Damn Chasmo and Obo both of these stories rock!! Thank you both.

continue, please
 

Chasmo, where are you?
We wait for next part of haughty and vanity Danielle's story.
Thanks for your effort.

And they're off . . .
 

Nimbly sliding to the ground from the saddle of her dappled gray horse Dash, Danielle Marie Parnell presented a mouthwatering vision to every man and boy lucky enough to have her within their sight line at the Davidson Polo Club & Equestrian Center. It was the third Saturday in May, and in anticipation of her annual pilgrimage to Pimlico later that day, where as the managing partner of the prestigious SmythKnight law firm she would host its most important clients, the comely counselor was finishing up a ride of her own in the early morning spring sun.

After unclasping and removing her helmet, the mere act of which freed her luxurious brown mane, sun kissed with blonde highlights, to blow majestically in the light breeze, the gorgeous mother of three put a pair of aviator sunglasses over her emerald green eyes and began the short walk from the outdoor riding arena to the tack room. And what a walk it was. From the tops of her almost knee-high worn leather riding boots, Danielle's incredibly fit legs were covered by a skin-tight pair of tan riding pants, a coupling of cotton and spandex that cupped her peerless ass like a glove. Up top, the preening alpha-mom sported a tight, white, ribbed tank top that profiled her firm midsection to its most sultry effect while showing off her long, tan, feminine but muscled arms.

With her skin glistening from the efforts of putting Dash through his paces, Mrs. Parnell was a vision of sophisticated sex appeal -- and she knew it. Sporting the body of a woman half her age and a face that was a perfect coupling of the best of Kerri Russel and Miranda Kerr, Danielle Parnell thrived not only on the fact of her beauty but even more so on the effect it had on men. And this morning was no different. Watched intently by a host of male trainers, stable hands, riding students and, to Mrs. Parnell's delight, husbands of her friends and neighbors who were there dropping off and picking up their children from riding lessons, Danielle did her best to put on a show. Although outwardly she disdainfully sneered at her lustful audience, she smiled heartily on the inside as she put a little extra sway in her spectacular step.

"Dream on you losers," the preening uber-MILF thought to herself as she bent over at the waste to get a drink of water from a fountain immediately outside the tack room's door, "this is the closest any of you will ever get to this body."

Prolonging her drink for the benefit of her "audience," Mrs. Parnell caught Dr. Richard Miras, a nerdy neighborhood dentist and obvious devotee of Danielle's stunning beauty, ogling her spectacular bottom a bit too closely. Her discovery had the twofold effect of, on the one hand, stoking the alpha-mom's already healthy ego even further and, on the other, providing her with an opportunity to engage in a favorite pastime -- the emasculation of men.

For what provided Danielle with almost as much pleasure as flaunting her magnificent form before men and boys alike, was the rush she experienced from catching one of them in the very act she was so shamelessly encouraging and, in so doing, calling his "inappropriate" behavior out publicly. The icing on the cake was to do so in front of the now humiliated man's wife, daughter or girlfriend, which provided Danielle Parnell the added bonus of letting those women know that in her presence they effectively ceased to exist -- the fat cows.

"Excuse me doctor Miras," the haughty diva loudly and condescendingly began, "but I don't recall asking you for an examination of my bottom. Your behavior is outrageously inappropriate sir. And in front of your wife and daughter no less. How do you think that makes them feel?"

Dr. Miras sheepishly glanced between his feet and the very annoyed face of his wife Rachel -- the Davidson PTA President who didn't know who she hated more at that moment, her idiot of a husband or the arrogant tease who made him, and now Rachel and their 12 year old daughter Sharon, look ridiculous. As her mother fumed, Sharon Miras, likewise shocked by her father's chiding, fell from the saddle of her horse into a huge mud puddle right in front of her parents. Although the softness of the mud and wet ground thankfully broke Sharon's fall without incident, the ensuing splash of sullied water and horse manure soaked her and her parents alike.

The gathered crowd of local parents, children and other onlookers reacted with a mixture of suppressed laughter at the plight of the Miras family and -- at least as far as any woman present was concerned -- internalized righteous indignation at the arrogant show-off responsible for the scene unfolding before them. Meanwhile, a delighted Danielle Marie Parnell, laughing heartily at the humiliated Miras clan, disappeared into the tack room as she disdainfully remarked, "now you're literally and figuratively a dirty old man Richard."

Mortified and mud-soaked, the Miras family skulked shamefully toward their car.

"Mom . . . I'm so sorry," sobbed Sharon. "When I heard Mrs. Parnell yelling at dad I completely lost my focus and fell . . . I didn't mean to embarrass you guys."

"It's not your fault sweetie," her mother assured the crestfallen teen, careful not to reveal to Sharon her seething anger at the tiny tease who Rachel knew was actually responsible for the entire scene.

"It certainly isn't honey," came the soothing voice of Emma Duncan, a neighbor of both the Miras and Parnell families, who after witnessing the former's misfortune made a bee-line toward Rachel in the parking lot. "Why don't you and your dad hop in the car while I chat with your mom for a minute."

As young Sharon jumped into the family SUV, now at least somewhat appeased that she wasn't responsible for her parents' humiliation, Rachel Miras shared with Mrs. Duncan the words she had spared her daughter from hearing.

"Can you believe that Parnell woman," she began, almost shaking with anger, "it's not bad enough that she parades around here in those skin-tight clothes shaking that little bottom of hers in the face of our husbands and sons while lording her 'beauty' over us. No -- Little Miss Perfect needs to 'catch them in the act' and then publicly humiliate everyone. Well this time it has gone too far . . . Sharon could have been hurt . . . Richard and I are covered in mud. The worst part is we have to see her again at the club's Preakness garden party this afternoon -- before she struts off to Pimlico with her fancy clients. Just once I'd like to get even with that little show-off -- for her to be on the receiving end."

"You're telling me," Emma commiserated, "I can't tell you how many times that woman has made a snide comment about my weight, my clothes, my intelligence or my 'lazy' children -- and always with that condescending sneer on her perfectly made up face. Always looking down at us from her ridiculously high heels in her fancy designer clothes. I can only imagine the outfit she'll have on at the garden party."

"Do you mean this outfit," came the voice of Billy Miras, Rachel's 16 year old son and a notorious high school prankster who,before walking over to join the conversation, witnessed his family's humiliation at the hands of Mrs. Parnell through the large picture window in front of the Polo Club's reception desk where he worked after school and on weekends.

Confused by why her son was holding a $1500 navy blue Carolina Herrera spring mini dress, bedecked with white polka-dots, but with a widening smile on her mud-streaked face, Rachel Miras queried, "is that . . ."

But before she could continue, and with a mischievous grin forming on his own teenage face, Billy completed his mother's question, " . . . Mrs. Parnell's fancy dress for today's garden party? Why yes it is mother. In fact, it was just delivered here straight from the alterations department at Saks. Of course, as the Polo Club's trusted employee manning the reception desk, I'm charged with making sure the altered garment makes its way to the ladies locker room where Mrs. Parnell is expecting it."

