[ENF] Will’s Mom Comes Undone

[smjimmie1348]

Wow this was my first time reading this story so I had to start from the beginning but I'm glad I did but I think would be more embarassing if carano and Danielle matched underwear lol but anyways awesome story and I hope there is more like this in the future

[Chasmo]

Thanks very much. Really glad you liked the story about Danielle and Jerry. Hopefully you enjoyed the other installments as well. It's always great to get feedback from someone who is as prolific as you so thanks again. And I'll see what I can do about the matching underwear . . .

[smjimmie1348]

Hey you are very welcome and thank you for looking into that for me

[hocman]

Another awesome story. Your attention to detail especially in her clothing just makes the payoff stripping that much better. I love what you've done with the spanking also, the exchange between Mrs. Parnell and her spanker is awesome. Can't wait to see what you do with Beginners Luck story angle. Our heroine I assume is in for another surprise. As for the male stripping, I could take it or leave it, whatever works for you.

[Frisk]

Thanks for awesome story. I still hope, if you in the next story add details how Mrs. Parnell totally strip included her expensive jewellery and it will be great if her expressly strip and humiliate a person much younger her. Maybe in next story you added details that Mrs. Parnell walking back home totally naked.

[Chasmo]

Thanks to hocman and Frisk for your kind words. Hocman -- completely hear you on the male stripping front. It will likely be more of an occasional than regular occurrence. Hoping to get the BL installment done before Monday. Frisk -- will definitely see I can't work the jewelry into the next piece as well.

[Frisk]

Originally Posted by Chasmo

Frisk -- will definitely see I can't work the jewelry into the next piece as well.

Ok, but what with other half? Maybe with jewelry you can work in the next, next story?

[Chasmo]

I'll see what I can do -- always open to suggestions -- thanks again.

[Chasmo]

With no small debt to Hal Roach Studios, Stan Laurel and obo, I present below Danielle Parnell take on the Beginner's Luck Story. I hope you enjoy.


Early one Friday morning the attention of every man standing along the main concourse of Washington, D.C.’s Ronald Reagan National Airport was drawn to only one sight. Walking purposefully before them, in 4.5” calfskin, leopard-print d'Orsay heels, that supported a spectacular set of lithe and athletic legs wrapped in a pair of high fashion distressed Capri length jeans, that in turn encased the most fabulous ass most of them had ever seen -- was Mrs. Danielle Parnell.

The 43 year old brunette had finished off her ensemble that morning with a tight fitting white tank top that permitted the slightest bit of her tone tanned midriff to show when she walked and that also revealed her perfectly fit arms to their full effect. A thin gold-buckled leopard print belt encircled her waist and, around her shoulders, to ensure that the look was “appropriate,” she wore a white large-mesh wrap that was tied loosely beneath her ample 34Cs which were profiled magnificently by her top. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail by a small leopard print scarf and aviator shades sat atop the forehead of her perfectly made up face – her emerald eyes were radiant in the morning sun.

The fetching Mrs. Parnell could sense the men eyeing her and she loved every second of it; for the vision that had entranced each of them that morning was also her favorite – more than anything else she loved herself. But what she loved almost as much is how her beauty, sophistication and confidence rendered other women around her almost invisible. How when she walked into any room, whatever gathered assemblage of “pathetic” men might be there immediately turned away from their wives, girlfriends and daughters, and how the women’s loss of attention humiliated both them and their wayward-eyed husbands, boyfriends and fathers. They’re all such “losers” she would think to herself smiling.

Today was no different, for as the haughty Mrs. Parnell strutted down the concourse, essentially shouting “you can look but don’t even dream of touching” to the men, the women along the route could be seen unsuccessfully reprimanding their husbands and boyfriends for ogling the little show-off while staring daggers at the tease who had stolen all attention from them.

Danielle had come to the airport to pick up her nephew – Owen Parnell, or “Slow’en” as his aunt privately referred to him – the 18 year old son of her husband’s brother and his wife Andrea. To his entire family’s surprise, Owen had won the Midwest Regional Model U.N. debate tournament and was arriving in the nation’s capital to compete in the international championship. Although Mrs. Parnell looked down upon her husband Rob’s extended family as a gaggle of “flyover country hillbillies” – particularly that dumpy, stay-at-home mom Andrea -- Rob had played to his wife’s own vanity by suggesting that Owen could greatly benefit as a debater from Mrs. Parnell’s expertise as one of Washington’s most accomplished trial attorneys.

