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Butterscotch -36- Princess
🕑 Added 2020-12-11 00:32:42 +0000 UTCMom let me sleep until eight a.m., and I woke up certain that I’d had significant dreams but unable to remember them.
At the door, Mom called to me again. “Are you awake?”
“Sure, why not?” I called back.
Mom laughed. “Egg on toast in ten minutes—bacon or sausage?”
“Bluh,” I said. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” she said and moved away.
I’d slept very well, and only as I started to turn over to get out of bed did I remember that I still had my corset on—also, my flowered nightgown with the bits of lace at neck and sleeves and hem. I stretched and wiggled as much as I could, marveling that the corset didn’t restrict my movement more than it did and that I still felt comfortable wearing it.
I had a bit of a sour taste in my mouth, and in the bathroom, I felt the urge to spit up something. Not really sick at my stomach, but not pleasant either. Afterward, I brushed my teeth and rinsed with mouthwash, which I’d already done the night before, but the taste in my mouth was awful.
I found Mom pouring juice into a glass in the dining corner. “None of that for me,” I said, feeling like if I drank anything as sour as orange juice, I’d end up spewing it out.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” that sounded worse. I’d never gotten used to the stuff myself. “Just—water, I guess.”
She poured me a glass from the decanter in the refrigerator door, then we traded hugs, and she poured coffee for herself.
“Do you want to tighten your laces before you eat? I always did,” she suggested.
I smiled. “An encouragement to dieting, huh?” She handed me the measuring tape, and I checked first with the corset just snug the way it had been while I slept. “Twenty-seven, barely,” I said. “Already smaller than I started with yesterday.”
Mom nodded. “You’re likely to lose some real inches there with the hormones, but that probably hasn’t happened yet.”
I turned around to let her pull them tight. While she pulled and tugged the laces tighter than they had ever been, I took as deep a breath as I could and let it all out. “Let’s see how tight we can go. That denim dress Marjorie bought me is a size 2.”
I felt my stomach being compressed and looked at the tape. I got short of breath before I told her to stop, and she backed off a bit. I read the tape. “Twenty-four and three-quarters. Will that be enough?”
“It should be,” Mom said, tying a knot and tucking the laces into the top of the corset. “The denim is a bit stretchy. Can you breathe okay?”
“Sure,” I said, demonstrating. “It feels quite comfortable, really.” I sat down, though. It was kind of strenuous, getting squeezed like that.
“I left you enough room for some breakfast,” Mom joked.
“Uh, no,” I said. Just thinking of eating brought back the memory of the sour taste I’d woken up with. “Maybe just—half a banana?” I didn’t really want more.
She had a slice of buttered toast, topped with soft-scrambled egg, a rasher of bacon and the other half of my banana. I couldn’t watch her eat it.
She noticed me turning my head away. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I’d say you were having a bit of morning sickness. But I do know you’re still a virgin.”
I made a noise.
“You are still a virgin, aren’t you?”
“Mom!”
She laughed. “Tell me you are.”
“I am! Jeez!” We both laughed.
Then we sat for a bit, just enjoying the morning while Mom sipped her coffee. She took my hand to look at my torn nail. “How did you do this, princess?”
I know I blushed for her to call me that, but I kind of liked it. “Uh—the seatbelt doohickey bit me.”
She grinned. “Well, we’ll get it fixed this morning. Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
“I wondered, could I wear the white cover-up over the denim dress? Then, if we go out somewhere after the game, I can just take the cover-up off and—why are you laughing?”
Mom suppressed her chuckles enough to tell me about a similar situation she had contrived for herself in high school. “But then I had to explain to my mother how it happened that I had left my blue dress in my boyfriend’s car. At least, you’re telling me about it beforehand.”
I giggled. “Well, I’m not going to be changing clothes in the back of a Mercury, whatever that is. I’m just going to remove an outer layer, and I’ll probably do it in a bathroom or somewhere.”
“Mm-hm,” Mom agreed. “But you’ve got no more sense than I did at your age. Knowing that I was going to be changing clothes in his car, Joel could think of nothing else the whole evening.”
“Joel?” I asked giggling.
Mom shrugged. “This was high school before I met your father. But Joel was a lot like Rory, a big jock-type.”
We both laughed. “I’ll just not tell Rory until the appropriate time,” I said.
“Yeah, right.” Mom shook her head. “Tell me you don’t want him speculating about what you have on under that cover-up?”
Well, when she put it that way….
“Tell you what, princess,” Mom said. “Go get dressed with your layers, and you can see how it works this morning before trying it out later, hmm?”
“Okay,” I agreed.
In my room, the first order of business was to find the right bra to wear with a dress that did not cover the arms or shoulders. And sure enough, Marjorie had included just such an item—a bra that could be worn in several different configurations, according to the illustration on the package. And one way was strapless.