"Then let the alterations begin," Emma Duncan chimed in as she removed a small scissors from her handbag.

* * *
Stepping from one of the luxurious marble shower stalls in the Davidson Polo Club's sumptuous ladies' locker room, Danielle Parnell pulled on a very short, bright-white terry cloth robe. The well tanned, gorgeous, emerald eyed mother of three was still smiling from her humiliation of that ridiculous dentist Richard Miras. That his hobbit of a wife and ungrateful daughter had likewise been made public laughingstocks was just icing on the cake. That officious little cow Rachel Miras was nothing but a chubby busy body and the sixth grade Sharon Miras had the audacity only a week before to turn down Will Parnell's invitation to his eighth grade formal making Danielle's eldest, in his mother's eyes, look the fool.

"That's what she gets for embarrassing a Parnell," Danielle thought to herself delighted that once again "mommy" had made right a slight against her "baby boy."

With that thought stoking the love she had for herself even further, Mrs. Parnell began to prepare for the Polo Club's Annual Pre-Preakness Garden Party. As usual, she would bring as guests to the fete the powerful CEOs of her law firm's most important clients -- along with their frumpy wives -- before joining them all for a short ride from the club to Pimilico to watch the second leg of the Triple Crown from millionaire's row. In order to captivate the well heeled executives' undivided attention, which in turn filled SmythKnight's coffers and secured her position as its managing partner, the captivating counselor planned to dress, as usual, to the nines.

After applying a neutral hued blush to her sun-kissed cheeks, an appropriate but stunning dash of pink to her luscious lips and the softest, almost imperceptible shade of rust colored eyeliner, the sexy solicitor put her hair up in a tight bun in anticipation of setting on her head the fabulous "crown" she had chosen for the day's activities. Rather than go with what had become her race day trademark of a very wide, soft-brimmed stunner in a color that complimented her frock of choice, this year Mrs. Parnell had opted for a very small pillbox hat, with blue polka dots on a white field to contrast it with her backless Carolina Herrera spring mini-dress that featured white polka dots on a field of blue. The fancy chapeau also sported a series of white and blue feathers as decorative plumage. In her view, the creation that sat in the hat box in front of her was the epitome of fashionable sophistication.

Before topping off her outfit though, and after slipping out of her tiny terry cloth robe, Danielle stepped into a towering pair of 4.5" blue leather Fendi peep-toe heels and pulled the tiniest of sheer blue and white silk polka dotted thongs over her magnificent hips. Looking at herself in the mirror as she adjusted the barely there panties -- her dress wouldn't permit a bra but her spectacularly pert baseball sized breasts wouldn't miss it -- Mrs, Parnell reveled in the knowledge that every man wanted her and every woman wanted to be her. Smiling, the lusty lawyer fastened her Mikimoto pearl necklace around her supple neck and slipped a diamond encrusted tennis bracelet onto one wrist and a similarly bejeweled Cartier watch onto the other.

"You're perfect," she cooed at her reflection. And then, after looking around to ensure that no one was watching, the diva of Davidson opened her hat box and fastened her custom made creation atop her perfectly coiffed hair. Imagining the uncontrollable hard-ons the powerful leaders of her firm's most important clients would sport if they ever saw her like this, basking in the certainty of her control over not only their libidos but their valuable accounts and drunk on the superiority she knew her station, beauty and intelligence provided her over their wives and all women, Danielle purred to her imaginary assemblage of CEOs, "do you see anything you like, gentlemen. I thought so."

A sharp knock on the locker room door, followed by a young man's voice asking if everyone was "decent in there," pulled Mrs. Parnell from her private reverie and, after putting her robe back on, the self-satisfied solicitor cracked open the door that led from the locker room itself into a vestibule that separated it from an opulent lobby, where she came face-to-face with one of the club's "flunkies" who was delivering her dress that had just arrived from Saks.

"It's about time," she sneered at Billy Miras, "I take it you brought it straight here after it arrived."

"Of course, Mrs. Parnell," Billy said politely, the smile on his face not a function of his accommodating this shrewish woman but rather of his knowledge -- or at least hope -- of things to come. And then, before placing the hanger in the waiting and well manicured hand of the haughty diva who only an hour before had humiliated his entire family, Billy offered, "it's a very beautiful dress Mrs. Parnell, I'm sure you'll be the hit of the garden party."

"That's none of your concern young man now mind your place," snapped the imperious prima donna, on the one hand shocked that this insufferable peon would dare pass judgment on her in any way but on the other delighted that yet another man had validated her beauty. None of them could resist her, the losers.

As the self-important socialite turned on her oh-so-high heels and headed back into the locker room, Billy Miras, fuming now even more at her arrogance, couldn't help but stare at the backs of Danielle's long legs that were visible all the way to mid-thigh before disappearing under her short robe.

"I wonder what she's wearing under there," he thought to himself. Soon enough he would know.

* * *
As his mother got dressed in the club's opulent women's locker room, slipping the halter top of her backless designer mini-dress over her bare shoulders while fastening the flouncy, flared, mid-thigh length skirt bottom around her tiny waist, young Will Parnell, Danielle's 14 year-old son, was getting ready in the men's locker room. Despite his protestations to the contrary, his mother was forcing him one final time to participate in the "little jockeys' pony race." Every year, the young sons of club members would get into black boots, white riding pants, "silks" chosen by their moms and a matching helmet, only to be paraded through the Polo Club's garden party and then forced to mount ponies for a quick one-lap ride around the outdoor practice track. Proud, smiling parents would place bets on who would win with all proceeds going to charity.

In Will's mind being deemed a "little jockey" was bad enough when he was a child but far worse now that he was about to start high school and the next oldest "rider" was only 10. It wasn't his fault that he was -- admittedly -- a somewhat undersized prepubescent teen. This was embarrassing. Of course, that meant nothing to his mother. Will genuinely loved his mom but resented that she still treated him like a baby. The other guys always razzed him about it and he knew this would make it even worse. It also didn't help that she was bossy to his teachers, his coaches, his friends' parents and his friends themselves. Couple that with the fact that he had almost completely outgrown his white canvas riding pants and was being forced by Danielle to wear a blue-and-white polka dotted silk shirt and helmet cover and he knew it was going to be a long day.

* * *
The cavernous lobby of the Davidson Polo Club & Equestrian Center clubhouse opened through a series of floor to ceiling glass plated French doors to an expansive cedar terrace which stretched the entire 200 feet of the building's sizable back facade. The terrace in turn, which provided a stunning vista of the polo fields and outdoor riding track, stepped down on each side into two symmetrical and lovely English gardens which were bifurcated in the center by the main turn of the Equestrian Center racetrack on which this day sat a rolling platform where the little jockey's would mount their miniature steeds for the start of the pony race.

The terrace and the gardens were already awash with garden party attendees including Richard and Rachel Miras and Emma Duncan, when Mrs. Parnell made her grand entrance from the lobby. Confident of the effect she always had on men, Danielle sensed the snapping of necks and stirring of loins as, with a little extra sway in he spectacular hips she made her away across the terrace to where she spotted the small assemblage of SmythKnight's key clients' most senior executives and their wives.