Flattered by her husband’s assessment, with which of course she completely agreed, Danielle reluctantly consented to help prepare Owen for the next night’s big debate. The quid pro quo demanded by the always imperious alpha lawyer was that she would suffer neither any resistance from her nephew to what she thought was best nor permit his parents to make an appearance until the evening of the debate itself.

When these “terms” were conveyed by Danielle’s husband to his brother and sister-in-law, Andrea Parnell was furious.

“Who does that little east coast prima donna think she is,” the angry mom ranted.

“Poor Owen is intimidated enough by that woman. And telling us we need to stay away from our own son until she deems it acceptable . . . I’ve never liked her and I don’t like this one bit.”

That said, with money tight – the east coast Parnell’s had agree to pay the cost of Owen’s flight – and the credentials of Danielle as a fantastic public speaker beyond dispute, Andrea and her husband had agreed to Mrs. Parnell’s terms.

Standing confidently outside her nephew’s arrival gate, Danielle at last spotted Owen leaving the plane. The wan, undersized boy looked every bit the nerd that he was, thought his fashionable aunt. Standing only 5’ 4” tall, young Owen emerged from the jet-way wearing “high water” khaki pants, white athletic socks, running shoes and a faded World of Warcraft t-shirt better suited to a ten year old than a high school senior.

“What a dork,” Danielle thought to herself, “how did I ever agree to this nonsense?”

“Auntie D, auntie D,” Owen shouted as he spotted Mrs. Parnell.

“Owen,” waived Danielle, “I’m over here -- and it’s Aunt Danielle if you don’t mind – you’re not a little boy anymore.”

Owen cringed, knowing this would be only the first of many corrections and reprimands to come over the next two days. He couldn’t believe his parents were forcing him to spend the weekend of the national debate championships “training” with his stuck-up aunt. Her withering glances and constant criticisms always made him nervous and he feared with her lording over him all weekend that the good work he’d done to get here would be undermined.

“What’s more,” the intimidated teen thought to himself, “she always manages to make my mom feel bad whether it’s about her clothes, her weight, her exercise habits . . . and I know she calls me Slow’en. She’s an arrogant snob who is just not very nice.”

“Stand up straight young man,” his aunt chided him, stirring him from his musings about how miserable the trip would be, “and put some spring in that step. We need to go shopping to buy you a new suit and for me to pick up something as well. Lesson number one, part of being a winner is looking the part.”

“Yes ma'am,” Owen cringed, infuriated by his aunt's rebuke but too frightened to do anything about it.

As Mrs. Parnell led her nephew back toward the airport's parking lot, to the lustful gaze of any man that spotted the sexy sway of her jean encased hips and bottom, she spied an unfamiliar face waiving them down. A rather rotund middle-aged Asian woman and what appeared to be her junior high school son or grandson seemed to recognize Owen. The little boy, who couldn’t have been more than 5’ tall, was wearing a pair of ratty brown loafers, what appeared to be pleated khaki pants and an over-sized shapeless black sweater that in turn covered up white turtle neck shirt. He was also wearing a baseball cap on top of his bespectacled head.

“Hi Owen,” said the younger of the two.

“Oh -- hi Erica,” said Owen to his aunt's surprise. ”This is my aunt Danielle. Aunt Danielle, this is Erica Lee from Shanghai. She's the Chinese national champion; we'll be facing one another for the international championship.”

“Hello Mrs. Parnell,” said Erica in flawless English, bowing deeply, rather than merely from the shoulder, as a sign of deep respect to Danielle. “It is a great honor to meet you.”

Eyeing the eighteen year old girl curiously, in large part because she had mistaken her for a boy, the imperious Mrs. Danielle Parnell, without a hint of warmth and bowing not one iota, held out her bejeweled hand and offered a “charmed, I'm sure.”

