Date: Tue, 18 Sep 2018 11:04:07 -0400
From: Nils Huim
Subject: "Mrs. Getties"

Disclaimer: The actors in this comic melodrama are all 18 years or older.

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September, 1962

Fishing
	After we got in from fishing dad told me to go take a shower and
that he'd get a change of clothes for me. By this I thought he meant he'd
get the gear we'd mysteriously left in the back of his Jeep. It wasn't like
dad to procrastinate and when he said, upon our arrival at the upstate
cabin, "Leave the stuff, we'll get it later," I was a little shocked. I
figured he was just anxious to get out on the boat and go fishing. He did
have me lug his beer in and stick it in the old-fashioned fridge, however.
	After drying off I entered the cabin's lone bedroom (the livingroom
couch was a pull-out) and found that the pile of sweaty clothes I'd left on
the wood floor was missing. Distantly I heard a washing machine rumbling.
On the four-post bed's quilt lay, to my amazement, numerous articles of
women's underwear: ivory-colored lace panties and matching bra; black
stockings; a lacy black garter. Dad entered the room pointing at the things
and said, "Thank god for Mrs. Getties. She always leaves some clothes
behind."
	The Getties were the family we shared the cabin with. The Getties
were a lot wealthier than us and I'd heard dad tell mom the arrangement was
70/30. Meaning the Getties got dibs on the place 70% of the time. Dad was
still pointing, though limply now.
	"I want you dress in Mrs. Getties' stuff, son. We're gonna be here
for three whole days and we need a woman in the house."
	I thought this was one of dad's bad jokes at first, but he wasn't
smiling. Open-mouthed (I would assume), I watched as he walked over to the
small, mirrored dresser with its neat arrangement of little antique boxes
and makeup items. Dad said, "There's lipstick here you can put on too. Go
for it, son. I know you like dressing up in women's thingsÉWell? Now's
your chance."
	When I first got in the shower I'd turned the knob too far and the
water came out scalding. Now I experienced that same burning
sensationÑon my forehead. I did not have to ask dad if he was kidding to
know he was not. As he spoke those last words the retired Army major's dark
eyes had bored into me. They said a lot. Scalded me all the more. Even so,
pointing at the bed myself now, I asked in halting disbelief:
	"YouÉyou want me toÉ?"
	"Get dressed," dad ordered, before abruptly leaving the room. He
stopped just outside the doorway, turning back partially. "And don't forget
your lips."
	I swallowed. I was both mortified andÉa little thrilled. The
items arrayed on the bed looked silky and beautiful. Creamy and
alluring. It was as if I'd just experienced an atavism. A blissful moment
from a previous life. DŽjˆ vu. SomethingÉ
	About a year before, shortly after I belatedly reached puberty, I'd
gotten the inexplicable urge to dress up in my mother's underwear. I didn't
understand it. The book my parents had given me about male sexuality hadn't
included a mention of, let alone a chapter on, "Dressing Up Like a Girl."
And it wasn't like I could ask anyone, least of all my parents.
	Fortunately for my urges, my parents frequently attended church on
school nights. Sundays and Wednesdays. So, when I should have been sitting
at my desk working on my algebra, I instead sneaked into my mother's
walk-in closetÉ
	Emerging, moments later, wearing mom's stockings, panties and
tight-fitting bra. After applying lipstick with one of her gold tubes I
would stand in front of the dresser mirror admiring my girly self, pull the
front vee of the panty down and, naturally, masturbate furiously, and
quickly, into a wad of pink tissues. After which I would feel more confused
than ever. As well as guilty andÉpanicky! Now I had to do everything in
quick reverseÑputting all of mom's sensual finery back in place as if it
had never been touched, let alone worn. Careful to look for any stray pubic
hairs in panties' crotch (I had dad's dark hair not mom's honey-blonde)
before folding them in two and placing them neatlyÑthough admittedly
somewhat stretched outÑback in closet's top drawer.
	One Sunday night, however, dad returned home unexpectedly, shortly
after departing. He'd left mom at the church, thank god. He'd also left his
zipper-enclosed King James Bible behindÑon the nearby bedtable. By the
time he reached the master bedroom I'd managed to strip off most of mom's
underwear (one stocking on, one off) butÉmy lips were still a blazing
shade of red.
	"Christ, son," he said that night. "This is what you do while your
mom and me are away? Look at you! I should put you over my knee butÉI
have to get back. I'm leading the Bible-study group tonight. What would
your mother say if she saw you like this?"
	(At this point my mortification gave way to tears. A flood of
them.)
	"You're not queer are you, son? I don't need to take you to see
Dr. Costain do I?"
	Dr. Costain wasn't a shrink or anything; he was merely our
ever-jolly, third-rate family physician. When you had a cold he used this
long tube nozzle thing to suck the snot out of you. It was worse than
drowning.
	"No!" I replied. To both questions.
	"Good." Dad had lowered himself to bed's edge, Bible on his left
thigh. He sighed. Patted the bed. "Come over here. Sit down next to me."
	One sheer nude stocking still on, I limped over. Sat. Dad patted my
bare thigh. "Now look. I'm sure this is just an age thing. A stage you're
going through. I'm certain it will passÑsooner than later. I want you to
do this for me. Are you listening?"
	I nodded.
	"I want you to put all your mother's things back just like you
found them."
	I nodded.
	"But first I want you to promise me something. I want you to
promise me you'll never dress up in your mom's stuff again, ever. Promise?"
	"I promise," I said, after a snuffle.
	"Good." My dad squeezed my skinny thigh. As if he were trying to
confirm there was a femur somewhere inside. "Or in any other woman's
clothing. Hear?"
	I nodded.
	"Understand?"
	"Yessir."
	"Good. In that case this'll remain our little secret. I won't tell
your mom about it. Now," he said, rising, relief exiting my body like air
from a stationary balloon, "put all this stuff back where it came from,
wipe off your mouth andÉbe my son again and put your normal clothes back
on. Be my sweet boy, OK?"
	I, too, had risen off bed's edge. "Yessir."
	It was only when dad stopped in the pink-framed doorway, and turned
back, that I saw the sideways tent in his pantsÑhis erection. He said in
parting, curiously: "Maybe if your mom would dress for me like this from
time to time she'dÉ"
	He never finished the thought. The speaking of it, anyway.