"It's like taking candy from a baby," the sexy solicitor thought to herself as she deftly laid a hand on each CEO's wrist before bestowing an air kiss on each of his cheeks, "these old fools are already salivating as their fossilized wives stew powerlessly in their irrelevance."

Just as the men and boys present were mesmerized by the sexy beauty before them, the women at the garden party stared daggers at the self-proclaimed Queen Bee who looked down upon them as if they were mere peasants.

"Just look at her flirting shamelessly with those old men in her cutesy little outfit," said Karen Manley, a "partner" of Danielle's at the prestigious SmythKnight law firm who had been told by her imperious boss in no uncertain terms to be at the garden party for the purpose of attending to clients' wives.

"The companies led by those old men pay our salaries," responded Lauren Butcher, another SmythKnight lawyer who Danielle had tasked with "wife" babysitting duty.

"It's just too bad that all of their business goes into that little show-off's win column," continued the almost six foot tall Mrs. Butcher, "she wouldn't be so high and mighty if that work was yours or mine."

"No kidding," laughed Karen imagining how wonderful it would be to have that type of leverage over their oppressive boss, "then we could tell her what to do instead of always doing her bidding."

"Dream on, she'll always have them eating out of her well manicured hand" Lauren lamented just as Mrs. Parnell came their way.

"Ladies," the preening diva addressed the CEOs' wives who she had in tow,"allow me to introduce you to Karen Manley and Lauren Butcher. They work for me at SmythKnight and while they may not look it at first glance, they should quite capably be able to attend to your needs while your husbands and I talk business."

And just like that, having insulted two groups of women at once and having loved every second of it, Mrs. Danielle Parnell left the fuming females behind as the club's president announced from the cedar deck that it was time for the mother and son parade that preceded the annual little jockeys' race.

As the procession of moms and sons made their way toward the rolling platform that bisected the expansive Polo Club terrace it became very clear to all that young Will Parnell was a bit too old for this race, and quite literally a bit too big for his britches that were stretched almost to the breaking point. Although all the other boys, a smattering of ten kids between 7 and 10 years old, looked adorable in their little riding suits, poor Will who although not very tall still stood a good six inches higher than the next tallest rider, looked completely put upon and was the only kid whose silks matched his mother's dress.

Not caring a wit for her son's discomfort, Danielle Parnell, practically dragging Will by his hand, strode across the veranda as if she was a model on a catwalk while every man "saluted" her efforts and every woman longed for her comeuppance. Thanks to the confluence of Will having outgrown his riding pants, an allergic pony who wanted no part of any passenger and Emma Duncan's handiwork, those women were about to get their wish.

Having permitted the other mothers to precede them in the march -- so as, Danielle smiled to herself devilishly, to maximize the crowd's focus on her splendor -- Mrs. Parnell and Will had only just reached their own horse as the "competition" were helping their little jockeys up on theirs. Just as the haughty beauty had planned, all eyes were therefore transfixed on her as Will got ready to climb aboard his ride. Unfortunately, just as Danielle prepared to assist her son onto his pony, aptly named Vengeance, the young lad dropped his goggles to the ground and, as he bent down to retrieve the protective spectacles heard and felt the failure of the back seam on his pants. The over-matched garment, that Will had dutifully worn for this race each year since he was 6, finally gave up the ghost and tore wide open to reveal the poor boy's silk, white and blue polka dotted briefs that Danielle had insisted he wear for the race.

"Mom, my pants," cried Will as the crowd -- including a giggling Sharon Miras -- laughed at his misfortune.

"Stop being such a baby," his domineering mother demanded as she spun towards her son with a stern look on her face, "no one is looking at your underwear -- now grow up and get on that horse."

To the impending distress of mother and son alike, when Danielle turned to scold her young offspring the feathers of her fancy hat brushed the nose of Vengeance and set off what would be for all in the crowd but two a most wonderful chain of events. Alarmed and annoyed by the plumage that had tickled his nose, Will's pony began to buck just as Mrs. Parnell hoisted her son onto the diminutive mammal's back. Will in turn wrapped his legs around the horse's midsection for dear life not realizing that in so doing he had both caused his riding pants to split even further and trapped the flared bottom of his mother's fashionable dress between his riding boot and Vengeance's flank.

As many of the gathered women, including Karen Manley, Lauren Butcher and the wives of SmythKnight's most important clients' chieftans, began to laugh at the ordinarily haughty Mrs. Parnell's obvious distress in getting Will situated, Billy Miras, who had been tasked by the Club as the "starter" for the pony race, saw a chance to avenge his own family's earlier undoing. Before Will could get balanced or Danielle (or anyone else but Billy) noticed that the usually cool alpha-mom's skirt was pinned by Will's boot to her son's horse, the perennial high school prankster pushed the starter's button thereby opening the gates that held the ponies at bay and sounding off a bell that caused them to begin the race.

As the voice of the Polo Club's president belted out the time honored mantra "and they're off," which in a moment would relate as much to the Parnell family's clothing as to the ponies bolting from the gate, time appeared to slow to a crawl. As Vengeance surged onto the course at the sound of the bell, the gathered crowd stared slack-jawed as a confounded Danielle Parnell whose dress remained pinned to the diminutive beast, was forced into a rapid pirouette the result of which, in an instant, was to separate her fashionable Carolina Herrera frock from her fabulously fit body.

Disoriented by the sudden spin, and unaware as of yet that she was now bedecked only in her 4.5" navy peep toe heels, blue and white polka dotted thong and very sophisticated derby-day hat, the tottering tease sought to regain her balance by grabbing onto the closest thing she could find -- the quickly departing Will.

Unfortunately for her son, as Mrs. Parnell pitched forward toward the now fleeing Vengeance, she managed to grab with one hand the tattered waist band of Will's riding pants and with the other an errant tail of his polka dotted silk shirt. Although her desperate grasp had the intended effect of righting her balance on the terrace, thereby preventing her from toppling headlong onto the track, it likewise unintentionally but to the uproarious laughter of the crowd, separated young Will both from Vengeance, who now riderless was racing away, and from his riding togs, which as the boy came crashing down ass-first onto the cedar boards of the deck in only his boots, polka-dotted silk briefs and riding helmet, floated ruined down into the mud.

As mother and son alike stood dis-dressed in matching underwear the crowd that had watched much of the scene before them in shocked silence, burst into a tumult of deafening laughter. Still somewhat disoriented from spinning in place, and still unaware of her own fate, Danielle Marie Parnell was irate that the club's guests and members, as unsophisticated as she thought them to be, would point and laugh at her son's misfortune. As poor Will did his best to cover up, his mother, always quick to defend his honor and noting in her mind that she would be firing Karen Manley and Lauren Butcher who she saw pointing and laughing along with the rest, raged at the howling crowd before them.

"How dare you laugh at my son, you miscreants" she began.

"Mom," will squeaked trying to get her attention while simultaneously transfixed by the view he had from behind his self-righteous mother, a view he had obviously never seen before.

"Be quiet, Will," his mother scolded taking a momentary break from castigating the laughing throng, before again addressing what she viewed as an assembly of hecklers.