And then, with a devilish glint in her emerald eyes and while, thanks to the benefit of her sky high heels, towering over the tiny Erica, Danielle casually remarked, “it's unfortunate that you've traveled so far only to lose dear. Under my tutelage, you can count on Owen being more than a match for you tomorrow. Look at the bright side though, being in the U.S. for a spell will give you and . . . your grandmother . . . an opportunity to find some more stylish clothes and maybe even get a nice haircut. Good day now.”

With that, the self-satisfied, preening diva turned on her 4” heels and led the now humiliated Owen to her car.

“Your grandmother,” huffed Erica's still stunned mom, “why that obnoxious little American hussy . . . I'm no grandmother . . . someone needs to be put her in her place.”

“Calm down mom,” said Erica calmly, although still somewhat shaken by the sight of the arrogant lawyer staring down at her dismissively, “it's going to be fine. I still feel pretty good about my chances on Sunday and the world has a way of dealing with women like that in the end.”

“I certainly know what I'd like to do to her end,” her mom responded, and mother and daughter shared a good laugh while at the same time spotting in the distance the woman they recognized as the mom from Erica's sponsor family.

Approaching them with a warm smile and an outstretched hand, that woman politely introduced herself, “you must be Erica, and you must be Mrs. Lee. I'm Rachel Miras -- and it's so very nice to meet you in person.”

* * *

As Danielle eased her Mercedes into a parking spot in Washington's most fashionable mall, Owen finally found the courage to speak up.

“I don't think you needed to be so hard on Erica back there,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me young man,” chided his aunt. ”Are you trying to tell me what sort of behavior is appropriate? That girl is the competition -- she's not your pal. Lesson number two -- intimidate your adversary -- remember that. Now let's get you a suit so we can get to work preparing.”

With that, Owen's overbearing aunt led him into a very fancy men's boutique where, after air-kissing the pompous manager, Mrs. Parnell directed him to find Owen a suit appropriate for the debate. As the fastidious shop-keep headed off to the suit racks, Danielle walked Owen back to the dressing area and took a seat in front of the tailor's station as her nephew went into a curtained room to change. Almost immediately, two female sales associates appeared with the suits the manager had selected.

“We'll just hand these over to him so he can try them on,” said one of the young women to Danielle with a smile.

“We don't have time for that,” snipped the impatient Mrs. Parnell. ”Owen,” she demanded, “get out here now so that you can try on these suits and have one of them tailored in time for the debate.”

“But Aunt Danielle,” came the sheepish boy’s reply, “I'm in my underwear.”

“I said now Owen. It's nothing these people haven't seen before,” his aunt chided, not caring a wit about the embarrassment it would bring to her colossally shy nephew. It's a wonder the boy is such a successful public speaker she thought.

Knowing he had no choice, Owen Parnell slinked from behind the curtain of the dressing room, wearing nothing but his white cotton briefs, to be fitted for his new suit. As the two young women attempted to suppress their laughter, the now clearly annoyed Mrs. Parnell, who saw the skinny, pale boy in front of her as no less than a personal embarrassment, loudly called out to the absent manager, “can you also try to find him a pair or two of boxer shorts.”

Looking back at Owen, and in front of the now giggling sales girls, she added, “it's time for you to stop wearing little boy's underwear dear.”

Owen turned three shades of red, his humiliation now matched only by the anger he felt for his beautiful yet mean-spirited relative.

“I wonder how she'd like it if everyone saw her in her underwear,” thought the embarrassed teen, for the first time thinking lustfully of the diva who was his uncle’s wife. “I bet she wouldn't be so high-and-mighty then.”

Once Owen had been fitted for his new suit, Mrs. Parnell dragged him into a nearby women’s boutique to wait while she quickly tried on some new outfits herself. After air-kissing yet another obsequious fashion store manager, this time a towering blonde who looked every bit Heidi Klum's doppelganger, Danielle selected a few summer dresses and other outfits that the staff obediently brought back to the changing rooms. Not unlike the prior shop, the dressing rooms in this boutique had curtains to separate them from the store at large and, as the final dress was handed to his aunt through one such curtain the attendant failed to pull it completely closed. Realizing that the resulting gap permitted him to see his obnoxious yet stunning aunt through the mirror, and then spotting her reaching down to grab the bottom of her tight white tank top, Owen stumbled to get his iPhone in hand. But when he raised the phone to his eye to snap what he was sure to be a picture suitable to fuel his night time fantasies and get some revenge on his arrogant aunt, he found himself face-to-face with a scowling Mrs. Danielle Parnell.

