she hadn't 
told her husband about it, and now she had trapped herself in a 
legal predicament that even he might not be able to buy her out of. 

And time was not her friend.  Her husband was in Europe on 
business, and she feared the professor's threat to call the 
Sheriff was not an idle one. 

The professor, meanwhile, dangled the robe in front of her and 
smiled.  "A bit short, perhaps, but it isn't as if you'll be 
wearing it for long.  So, what shall it be, my dear?  Do you want 
to take off your clothes now, for the edification of my class and 
the noble purpose of higher education?  Or would you rather be 
forcibly stripped at the prison, under the watchful eyes of your 
guards?" 

She had posed for some racy pictures during her modeling career, 
but she had never posed nude.  And her conservative husband had 
made it clear that, now they were married, he expected her to be 
a demure and proper wife. 

But she knew that she really had no choice. 

She snatched the robe and snapped, "If I could have some privacy, 
please...." 

"Of course, my dear," the professor said, unctuously.  "I wouldn't 
want to do anything to violate the delicate sensibilities of a 
young lady of such obvious refinement." 

He walked to the door.

"But do make haste," he said.  "The class is waiting." 

Brittany had worn a yellow leotard under her white sundress.  In 
her mind's eye, she had envisioned herself being sculpted by a 
class of rapt and talented students, perhaps while she held an 
apple.  She had never imagined that she would be strutting around 
naked in front of a bunch of freshmen and sophomores in some bogus 
100-level class. 

"Maybe I should just put the apple in my mouth," she thought, as 
the leotard landed in a puddle on the floor. 

The robe was very short indeed, and she tried to tug it down a bit.  
Then she closed her eyes momentarily, took a deep breath, and 
entered the classroom.  There was an immediate murmur of approval 
and a few nervous giggles from the students.  But, although she 
could hear them, she didn't see them. 

She was staring at the floor. 

"Josh, since you're the one who arranged our model today, I think 
it's only appropriate that we use your suggestion for today's 
artistic tableau.  What is your decision?" 

At the mention of the name "Josh," Brittany looked up in horror.  
It couldn't be.  It wasn't possible! 

But it was.  Sitting in the front row was her stepson, Josh. 

Josh had hated Brittany from the moment he met her.  He had 
told his father that Brittany was a gold-digging bitch who was 
interested in him only for his money.  She had responded in kind, 
by convincing her new husband that cutting off Josh's financial 
support would be a "character-building" experience for him. 

At first her husband had resisted the idea of transferring his 
son's inheritance into a discretionary trust under Brittany's sole 
control.  But the former lingerie model could be very persuasive. 

Josh no longer lived in his father's mansion.  Now he had a crummy 
apartment, shared with six of his friends.  He no longer went to 
Harvard.  His reduced finances had forced him to switch to the 
local community college.  It wasn't much, but it was all his 
salary at Burger King could pay for. 

Brittany gaped at her stepson, who was slumped casually at his desk 
with his legs fully extended.  She looked around the room and 
recognized Josh's roommates and several of his friends who, of 
course, were no longer welcome at her mansion. 

She clutched her robe tighter, as her smiling stepson slowly ran 
his eyes up her bare legs. 

Suddenly it all made sense.  Josh had mentioned that a roommate's 
mother worked for the county.  And the smiling young man sitting 
next to Josh looked like an 18-year-old male version of the woman 
bureaucrat who had trapped her in this nightmare. 

Josh savored the moment before speaking. 

"I've decided that we should do a modern interpretation of a 
classic 'Mayfair' comic, popularly known as 'Carrie.'"  He paused 
and smiled at his stepmother.  "A photographic interpretation." 

His friend reached into his camera case and pulled out several 
digital cameras.  "Of course, in order to protect the delicate 
feelings of our model, I'll keep all the pictures myself." 

The professor furrowed his brow.  "Well, of course...ahem...as the 
instructor, it would be proper for me to retain a digital record of 
the event, not only for practical academic reasons, but also, as an 
artistic director, I require images I can study at my leisure...for 
inspiration." 

"Of course, Professor," Josh said.  "You will have a set as well.  
But I'll keep the only other ones." 

Josh looked at his horrified stepmother and smiled.  "It's 
important that, from now on, I am the one in control." 

From his backpack he extracted some colorful photocopies and passed 
them out.  "These images depict a young woman at a slave market.  
As you can see, she is positioned in such a way as to ensure that 
her physical anatomy is fully revealed.  Perfect for an art class." 

"I quite agree," the professor said, his eyes and pants bulging.  
"But 'time and tide,' you know....  I think we should get started." 

The 19-year-old walked up to his 23-year-old stepmother and smiled. 

"Please, Josh," she whispered.  "I've been thinking.  I think you 
should move back home.  I'll get your father to change his will 
back." 

"Take off your robe," he ordered. 

"Please, Josh, you don't have to do this," she whispered.  "You'll 
be in control again.  It will be just like it was before." 

"Yes, I know -- AFTER I get the pictures," he murmured.  "Don't 
worry, it will be our little secret.  Dad need never know.  He 
loves you, heaven knows why, and I want him to be happy.  But, 
from now on, you're going to be a good wife and a good stepmother 
-- and put your family first." 

"Yes, I will, Josh," she said.  "I promise." 

"My friends and I aren't even going to fuck you," he said.  "But 
I think it's only right that we get to see the pussy my father 
betrayed me for." 

He looked at her coolly.  "So stop the chatter.  It's time to put 
that sweet ass of yours on the block."  He paused for effect.  
"Take off the robe.  Now." 

Defeated, she took off her robe and gently laid it onto the chair 
behind her.  She stared at her pretty bare feet and tried to ignore 
the tittering and gleeful whispers of the "artists" who now 
examined her naked form. 

The teacher's desk served as the auction block.  At Josh's 
direction, Brittany placed her hands on her head, spread her 
legs, and squatted. 

The humiliating position brought EVERYTHING fully into view. 

She clenched her teeth as Josh positioned himself in front of her 
and slowly adjusted the zoom on his camera. 

There was no doubt about it.  He was once again in control. 


END



Edited by C. Lakewood