"You should all be ashamed of yourselves, he's just a little boy," she went on furiously. "And you two, she pointed at Karen and Lauren -- you're both finished do you hear me."

"But mom," Will tried again to get his mother's attention while at the same time feeling an all too familiar stirring in his pubescent nether regions.

Having grown tired of her son's interruptions while she was doing her best to defend him, the arrogant alpha-mom spun around on her high heels and, as authoritatively as ever, bellowed at the young boy, "WHAT IS IT WILL???"

As he looked up at his mother towering over him in naught but her heels, translucent panties and fancy dress hat, and quickly taking off his helmet to hide the growing bulge in his own polka-dotted briefs, the slack-jawed, practically catatonic Will Parnell croaked, "mommy, you're not wearing any clothes . . . I can see your boobies."

Quickly looking down at her nearly nude body, the truth of her son's statement finally hit the imperious suburban sexpot who, as Will passed out in front of her from his own humiliation, toppling from the veranda into a very wet puddle of mud as an errant nail tore from him the last remaining shred of his polka-dotted dignity, screamed out, "oh my God, I'm practically naked!"

As the crowd -- including the Miras family and Karen Manley and Lauren Butcher who only minutes before had suffered what they now realized would be the last of Danielle's barbs -- celebrated her comeuppance, the disgraced diva stood practically frozen before them, racking her addled brain to try comprehend her circumstances. Where is my beautiful dress, she thought to herself, and then . . . they're not just laughing at Will . . . everyone is laughing at me -- at me. This can't be happening . . . I've come completely undone. Oh my God, my clients, whatever will they think of me -- I'm not even wearing a bra. And Will, did I really strip my own son? Did he truly see his mommy's boobies?

With her befuddled mind attempting to comprehend her current situation, the nearly denuded debutante's body was having a reaction of its own. As the crowd laughed on, Mrs. Parnell's knees snapped tightly together while her bejeweled hands alternated between covering her thong encased bottom and her oh-so pert tits the nipples of which were standing at attention in response to a mix of humiliation and wanton terror. Her always perfectly tan face began to take on the redness of abject embarrassment, its gorgeous but smug look replaced with the silent scream of "stop looking at me!"

For the now salivating CEOs who had long wondered what their hot little lawyer looked like under her power suits and formal-wear, the site of the near naked Danielle Parnell would provide a lust-evoking memory for the remainder of their years to come. For the club's female patrons, especially those over whom Little Miss Perfect had lorded the very body now on display before them, revenge had never been sweeter -- or so they thought.

As her self-awareness finally began to return, Mrs. Danielle Parnell, the Polo Club's one time Queen Bee, at last made a break for cover. Sprinting as best she could in her towering heels, while covering up her deliciously exposed body, Mrs. Parnell ran recklessly toward the building's lobby -- and safety -- before crashing headlong into Edith Gauge, the elderly wife of one of her client's now completely aroused CEOs.

With rage in her eyes, and momentarily forgetting her own exposure, the haughty Mrs. Parnell chided, "get out of my way you old crone," before attempting to push the frail woman aside.

What happened next was the proverbial icing on the cake of Danielle's downfall. For instead of folding into the couch above which she stood, the 75 year-old Mrs. Gauge -- spouse of SmythKnight's largest client's chairman and CEO -- not only stood firm but, after stopping the preening Mrs. Parnell dead in her tracks, pulled the once powerful lawyer over her bony knee and, relieving her of her polka dotted panties began to rain spanks onto her spectacular and now naked bottom.

"I've had just about enough of you young lady," Danielle's spry if aged assailant began.

"First you cast me and these other lovely women aside like yesterday's rubbish," she continued, gesturing at the other CEOs' wives, "and proceed to shamelessly tease our husbands while we watch. And then you embarrass your own partners in front of us before humiliating your poor son. Well that all ends right now do you hear me."

"Clark," pleaded a veritably infantilized Danielle looking up into the eyes of her tormentor's husband, "please Clark, make her stop . . . she's hurting my . . . she's hurting my . . . my tushy . . . please."

Although Clark Gauge thought about coming to the comely counselor's defense, one look into his wife's eyes quickly disabused him of that course of action. Having cowed her feckless husband with her stern gaze, Mrs. Gauge made it clear to Danielle that the nearly broken tease would have no rescuer today.

"Forget about it honey," the determined but smiling septuagenarian laughed while continuing to tan the broken diva's hide, "he may have the title of CEO -- and may like to watch you strut your stuff -- but I'm the one who owns the company that my father founded. And as of today, our account is going to be handled by Ms. Manley and Ms. Butcher because you're fired."

As the remaining CEOs looked into the eyes of their own wives -- none of whom had the same business leverage over the corporate titans as Edith Gauge had over her own husband but each of whom struck terror into her husband's heart -- they knew they had to follow suit and, almost in concert, likewise announced that their accounts would henceforth be managed by Karen and Lauren -- Mrs. Parnell was finished.

Mortified by the public crumbling of her career, the base from which all of her power emanated, Danielle Parnell, regaining her feet after being released from the grasp of Edith Gauge, and with Karen Manley and Lauren Butcher now sneering down at her as she once did at them, began to ramble incoherently, "please Mrs. Gauge . . . gentlemen . . . please don't fire me . . . I'll be a good little girl . . . I promise . . . I'll . . . I'll . . ."

As those cries fell on deaf ears, SmythKnight's soon to be ex-managing partner began obsequiously to beg her former underlings for compassion, "Karen . . . Lauren . . . I'm sure we can work something out . . . I . . . I could . . . "

It was Lauren Butcher, who on more than one occasion her now humiliated former partner had referred to as "lurch" and "prairie hair" who put an end to Danielle's entreaties.

"I'm very sorry Ms. Parnell but your inappropriate behavior today leaves us no choice but to put your removal from the partnership up for a vote on Monday. And just so we're clear sweetie," Lauren Butcher smiled broadly, "with the votes that Karen and I now control that only means one thing -- YOU'RE FIRED!!"

Stunned by her complete and total undoing, and retreating from the laughing crowd before her as she attempted futilely to cover her now naked body, the utterly disgraced diva failed to realize she had backed herself nearly to the edge of the giant cedar terrace. She was also unaware, with her eyes the size of saucers and a daffy, blank look on her once imperious face, that her son Will was at that moment immediately below her attempting to climb from the mud hole into which he'd fallen only a few short minutes before.

The last sight the howling crowd had of the once powerful Danielle Marie Parnell, as Will's small, disembodied hand reached over the terrace and, in search of some leverage, accidentally grabbed his mother's ankle, was her falling, ass-first in only her high heels and fancy feathered hat, into the very puddle of muck from which her son was trying to climb. As the laughter grew to a crescendo, the now mud-soaked and completely disgraced former MILF, crying like a baby, could be heard shouting up to her again stupefied son, "Will . . . don't look down . . . mommy is a very dirty girl!"

The Miras family had been avenged.