“You little pervert,” she scolded him loudly enough to attract the attention of everyone in the shop. “How dare you invade my privacy? You're an inappropriate, shameful little boy. Do you think women exist merely to be objectified? Wait until I tell your mother! I should put you over my knee right here.”

With that, the dominating uber mom grabbed her nephew roughly by his narrow shoulders and escorted him out of the store to her car. On the one hand, Danielle was genuinely shocked at her nephew's lewd and licentious behavior but, on the other hand, as much as she craved the attention that her spectacular beauty, fashion sense and confidence drew from any man who laid eyes on her, she rejoiced even more in the opportunity to humiliate him if she “caught” him staring. That the “man” in this case was her boyish nephew made no difference. In fact, Mrs. Parnell's threat to tell Owen's mother was not so much intended to further humiliate him -- that ship had sailed -- but to make clear to that dowdy haus frau Andrea that even a mamma's boy like her son forgot about any other women when Danielle was around -- the nerdy little pervert.

Suffice it to say that the time between the incident at the women's boutique and the prelude to the debate passed most uneasily for young Owen. Humiliated to his core by his aunt's public tongue lashing, the young boy steadily lost confidence in his ability to successfully engage what he knew would be a tough contender in Erica Lee. What's more, Danielle's "tutelage" was really nothing more than a recitation of her “lessons” for successful debate.

“Lesson number three, ‘show no mercy’ . . . lesson number four, ‘winning isn't everything, it's the only thing’ . . . lesson number five, ‘never let them see you sweat,’” Owen kept repeating to himself, each time becoming more nervous by remembering his aunt scolding him in the store. The poor boy was a mess.

* * *

Finally, the big day had arrived. With only a few hours left before the debate was set to begin, Danielle dispatched her nephew and her husband off to the evening’s venue -- the cavernous atrium of the Ronald Reagan Center just a few blocks east of the White House. With her own three kids at their grandparents for the weekend, getting Owen and Rob out of the house would allow Danielle the time she needed to luxuriate and prepare for the event in peace.

After soaking in the large claw-footed tub that sat nestled in a marble alcove of her sumptuous master bathroom, Mrs. Parnell slipped into a very short silk robe to begin preparing for the evening’s event. Sitting at her well lit dressing table Danielle expertly applied a tasteful hue of eye shadow that caused her emerald green eyes to pop and a ruby red lipstick aptly named “America’s Finest.” Her face looked stunning. After blowing out her luxurious mane of brown hair, and with a coy smile at her reflection in the mirror, the glamorous attorney softly cooed to herself “perfect – as usual.”

With her hair and make-up complete, the narcissistic Mrs. Parnell slipped on a pair of 5” blue and white spectator platform heels. Opening her short robe just a hint, Danielle took in the glorious view before her – her pert 34Cs looked like the breasts of a twenty year old sitting proudly above her toned abs; the narrow landing strip of perfectly manicured hair above her sex gave way to a pair of athletic legs honed by a singular dedication to fitness and made even more sexy by the height of her shoes. Lifting her robe as she turned in place Mrs. Parnell couldn’t help but groan at the sight of her perfect ass.

“Every man wants you,” she teased her reflection, “and every woman wants to be you.”

Satisfied as usual with her sex appeal, Danielle ambled into her cavernous walk-in closet to get dressed. Thinking about what to wear, Mrs. Parnell grinned devilishly. Tonight was about the U.S versus China and she intended to dress the party – completely. Opening one of the many mahogany and glass drawers on the wall in front of her, Danielle withdrew the tiniest of thongs. After slipping it up her long, tan legs and over her perfectly proportioned hips, and fastening the matching push-up bra at the cavern formed by her ample bosom, Danielle smiled proudly at her reflection. The matching stars-and-stripes lingerie set was perfect. The translucent triangle of fabric in front of the barely-there panties had a blue field covered with white stars, while the white waist band led to much smaller piece of red and white striped fabric in the rear that ultimately bisected her perfect ass. The matching bra, also barely there, had soft cups that matched the front of the panties; it was supported by one red and one strap.