I had not only worn my corset to bed, I’d worn my bra, too, because I didn’t want to remove my breast forms. I carefully took off the standard-type bra, and the forms stayed in place, held by their adhesive. In a few months, perhaps longer, I would have my own breasts and not have to deal with such artificial aids. My nipples were very sensitive already. I put the new bra on in the strapless configuration, and after adjustments, it even showed cleavage, squeezed together from the loose flesh on my chest.
I slipped into another pair of my padded panties, something else I hoped to be able to do without soon. Then the denim dress which fit me like a glove, clinging to every curve, natural or otherwise. A stay-up rib at the top kept it from pulling down easily but let my tiny amount of cleavage show. And the faded color even had a pattern to it that emphasized my shape. A size 2, and with the corset, it fit perfectly.
I posed in front of the trifold mirror. “Wow.” Did I want to go out in public looking like that? I turned to get several different views. Um, yeah, I did. I grinned at my reflection. Rory would love it.
One thing though, did I need hose with this outfit? I reasoned that if I did, Marjorie would have included something perfect for the purpose. Instead of pantyhose, I found a pair of thigh-high sheer white stockings with lacy stay-up tops and tiny black bows. I put those on, too. Maybe no one would ever see those bows, but they made me feel very sexy.
Shoes. I tried on the platform sandals. They looked perfect, and the solidity of the heel made them easy to walk in. The hose were open-toed, and my painted nails showed below them—I’d still have to be careful not to get runs in them. I decided to go show Mom.
Mom called me into her bedroom where she was getting dressed, too. At first, I was startled to see her in her underwear, then startled again for another reason. “Mom, you’re wearing a corset, too?”
She shrugged. “I do now and then. And I’m not going to be your fat old mother, princess.” I noticed that hers laced up in front, unlike mine that had only back laces. Mom had an independent streak as wide as Wilshire, while I kind of liked the idea of my laces being hard for me to reach.
She went on, “You look nice. It’s not going to be super hot today, so you should be able to get away with wearing the cover-up over all that.” She pulled a shimmering green dress over her head and shimmied it down around her hips. “Just be sure to have the water bottle handy to spray that tomcat of yours with when he sees you in that.”
I giggled. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I tried to get serious. “Uh—Mom?”
She sat down at her vanity and brushed out her hair, quirking an eyebrow at me.
“If—if—he—I,” I stammered.
“If something happens with you and Rory, will I be mad?” She asked.
“Um—yeah?”
Brush, brush—her hair reached only a little past her shoulders, but it would be more than a year before mine would be that long, I knew. I felt a pang of jealousy. Abruptly quashed by her answer. “Of course not, princess. Doesn’t mean you won’t face the consequences of not showing good sense.”
“Uh—?”
“You’re not going to come home knocked up, of course,” she said. “But as long as you’re living in my house, you’ll follow my rules. No sex while you’re on restriction. After you turn eighteen, we’ll discuss changes in those rules.”
I blinked.
“Clear on that?” she demanded.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said quickly. “And that’s fair, I think.” I discovered that I did think it was fair and probably wise, too. I was brand new at even having a serious opportunity to have sex. Best take that step cautiously.
“Now, go get that cover-up on, princess, so we can get out of here. We’ll go to my salon, and you can get that nail fixed and maybe do something with your hair.”
“My hair?” I put a hand to my head. It was short and shaggy, and I didn’t know what could be done with it. But I had another question. “Why do you keep calling me ‘princess,’ Mom?”
“Four reasons,” she said, beginning to apply her makeup. “That would be your father’s job, but he isn’t here, so I have to do it.” I giggled at that. “Two, your girlfriend and I have agreed to conspire to spoil you terribly, and I want to be sure you know it.” Another giggle and a bit of a startled one. “And three, it’s not something I could have called you before now, is it?”
“Uh—no,” I admitted. Though back in middle school, some bullies did call me Princess Deedee, but they had insulting nicknames for everyone.
She quirked an eyebrow at me again. “I notice you’re not objecting to any of my reasons. Are you?”
I shook my head, clamping my lips on another giggle.
“Go, then,” she said. “Finish getting ready. I’ll come in and help with your makeup, your highness.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I grinned at her before dashing off. “I’m looking forward to being totally spoiled!” I called back.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Soon :)
Glenda Ericsson
I will die of a broken heart if I don’t get more Butterscotch soon, (sob, sob)
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
I do intend to do so. I've been non-productively staring at the screen lately trying to do just that. It's not for lack of plot, I've got enough plot for four or five years of weekly episodes. It seems to be an energy crisis. I usually work through these. So there's hope.
Sammy C
Love this serial. Just wondering if you intend to continue Special FX. For me, that was really gaining momentum.