Fantastic, as usual. I'll add the same constructive criticism as I have before: I wish the stripping scenes were longer. The descriptions are amazing--you're like some sort of build-up deity. The descriptions of the characters's appearance, dress, and attitude are VERY well fleshed out, creating stunning characters we can't wait to see brought low. But then the wardrobe mishap occurs, and after all that buildup, it's over in half a second. Long story short, I prefer stories like "Pride Goeth Before Her (Clothes) Fall", with more clothing items and longer stripping scenes to stories like "And they're off" with just a couple items and very short stripping scenes. (note: you can do longer scenes with few items, it's just harder)

On a less constructive note, Nicole is still my favorite character (mmm, redheads), and I hope to see her again soon!

amfanon -

First, apologies for the delayed response and thanks so much for your kind words. Second, I completely hear you in terms of trying to prolong the actual stripping sequences. "And They're Off" didn't come as easily as many of the other installments and my biggest disappointment in writing it was that Danielle's "unveiling" happened in an instant. I attempted to compensate for that by keeping her unaware of her circumstances for a bit but even to me that's not quite as satisfying as, say, the sequence in "Pride Goeth." I'll see what I can do going forward to have the pay-off better reflect the build-up (thanks again by the way - deity isn't a compliment one hears every day).

As for Nicole, she is definitely due for some comeuppance. I had drinks recently with the woman on whom she is based (a friend and former colleague) and she is both more arrogant and more attractive than ever. It definitely gave me some food for thought so stay tuned for some more tension between her and Mrs. Parnell.

Hey Chasmo, another wonderful addition. Any more coming if not thanks for these, great stuff

Campaign Chaos -- Part 1
 

Like many an American town, the idyllic suburb of Davidson, Maryland, an affluent community equidistant between Baltimore and Washington, D.C., looked to its residents each year to determine who among them would constitute the tony village's "Town Council." Although mostly a ceremonial body -- the true local "power," to the extent there was any, was exercised by the Anne Arundel County Board -- the Davidson Town Council afforded residents an opportunity to have a say in issues as disparate as neighborhood beautification and where the next town dog park might be located.

Better said, in a village populated mainly by wealthy, type-A, overachieving suburbanites, election to the Davidson Town Council was a subtle source of bragging rights -- a small but symbolic token of one-upmanship -- a pseudo-altruistic stage upon which to say "look at me!" And no one in Davidson craved a spotlight, loved to boast, reveled in her superiority or silently screamed "look at me" more than Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell. At 43, the 5’ 3” stunning mother of three, through the blessing of great genetics and an unsurpassed dedication to fitness, had a body that rivaled women half her age. What's more, her flawless face, a perfect amalgam of Kerri Russel and Miranda Kerr, was a genuine vision of beauty. Danielle Parnell was spectacular -- and she knew it.

The suburban uber-MILF, who along with her physical beauty excelled professionally as the managing partner of SmythKnight -- one of the world's largest and most prestigious law firms -- loved nothing more than the sight of her own glorious reflection. What made her equally happy however was the impact that her physical beauty, reflected and actual, had upon every man and boy who laid eyes on her -- the losers. Despite internally craving their attention Danielle was outwardly disdainful of even their merest glances, and delighted in loudly and publicly shaming any man that she "caught" staring too long. Whether at the office, her children's athletic, school or other events, or at one of the many benefits and social outings where she always made an impact, the fetching Mrs. Parnell reveled in emasculating the undeserving and feckless men around her.

The true icing on the cake though was the humiliation that their wives, girlfriends or daughters would suffer as Danielle castigated their husbands, sons and boyfriends. Perhaps if the pathetic haus fraus, soccer moms and other assorted cows took better care of themselves they wouldn't be rendered invisible by her beauty -- but, she thought to herself, they didn't and they were.

Not surprisingly, it was the joy brought on by Mrs. Parnell's stunning beauty and the opportunity to flaunt both it and her extraordinary intellect at the day's planned Town Council debate that brought a smile to Danielle's gorgeous face as she stepped from the driver's seat of her brand new 2016 Mercedes AMG GT S. Laughing on the inside, the self-satisfied alpha-lawyer reveled in the similarities between herself and the super-car from which she had just alighted -- each in her mind, sophisticated with a spectacular body and beyond the reach of most any man.

As the self-appointed Queen Bee of almost all things Davidson, Mrs. Parnell had grown tired of having to seek the Town Council's approval for issues as simple as having the driveway of her home paved in Belgian brick. The idea of supplicating herself to the likes of Emily Duncan, -- that slovenly town district attorney and wife of a hardware store salesman -- or to Rachel Miras -- the officious "hobbit" who served as the local PTA president -- was unappealing to Mrs. Parnell on the best of days. That those two nobodies supported the council's recent decision to reject the Parnell family's application to install a six foot tall hedgerow along the entirety of the property line separating their yard from the road was the last straw.

From the public outdoor stage that sat a mere 100 yards from where she had just parked, Danielle was determined, during the evening’s planned political tête-à-tête, to unwind that perceived injustice, and undo its witless and unattractive perpetrators by winning herself a seat on the council and, through her beauty, wiles and intellect, to sway the governing body’s pathetic and easily manipulated male majority to see things her way. That during the impending debate she would have the opportunity to employ her unrivaled oratory prowess to publicly humiliate Mrs. Duncan and Mrs. Miras -- both of whom she considered no match for her intellectually -- was mere icing on the cake. Danielle smiled to herself as she pictured Davidson's gathered men and boys laughing as her skill as a public speaker rendered her two ineloquent "opponents" completely tongue-tied.

Of course, any glee the town's male population would get from Mrs. Parnell exhibiting her intellectual superiority over her witless co-candidates would pale in comparison to the spell those same men and boys would fall under while basking in the glory of Danielle's physical beauty. A devilish smile crossed the lusty lawyer's gorgeous face as she imagined the contrast between, on the one hand, the pasty, rumpled Emily Duncan and the squat, homely Rachel Miras -- each no doubt sporting some horrible, boxy poly-blend suit, comfortable shoes and dime-store haircut -- and, on the other hand, the tan, fit, magnificent face and body that smiled at her from the mirror each morning and that today was bedecked in towering heels and a most fashionable and form fitting power suit. She almost felt sorry for them . . . until she replaced that thought with the reality of how truly pathetic she knew they were . . . the peasants.

To lay the groundwork for her campaign victory, the relentlessly sexy suburbanite, beginning some six weeks or so before today's scheduled debate, had launched a stealthy but effective charm offensive against Davidson's male contingent. Simply put, she returned the glances of the town's men and boys with a smile, appeared interested in their tiresome conversations and even went so far, on rare occasions, to lay her perfectly manicured hand upon a forearm or shoulder and let it linger there for best effect. What's more, to emphasize her superiority over other women, she always made a point of conducting these false flirtations in front of the target's wife, boyfriend or mother.

"Really Mr. Duncan," she would coo to Emily's husband as Mrs. Duncan looked on, "I had no idea that the hardware business was so interesting."

"My gosh Billy," the sexy alpha-mom smiled at Mrs. Miras' eldest son when she saw him with his mother at the community pool, "aren't you becoming quite the young man."