Lost lustily in her own sexy vision, Danielle reflected on her nephew’s futile attempt at spying on her. “Is this what you’d like to see Auntie D wearing little boy . . . well . . . is it . . . . Slow’en,” she whispered mockingly in the empty room.

“Well dream on you slovenly perverted nerd, because it’s never going to happen.”

Laughing heartily to herself about emasculating her awkward nephew, Danielle also thought about that boyish Erica Lee – the Chinese champion.

“It’s a good thing you’re only facing my half-witted nephew little girl,” the fearsome litigator mused “because I’d wipe the floor with you and your fat, frumpy grandma. You’d be lucky to still have those Mao jackets on your backs when I was finished with you.”

With that thought bringing yet another smile to her gorgeous face, Mrs. Parnell finished dressing. After putting on a white, pleated, wrap-around skirt that came down almost to her knees, Danielle slipped into a red-and-white horizontally striped knit tank top that profiled the fine tone of her fabulous arms and plunged at the neckline to, while still “appropriate,” showcase her fabulous breasts to their full effect. Save for her 2 karat, round, flawless diamond earrings, Danielle’s jewelry was entirely costume – a chunky blue necklace around her neck with coordinating red and white bracelets around each wrist. Smiling again at her favorite image as it smiled back from the mirror, the patriotic Mrs. Danielle Parnell donned a navy blue bolero jacket and a straw boater style hat – finished with a red, white and blue silk ribbon above the brim -- to finish off her fashionable all-American look. Confident as usual, Danielle left the house for the debate.

Walking into the atrium of the Ronald Reagan Center, the stunning Mrs. Parnell could sense the effect she had on the men in the assembling crowd and she reveled in it. For their part, the lucky males in attendance that night were mesmerized by the gorgeous woman before them, bedecked in her high fashion Americana. The women in the gathering audience on the other hand were already seething at the little show-off parading before them but were powerless to do a thing about it. Aware of her dominance, and enjoying it thoroughly, the preening diva put a little extra sway in her hips as she headed down the center aisle of what would soon be a packed house of over one thousand people. Her next stop was backstage, from where ultimately she would watch the evening's event, but for now where she would give her nephew some final pointers.

Owen was sweating bullets when he saw his aunt approaching. Thankfully his mother, Andrea, who had arrived directly from the airport per his aunt's instructions, was still with him to provide support.

Determined to break his lack of resolve, Owen's domineering aunt went on the offensive.

“Pull yourself together Owen,” Mrs. Parnell chided as her attempted stage whisper attracted more attention than she or her nephew would have liked. “You’re a grown man for God’s sake. Do you really need your mommy to calm you down?”

“And Andrea,” continued the officious prima donna, “you’re doing him nothing but a disservice by being here. Please just go to your seat.”

“But . . . but . . . he’s my son . . ,” mumbled Owen’s shocked but cowed mother.

“A wonderful statement of the obvious,” scolded Danielle, “now it’s time you got off the stage.”

Completely intimidated by her overbearing sister-in-law, Andrea skulked back to her seat just as the debate moderator could be heard introducing Erica Lee. When the young Chinese woman stepped to the podium, Danielle, who had not set eyes on Owen's competition backstage, was shocked by what she saw. No longer a poster-child for androgyny, the stunning 18 year-old walked confidently across the stage in a pair of 4.5” black Manolo Blahnik heels, a tastefully tight leather pencil skirt and a crisp, white, fitted, three-quarter sleeved, cotton oxford top that, with the top two buttons undone made it clear to all that the otherwise slight but fit girl had a very impressive bust line. With her hair up in a tight bun, black cat-eye glasses sitting on her nose and a wearing a very bright shade of red lipstick, Erica Lee looked every bit the formidable debater.

“The sl*tty little tramp,” Danielle thought, shaken somewhat by the Chinese beauty. “Nothing but a girl in women’s clothing.”