Mrs. Getties
	I recalled all this as, more confused than ever, I pulled on
Mrs. Getties' underwear and applied her cherry-red lipstick. Just the act
of doing it, the sensuality of it all against my skin, was enough to
reignite my desire, give me a hard-on.
	I couldn't very well face dad like that! Are you kidding? Give
myself away? Wasn't it bad enough that I'd be exiting the bedroom dressed
like a girlÑa woman? A rich probably middle-aged one?
	So I went back in the bathroom, let the cold mountain water run in
the sink, wet a washcloth and held it against my cock till it (mostly)
calmed down. Then I pulled Mrs. Getties' ivory panties up by the lace
waistband andÉslowly, tentatively, entered the livingroom. I felt like I
was wading through knee-high lake water that had invaded the cabin. It
certainly must have looked that way, so labored was my stockinged gait.
      Dad was busy cleaning store-bought trout on the kitchen counter. He
was naked now, his fishing clothes also churning in the nearby
washer. Seeing me, my slow-motion approach, he rinsed off his hands, dried
`em on a towel, turned, smiled, came straight over and groped me in the
Gettie panties. No preliminaries. He frowned.
      "Why're you so damp?"
      "OhÉ." My mind was elsewhere. I was looking down at dad's Code 10
erection. "IÉI didn't dry off enough I guess," I alibied.
      "Well, whatever. It'll evaporate soon enough." Dad pointed with the
hand that wasn't fondling me in silk. "What do you think of the fire?"
      Not the one of embarrassment burning my cheeks at the moment but the
one he'd started in the stone fireplace, to my right, his left.
      "It's a little warm in here right now butÉjust you wait till the
sun goes down, sweetieÉ"
      (Dad had never called me "sweetie" before.)
      "It's like dropping off a cliff, the temperature up here."
      I nodded. Dad's straight-up penis bobbing as he pulled back a little,
hand still on my groin, as if studying a painting from relative afar.
      "We need to get you a wig," he declared.
      I thought of the general store. Where we'd bought the beer and the
trout we'd failed to catch out on the lake.
      "Not this trip, this weekend," dad continued, "but for next
time. Then you'd be cuter than hell!" Quick to add, "Not that you don't
look cute today, honÉ"
      (Dad had never called me "hon" before.)
      He finally let go of my poor balls. Turned. "I'm cleaning fish. You
can help. Get me a beer, will you? You're the woman of the house for the
weekend, so..." Dad was walking away; I was standing stock still. Up to my
metaphorical knees in lake water. "Not when we go out, of course" he said
in an overly loud voice. "Not when we're out fishing in the boatÉ"