"Why Mr. Hess," Danielle coquettishly whispered to Rebecca Ross' handsome husband, the only man who genuinely stirred Mrs. Parnell's genuine desire, "that uniform looks very good on you. Have you been working out even harder than usual?"

Needless to say, while Davidson's men and boys took to the more approachable Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell like fish to water, the bucolic burb's female population wasn't so easily swayed. They knew exactly what the comely counselor was up to but, despite that knowledge and to their eternal frustration, there was not a thing they could do about it due to their being completely intimidated by the domineering diva. Of course, her ability to render Davidson's women collectively impotent only stoked the fire of the imperious Mrs. Parnell's ego even further. She genuinely thrived on their fear -- the halfwits -- and reveled in her own superiority.

With that superiority first and foremost in her mind, and as she made her way from her fabulous new Mercedes, across Davidson Park, to the raised outdoor platform that would soon be the sight of the late summer evening's town council debate, Mrs. Parnell found herself face-to-face with a gaggle of the very women she held in such disdain.

Namely, in addition to her so-called "competition" of Rachel Miras and Emily Duncan, the group included Nicole Silver -- a statuesque 5' 8" redheaded lawyer with a face that favored Nicole Kidman and a shapely but extraordinarily fit body that reflected equal parts Nordic heritage and Soul Cycle -- and Katherine Wray, a Tennessee native and former high school and college track star, who, with a passion for running that spanned the fifteen years since her Stanford graduation, had maintained her endless legs and all-around fabulous body in spectacular form.

Mustering up her best fake smile, the emerald eyed vixen reluctantly acknowledged her "lesser" neighbors with thinly disguised contempt.

"Good evening ladies," she began first addressing Emily and Rachel, "I just wanted to wish the two of you luck and to tell you how much I'm looking forward to working with . . . well . . . one of you . . . on the council."

"What's that supposed to mean, Danielle" interjected an agitated Mrs. Silver who had always been annoyed by Danielle's patronizing tone particularly because Nicole too was a Washington, D.C. based attorney, albeit without the professional plaudits that Mrs. Parnell had managed to garner.

"I'm so sorry Nicole," condescended the imperious Mrs. Parnell, relishing the opportunity to again humiliate the athletic if buxom redhead, "but you see there are only two seats open on the town council this term, the one that I'll be winning and the one that Edna and Raquel here will be vying for . . . do you understand now?"

And then, flashing her perfect smile and with a gleam in her eye worthy of Maleficent, Davidson's most self-satisfied narcissist turned on one of her sky-high, 4.5" high, black and white, leopard-print, calf hair, Christian Louboutin Iriza d'Orsay pumps, made unmistakable by the designer's iconic red leather soles, and, looking over her shoulder as she strode away, quipped, "it seems I've tarried too long ladies. Best of luck battling for the spot of top loser . . . looking at those suits it's a position of which you're both quite worthy."

Each of Emily and Rachel first looked coyly at the rather drab and unsophisticated outfit worn by the other before their collective gaze focused on the departing prima donna who, hips swaying in a form-fitting, black, wrap-around Giorgio Armani skirt fastened at the hip by a very stylized large button, veritably cat-walked her way through the gathering crowd as she headed for the stage. In stark contrast to their unfashionable and somewhat mannish skirt suits, Danielle's couture skirt was topped by a matching, fitted, black, bolero style jacket that in turn covered what to any causal observer's eye was a black and white, animal print blouse that encircled the nape of Mrs. Parnell's neck before plunging to reveal a barely discernible cleft atop her ample but appropriately covered bust-line.

Amid the palpable dejection of her unceremoniously humbled neighbors, Nicole Silver -- who would be moderating the evening's debate -- was the first to bring voice to what each of Emily, Rachel and Katherine was thinking.

"How dare that little trollop treat us that way," the buxom redhead fumed, "with her Edna and Raquel nonsense and that 'do you understand now Nicole?' dig. What I understand is that someone needs to teach that little tease a lesson she won't soon forget."

"Do you really think this suit makes me look like a loser," queried the crest-fallen Emily Duncan, "I know it's a bit baggy but I've always kind of liked it."

"Of course not," Nicole raged on, "you look fine. Don't you see, that's just her playing mind games with you . . . trying to embarrass you so that you don't perform at your best. She gets in your head so that you're worried about how you look or how to beat Rachel rather than how to defeat her. She's the one who needs to be embarrassed!"

"That's easier said than done," offered Katherine Wray. "Just look at her over there," the fetching runner continued -- pointing at a preening Mrs. Parnell as she cozied up to a group of Davidson's male residents who were beginning to assemble for the debate, "she's got those fellas hangin' on her every word."

"And she's always so cool under pressure," offered up Rachel Miras in a defeated tone. "There's nothing we can do to make Little Miss Perfect come unglued. We should just round up our kids, get up on that stage, get this thing over with and head home. After all, it's only the town council and," she looked sympathetically at her friend Emily before she spoke next, "at least one of us will still get a chance to be on it. Good luck tonight Em."

With that, and despite the increasing exasperation of one Nicole Yanika Silver, Emily Duncan along with her son Calum and Rachel Miras with her son Billy and daughter Sarah in tow, headed for the stage. Apropos of Davidson Maryland being the embodiment of Norman Rockwell's America, each candidate for town council would be joined on stage by her children who, after being introduced to the crowd of nearly 500 of Davdison's finest that now populated the rows of white, wooden, folding chairs that had been set up on the park's vast green just for this occasion, would remain on stage seated behind their mothers. In addition to the aforementioned Duncan and Miras progeny, Danielle was followed onto the stage by her own three children -- Will, the oldest, Anna, her middle child, and Maria, the youngest Parnell.

And so the debate began. Mrs. Silver explained both the format and the rules, the former of which afforded each candidate first to make a brief uninterrupted presentation before answering series of questions that Nicole would spread equally among the three women and the latter of which specified the time permitted for both answers to those questions and the rebuttal of the other candidates to those answers. Based on names drawn from a hat, Rachel Miras went first and, true to Mrs. Parnell's plan, floundered horribly due to a combination of self-doubt and her arrogant neighbors intimidation. From tripping over her son's foot as she approached the podium, to tripping over her own words during her introduction, Mrs. Miras made a disastrous first impression. One small solace was the soft applause, more as a sign of sympathy with her plight than confidence in her candidacy, which she received from the crowd as she returned to her seat.

Next came Emily Duncan who, in order to clarify her plans for the council had prepared a PowerPoint presentation that was projected onto a large screen that sat center-stage. Unfortunately for Mrs. Duncan, and despite her son Calum's best efforts that afternoon to facilitate its repair, the laser pointer that she sought to employ to walk the audience through her slides instead, due to the strength of the laser itself, cut a rather large hole in the screen causing it, as well as any likelihood of Emily's success, to go crashing to the stage's floor. To make matters worse, the near Vaudevillian scene elicited peals of laughter from the gathered crowd led most vociferously by the imperious Danielle Marie Parnell and her son Will. Mrs. Parnell couldn't believe she had wasted any time charming Davidson's men in light of the predictable implosion of her two "competitors."