Once Owen had been introduced, the debate began in earnest -- and Owen’s meltdown continued. On topic after topic -- from the Ebola epidemic to the rise of ISIS in the Middle East, from the financial crisis in Europe to the weakening Chinese economy -- he was being bested by Erica whose thorough preparation and unyielding command of the subject matter showed hers to be the superior skill at every turn. Watching from her seat, Andrea’s heart broke for her son who before this weekend had only gained confidence from his experience debating. Her blood was boiling because she knew the cause of the current predicament was his overbearing aunt. I only hope someday that woman gets a taste of her own medicine Andrea seethed. That day was just around the corner.

Standing backstage in her patriotic best, Danielle was nearly apoplectic. She saw Owen’s pathetic performance as an indictment of her country and her methods and she was not about to let the little fool ruin either one's good name. Grabbing a long hook-ended transom poll, the determined lawyer made her way along the back of the stage curtain until that was all that separated her from her flailing nephew -- it was time to pull Slow'en off the stage -- by force if necessary. Tossing her blue bolero jacket to the floor so as not to have to sully her highly moisturized knees, and with her straw boater hat still in place, Mrs. Danielle Parnell lifted the heavy blue curtain behind Owen and began to inch out. Luckily, no one in the audience could see her as she tried to hook her hapless nephew's pant leg.

On stage, the topic had changed to the influence of pop-culture on modern society – in particular the objectification of women. As Erica Lee launched into a withering critique of the issue Owen, in a near catatonic state, began to daydream. Looking lustily at his opponent, he thought, “I’d like to objectify you Ms. Lee – with your leather skirt and cat-eye glasses.” But as Erica continued her diatribe Owen’s thoughts turned to his sexy but unbearably cruel aunt who had emasculated him at every turn this weekend.

“I wonder how she'd like it if everyone saw her in her underwear,” he thought to himself again. In a few moments he would know.

While watching events unfold from the comfort of the auditorium's control room, Rachel Miras, Erica's American sponsor "mom" and one of Mrs. Parnell's neighbors outside D.C., spied on a video monitor the worried visage of the usually hyper-confident Danielle poking out from beneath the curtained backdrop on stage. With a long pole in hand, the arrogant narcissist appeared poised to pull her nephew backwards. The comely counselor also seemed to be mumbling something -- but what thought Rachel. Looking down at the control panel before her -- and outside the notice of the soundboard's technician -- Mrs. Miras flipped a switch labeled "Stage Floor Mic" from off to on.

“You idiot,” a highly amplified but faceless female voice suddenly broke into the debate, to the shock of everyone in attendance.

“Can you do nothing right," it continued, trumpeting from the Reagan Center's loud speakers but as yet without a known point of origin.

"I waste an entire weekend trying to help you but you’re just a pathetic loser . . . and a pervert," the mystery voice continued, as the competitors, audience members and moderators, laughing somewhat uncomfortably, began craning their heads to see who was speaking.

"And what do I get for my efforts anyway . . . NOTHING . . . nothing but a Chinese girl beating your ass. Why didn't you just explain that -- to you -- objectifying a woman means spying on your aunt changing at a clothing store.”

With that, and for the first time, Danielle heard it -- amidst the silence of the shocked auditorium -- the echo of her own voice. Thanks to Rachel Miras, Mrs. Parnell's self-awareness came hand-in-glove with the crowd's, for at that moment a giant screen above the stage flickered to life showing the stunned diva, on her knees, pole in hand, with her straw-boat hatted head poking out from under the curtain. The daffy look on her usually smug face telegraphed the humiliation she felt at having all those present hear the insults she usually targeted only at individually terrified recipients. Still unaware of the floor microphone below her, the mortified mother of three shamefully shouted out, "I'VE NEVER BEEN SO EMBARRASSED IN MY LIFE!"

Noticing that three of the curtain's weighted hooks had brushed over Danielle’s very firm backside and settled under the hem of her skirt, and having been on the receiving end of more than one of the preening prima donna's put downs, Mrs. Miras smiled to herself, "wanna’ bet!”