Woman of the House
	My contribution to that night's dinner, in addition to setting the
table and supplying my dad with frequent cans of beer, was to stand behind
him, on his instruction, pressed against him in fact, in Mrs. Getties'
prickly bra, and stroke his cock while he showed me how to cook.
	"You're the woman this weekend so I want you to learn how to
prepare a fish dinner as well as cleaning up afterwards, doing the laundry,
making the bedÉwe'll be sleeping together and I want you in bed with me,
darling, justÉlikeÉthis. The way you are now. Understand?"
	I noddedÑagainst dad's back. I was hard as well and wondered if
dad could feel it against the bottom curve of his bare ass. And through
Mrs. Getties' layer of lacy silk. He was breading the fish, not that I
really had a good view of it. And not that he'd ever called me "darling"
before.
	"Dad, can I ask you a question?"
	"Sure, son. Shoot."
	"How old is this Getties lady?"
	"I don't know," he shrugged. "About your mom's age? Pushing 40?
Getties himself is a lot older. She's hisÉ," dad chuckling as another
filet hit the crumbs, "trophy wife."
	"What's a trophy wife? Is she sexy?"
	"Don't stop," dad said, of my stroking hand. It was amazing to be
masturbating like thisÑanother guy's cock. One longer and thicker than
yours, more manly. I switched hands. I'd discovered at an early age I was
somewhatÉambidextrous. "A trophy wife," dad explained, as I stroked him
with renewed vigor, "and yes she is sexy, is a girlÑa gal who is a lot
younger than her rich old asshole of a husband. Excuse my language," my
naked dad said to his crossdressed son, who snickered at the fatherly
slip-up. "Anyway she's young and good-looking compared to him, and in it
just for the moneyÉand what he gets in return is someone he can show off
to his rich buddies, and the rest of the world, and sayÉ `Look at
me. Look what I got and you don't.' It's a status thing. She's his
trophy. Hence theÉterm. Get it? Oh god. Fuck!"
	I snickered again. Another faux pax. Had he dropped a battered fish
filet?
	"I'm gonnaÉcum if you keep that up."
	"Cum?"
	"ShootÉEjaculate. What do youÉ?"
	"Should I stop?"
	"No. Wait. Stop. Yes. Stop. Get down on your knees."
	"Here?" The floor was tile and I was thinking not only of my knees
but of Mrs. Getties' black stockings.
	"Here, yeah," my breathless dad, turning, said. "Open your
mouth. Hold your mouth open. Wider!" as if he were a dentist. "I'llÉThis
is what I can't get your mom to do for me anymore. This andÉ"
	I put my hands on dad's thighs to steady myself but otherwise he
did all the work, the swollen head of his cock a half-inch from my parted
lips, if that, his right hand stroking the meaty shaft behind it. I smelled
fish.
	I thought of the neighbors in nearby lakefront cabins as dad's
shouts crescendoed off wood and stones and glass. And through it. "That's
strange," I imagined them saying, then and later. "Isn't that a man and his
son over at the Getties' this weekend?"
	"I saw through the window. I think it's his daughter."
	"No. I saw them together out in the boat. I'm pretty sure it's
aÑ"
	"Either wayÉ"
	Each time dad ejaculated into my mouth I tried, at the end, to suck
the last of his sweet cream from the head of his cock. But he would always
pull back at that stage, in both self-disgust and the other, outer-directed
kind, and it, the last thinning drops, would dribble to the floor and he'd
order meÑimmediately!Ñto clean it up. And to then toss the dish or
bath towel in the wash depending on where we'd had father-son sex that
day. At one point (Sunday afternoon I think) he openly toyed with the idea
of penetrating me, pulling my panties down and doing me, or trying to,
butÉmumbled something about physicalsÉDr. CostainÉand, in
conclusion, "Your mother would kill me if she..." So our sex that long,
very long weekend was restricted to handjobs, blowjobs and, as dad liked to
term them, "creamsicles." Though dad's cum was far from frigid in the
mouth. And, frankly, in its own unique way, sweeter than a jingling truck's
white-over-orange creamsicle."
	After dad finished cumming, and even as I mopped up afterwards, and
this was most curious of allÉthe former major would gaze down on me
seemingly in disbelief and say words to the effect, "I can't believe you
dressed up in Ms. Whatshername's underwear again while I was out. Can't I
leave you alone for fifteen minutes? Are you queer, son? Didn't I tell you
what would happen if I ever caught you dressing in your mom's underwear
again?"
	"It belongs to Mrs. Getties."
	"Whoever!" the response.
	"Want me to take it all off?"
	"No, noÉ," dad would reply, turning and entering by now a third
world of his own. "But I do want you to repaint your lips. Your mouth's a
mess! IÉ"
	And his voice would trail off, into nothingness.

Mom
	Our pastor had left. So too the two men who took dad away in a
separate Impala station wagon. I heard footsteps and raced from my bedroom
window to the bed, wanting to appear innocent. Or normal. Or something.
	Mom wore shorts and a button-down blouse. She looked cute. Her eyes
were rimmed red.
	She came over and sat next to me. She took my hand and held it on
her bare thigh. "SoÉdad's going away for a little while."
	"Going away where?"
	"A few weeksÉ," mom said, ignoring the question. "A month. Six
weeks at most. Last timeÉthis was right after you were bornÉit was
for about six weeks. ButÉ," another parental voice trailing off. I
wondered if mom had any sense the warmth of her thigh was making me
hard. She looked over at meÑas opposed to just staring off into space.
	"Dad told me what happened in the cabinÉ"
	I stiffened. My entire body, this time.
	"I don't blame you for what happened. I blame HIM. As you've
probably noticed he hasn't been quite himself lately. I think it may be the
effects of the war, these things that come over him every so often. I have
to ask you thoughÉ"
	I waited. My heart thudding audibly against my ribs. Ask me what?
Was this about fatherly creamsicles orÑ
	"Those things you wore. Mrs. Getties'. Did you put them all back
like you found them?"