Once the mess of Emily Duncan's cataclysm had been cleaned up and Mrs. Duncan had sheepishly returned to her seat next to her son Calum -- who not only felt awful about his role in his mother's humiliating meltdown but knew that arrogant Will Parnell's bossy show-off of a mother would soon be making things even worse for her -- Danielle Marie Parnell strode very confidently to the podium. Smiling like the Cheshire cat, the emerald eyed beauty panned the audience of Davidson's good citizens and, employing merely for sport a confidence building trick she had learned as a high-school debate champion, imagined the men and women of the gathered throng in their underwear -- the losers. Little did she know that the tables would soon be turned with the added benefit for her audience of their not needing to employ any imagination.

"Good evening my friends," began the imperious uber-MILF sporting a sparkling if insincere smile.

"I'm delighted to see you've all taken the time tonight to help inform yourselves about a most important community decision . . . who will join the Davidson Town Council."

Looking back with a considerable amount of disdain at the two women now seated uncomfortably behind her on stage, the haughty suburban sexpot continued, "I had originally planned to share with you in my allotted introductory time some details about myself, my impressive career, my sophisticated worldview and why . . . in light of that . . . I am the natural choice for your votes. That said, seeing how more of your time than expected has been wasted by my co-candidates vying to determine between them who is the least incompetent alternative to fill the second available spot on the council, I will try to keep my words brief."

And then, standing majestically before "the people" in her 4.5" black and white, leopard-print, calf hair, Louboutins, tight, black, wrap-around Armani skirt and a matching fitted, black, bolero style jacket that opened to reveal a black and white, animal print blouse that coyly framed the mouth-watering cleft atop her pert but ample cleavage, Danielle Marie Parnell began articulately to enumerate her many accolades and accomplishments. The stark contrast of her boundless confidence, arrogance and sex appeal with the temerity and pratfalls of Mrs. Duncan and Mrs. Miras stirred the loins of every man and boy watching. With her luscious mane of brown hair -- made resplendent in the evening's twilight with its spectacularly sun-kissed blonde highlights -- set atop her beautiful face in a severe but sultry bun, and her emerald eyes framed by a pair of tortoise-shell cat eye glasses, Mrs. Parnell was every inch a school boy's -- and grown man's -- sexy teacher fantasy, and she knew it.

What she didn't know was that one of the boys sitting right behind her on stage -- Rachel Miras' son Billy -- had made his reputation as Gonzaga High School's most notorious prankster by taking down arrogant teachers for sport. Whether it was filling pompous Coach Smith's gym shorts with itching powder and then leading the laughter while he scratched himself silly, pulling the fire alarm just as Mrs. Kayser -- Gonzaga's sexy trigonometry Nazi -- was just about to launch a pop quiz and then delighting in her being read the riot act by Principal Whiting for trying to stop students from leaving her classroom or melting Muenster cheese on the space heater of that self-same Principal Whiting's office and then spreading a rumor that she had uncontrollable flatulence -- Billy Miras new a thing or two about humbling self-important adults.

But this time it was different, this time it wasn't going to be just for sport, this time it was personal. It was bad enough that stuck-up nerd Will Parnell's bossy show-off of a mom made a habit of disciplining Billy and his friends every chance she got, but tonight the town tease had gone too far. Tonight that Parnell woman had messed with Billy's mom -- and that changed everything -- that was not going to stand. It was time to take this snob down a peg or two he thought, but how?

And then, as if the heavens heard his plea, what looked like a silver pen fell from the lap of Mrs. Emily Duncan -- who only moments ago had likewise been made to look the fool by Mrs. Parnell -- and rolled to a stop at young William Miras' feet. It was the laser pointer that Billy's friend Calum, who was sitting shamefully on stage next to his own mom while the self-important Mrs. Parnell droned on, had in an unsuccessful attempt at repair, turned from a laser pointer to a laser paper cutter. Picking it up, it was as if a light bulb turned on over Billy Miras' head. If the pointer generated enough heat to cut through paper it could certainly create enough warmth to cause the usually unflappable Mrs. Parnell to sweat a bit.

Part...part 1? Part?

I'm not sure I can take this.

Must have morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre!

MORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE!!

*walks off proud that he successfully hid his WMCU addiction*

WOW!! This is going to be another epic ending for Mrs. Parnell.

Campaign Chaos -- Part 2
 

As the perennially confident Danielle Parnell began to wrap up her introductory words -- all the while delighting in the rapt attention with which each man and boy in the audience hung on her every word -- she suddenly began to feel very warm. Despite the sun having set almost completely set, Mrs. Parnell could swear its rays were beaming down on the back of her neck as small beads of perspiration began to form on her usually bone dry brow and atop her perfectly formed lips. Thankfully she'd be able to sit down in a moment which would give her a chance to remove her jacket.

"Never let them see you sweat," she said to herself as she did her best to push the minor discomfort from her mind.

Billy Miras couldn't believe his luck. The light from the laser was completely invisible to the naked eye but its beam clearly had the intended effect. More than once he watched the finely manicured hand of Mrs. Parnell reach back to rub the bare patch of skin on her supple neck between the collar of her jacket and the bottom of her officious librarian style up-do. It was working.

"Thank you Mrs. Parnell," came the voice of Nicole Silver who was surprised -- and delighted -- to see the sheen on the arrogant Danielle's brow. Maybe the little tease isn't as cocksure as she'd like us all to think, she mused.

Snapping out of her micro-fantasy, Mrs. Silver continued, "we'll now move on to the question and answer portion of the evening. Mrs. Duncan, the first question is to you."

As Emily Duncan stepped to the podium to field the first of the debate's questions, Danielle took her seat as well as the opportunity remove her stylish bolero blazer. As she hung the fashionable jacket off the back of her chair, Davidson's male residents were treated to a most delicious site. Up to that point no one could have known that Mrs. Parnell's very businesslike Armani bolero suit coat, once removed, revealed a Tom Ford backless, sleeveless, crop-top blouse that in turn uncovered the self-satisfied lawyer's incredibly toned and tan arms, flawlessly muscled but feminine back and, most alluringly, between where her wraparound skirt fastened at her waist and the bottom the crop-top ended, unblemished golden skin of her wonderfully trim midsection.

Danielle had donned the sexy top not so much to flaunt her undeniable physical glory in the face of other women -- that was done easily enough with her jacket on -- but to validate for herself how truly superior she was to the dumpy nobodies standing beside her. What's more she thought to herself, with the result of this ridiculous debate and the election to follow already a foregone conclusion, why not cool myself off while working the town's pathetic male population into a lather. At the very least it would snap them from the monotony of whatever blather was coming from Emily Duncan. More definitively, it would most certainly snap their nether regions to attention. Smiling devilishly to herself and delighted with the added sex appeal brought on by duffing her couture bolero, Danielle regained her composure quickly and completely.

"Mrs. Parnell," Nicole Silver announced from the moderator's desk just below the stage, "you have two minutes to respond."