Frozen in place by the sound of her own terrified voice, Mrs. Parnell failed to notice, until it was too late, that the hooks from the curtain had snagged onto the hem of her all-American dress. As Mrs. Miras, now manning the control panel herself with the encouragement of the male technicians, caused the curtain to climb quickly from the stage floor, Danielle’s once stylish white wrap-around pleated skirt opened wide to the cheers and laughter of the men and women in the crowd.

“Now it’s show time,” said Rachel to her new friends as she accelerated the ascent of the curtain.

On stage, the once supremely confident Mrs. Parnell was coming undone. No sooner had her skirt unclasped and left her body than did the curtain hooks catch on the back of her red and white striped cotton tank-top sweater -- pulling it up over her fit arms and ample bosom before tearing it completely off. In an instant, the bane of Owen's existence had been publicly stripped to her 5" blue and white spectator platform heels, her tiny stars-and-stripes thong and her matching push up bra. While every man watching could feel the blood flowing to his nether regions, the women in the audience, particularly those who had watched the little tease parading into the arena only thirty minutes or so before, went wild.

"Nice panties sweetheart," yelled one.

"You're a great American," teased another.

"That's what you get for messing with my boy," cried a thrilled and howling Andrea Parnell.

Danielle's head was spinning. What had just happened, where were her stylish clothes, her armor? She was the one who was supposed to be in control . . . not these peons. How dare these people laugh at her? And then . . . oh my god, I'm practically naked . . . I have to do something . . . they’re all looking at me . . . even . . . oh no . . . even Slow’en. Without waiting for her mind to catch up, and while her hands alternatively shielded her thong covered bottom and her glorious 34Cs, Danielle's body made a break for it. But as she attempted to run off stage, the now incredibly confident Owen, happier than he'd been in days, picked up the transom rod and lunged after the fleeing sexpot. As the pole's hooked end snagged the back of her red, white and blue bra, the nearly naked Mrs. Parnell came to an abrupt stop before the flimsy garment . . . strained to its breaking point . . . unclipped in front and flew into the audience.

With the laughter and cat calls nearing a crescendo, and with her spectacular tits now on display for all to see, the nearly broken show-off, in an effort to hasten her escape, kicked off her sexy platform heels. Thinking the end was in sight, Danielle was shocked to run squarely into Erica Lee, who in her own 4" heels now towered over her previous day's tormentor. Remembering how rude the arrogant American had been to her, the gorgeous Erica Lee mockingly remarked, “it's unfortunate that you've traveled so far only to lose dear. Look on the bright side though, given your current state of dress it will be nice for you to have an opportunity to find some more stylish clothes and maybe even get a cute haircut. Oh, by the way, consider it a blessing that this Chinese girl doesn’t beat your ass.”

Standing before over one thousand guffawing people, wearing nothing but her tiny thong and her straw boater hat, Mrs. Danielle Parnell had been truly defeated and, with the humiliation welling up insider her, it appeared that the former alpha mom would soon topple from the stage. As she began to pass out, however, she was saved from a hard fall by the arms of her nephew, Owen, who as he gently eased her over his bony knee for a sound public spanking began to loudly repeat what to her was by now a familiar refrain, "lesson number one, 'part of being a winner is looking the part.'"

Whack . . .

"Lesson number two, 'intimidate your adversary -- remember that!'"

Whack, whack . . .

“Lesson number three, ‘show no mercy.’"

Whack, whack, whack, whack . . .

“Lesson number four, ‘winning isn't everything, it's the only thing’ . . . lesson number five, ‘never let them see you sweat.’”

As the fully erect teen rained smacks down on his humiliated aunt's fantastic ass, with her boater hat now firmly on his head, he thought he heard the broken diva utter one final thing before she passed out completely.

“Is this what you’d like to see Auntie D wearing . . . ,” she asked longingly and sweetly.

“Indeed it is, you little b*tch,” thought Owen, “indeed it is.”

[hocman]

I can only hope you have many more of these coming, they just keep getting better and better. Having Danielle spanked by her 18 yr old nephew and possibly getting off on it was brilliant. I would have loved to see the 18 year old girl do the spanking, the thought of a 18yr. exchange student publicly spanking this snob is a huge turn on. Maybe sometime down the road. Another A+ job.