While Danielle veritably strutted to the podium for her say, the ire of the crowd's women increased exponentially. They sat in collective disbelief at the audacity of the little tease who, by taking her blazer off, had captivated entirely their husbands, boyfriends and sons and in so doing rendered them completely invisible. In the meantime, Billy Miras cursed his failure. Sure he had caused the preening narcissist to sweat a bit but somehow, by merely peeling off her stylish little jacket, she had turned that discomfort to her advantage and now seemed more self-assured than ever as she eloquently dissected the argument Calum’s mother had just made. He had to try again.

Looking at the beautifully toned and tanned back of Will's mother, particularly at the thin swath of fabric that, running behind Mrs. Parnell's neck seemed to hold her entire blouse in place, Billy came up with one final desperate plan. Maybe, just maybe, if the laser was hot enough to cut through paper, it could also cut through fabric. Before testing that hypothesis on Mrs. Parnell's blouse, he thought, it would make sense to run a quick test on something else -- but what?

With her scathing retort to Mrs. Duncan complete, Danielle sat back down next to her son Will.

"This is easier than taking candy from a baby," Billy heard her snidely remark to her equally arrogant and smirking child.

Looking at Will Parnell's smug face, and as Rachel Miras stood up to take Nicole's next question, Billy decided on his test subject. Watching the sexy Mrs. Parnell take a seat next to her son, Billy noticed that Will's khaki trousers were fastened by an old fashioned threaded button. Carefully, Billy Miras took aim at the threads holding that button together and, after a few swipes back and forth, to his great delight, watched the button roll from Will Parnell's lap onto the floor -- success. What's more, no one else, including Will, whose zipper had opened almost completely once the button gave way, had noticed a thing.

After the crowd listened to Emily Duncan respond to the answer that Mrs. Miras had provided to the moderator's most recent question, Nicole Silver's voice again could be heard to say, "Mrs. Parnell this question is for you."

As Danielle approached the podium and the fetching Mrs. Silver continued her question, Billy Miras went to work. Rather than beginning with her blouse, the young scoundrel aimed the laser beam at the silken tie that held Mrs. Parnell's luscious locks in the imperious bun atop her head. Slowly he watched the silk begin to split but, with a grander reveal in mind, stopped short of cutting it completely thereby leaving Danielle's appearance thoroughly unchanged. As the sexy solicitor continued ably to answer Mrs. Silver's question, Billy next took aim at the strip of fabric behind Danielle's soft, tanned neck. But again, rather than slicing all the way through the fancy garment, the hoped for future failure of which would cause Mrs. Parnell's blouse to fall quickly to the ground and, ideally, confirm Billy's suspicion that this particular garment did not permit Will's mother the opportunity for a bra, Rachel's young son merely set the stage for what was soon -- along with most every man in attendance -- to come.

Ably completing her answer to Nicole Silver's question, Danielle returned to her seat on stage with her confidence and swagger growing with every high heeled step.

"Mrs. Miras," Nicole Silver continued, "you have two minutes to respond."

In a very thinly veiled stage whisper that Rachel Miras was most definitely intended to and did hear, Mrs. Parnell snarkily remarked to her son, "she wouldn't be able to respond if she had two years."

Although he was willing his mother to succeed, Billy knew that Mrs. Parnell's barb, which he also heard, had completely undermined Rachel's confidence even before she reached the podium. As Mrs. Miras stumbled over her words in an attempt to refute the learned and eloquent position that Danielle had most ably elucidated, Billy's blood boiled. Gazing over at the pompous Mrs. Parnell exchanging eye rolls with her smug son Will -- who was becoming just as much a know-it-all as his mother -- while his own mom floundered publicly, Billy opened up yet another avenue for his attack.

With her admittedly fabulous and firm legs crossed, the result of which permitted her skirt to open slightly revealing an appropriate but alluring amount of mouth-watering thigh, it became clear to Billy Miras that Danielle's very fashionable Armani wrap-around skirt relied entirely upon the rather large and highly stylized button holding it together to remain safely around the pushy MILF's toned waste. By now an expert marksman with his laser pointer, Rachel's son slowly and purposefully -- but not yet thoroughly -- began cutting through the threads that held the big button in place.

Following Rachel Miras' mangled attempt at rebutting Mrs. Parnell's answer to Nicole's most recent question, the red-headed Mrs. Silver, who was relishing her role as moderator and mistress of ceremonies even as she fumed at all of the male attention in the park going to her self-perceived rival, sought to bring the debate down the home stretch.

"Thank you all ladies for the informed and spirited public exchange of ideas this evening," she began. "I'm sure I speak for all of Davidson's residents when I say how impressed I was by the level of discourse and civility."

For God's sake, Danielle thought to herself, put a sock in it you fat cow and let's get this over with.

"At this point," continued Nicole, "all that remains is for each of you to make a final statement. You will have three minutes to do so and, Mrs. Parnell, we will begin with you."

Rising from her seat as she adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her perfect nose, Danielle Marie Parnell felt invincible. In less than an hour she had shamed the two women who had deigned to oppose her, reasserted her intellectual and physical dominance over the dimwitted female population of Davidson and stoked the libidos of every pathetic man and boy in attendance -- most of who she imagined would be either pleasuring themselves to her image tonight or picturing her as they engaged in whatever otherwise unfulfilling sex acts their useless wives and girlfriends might permit. In other words, as usual, she had won.

"Why thank you Nicole," the diva of Davidson began, "and permit me to say that in the simple role of moderator you've clearly found a sweet-spot for your . . . . oh . . . how best to describe it . . . limited prosecutorial talents."

As the men in the audience laughed at Danielle's snide put-down of the buxom redhead, and Nicole Silver stared daggers at her, Mrs. Parnell continued, "and thank you to my opponents. It's not every day that you get to witness firsthand such a graphic example of dogged perseverance in the face of abject failure and hopelessness. Bravo ladies. Clearly nothing can get you down . . . you are unflappable."

While Emily Duncan and Rachel Miras stoically endured their silent humiliation, and the rest of the women in attendance sat stunned by the sheer gall of the town's self-appointed Queen Bee, Danielle Parnell arrogantly went in for the kill.

"Citizens of Davidson, let's be frank . . ."

But before the next word could leave her plump red lips, Danielle again felt the sensation of the sun's warmth -- this time on her back -- and, equally distracted and confused, paused for a moment to reach over her shoulder. Some in the crowd, surprised by the ordinarily hyper-confident lawyer's break in cadence, began to murmur.

" . . . as I was saying," she began again, somewhat less confident than before and with the smallest beads of perspiration forming over her pretty lips and on her lovely forehead, "let's be frank . . . while the town's charter will compel you to choose between the two battling failures behind me so that no vacancies are created on the council, there is only one woman here tonight who truly deserves your vote and that woman, of course, is . . ."

But again, before Mrs. Parnell could finish, thanks to a rather quick flick by Billy Miras of his now trusty laser pointer, the rather austere bun atop her head came undone causing her hair to cascade down her back and, to the delight of every woman in attendance, resigning the usually collected beauty to even further distress. Smiling uncomfortably, and with a slight sheen of perspiration now forming on her lovely décolletage, Danielle tried her best to rearrange her hair into a bun but, having no success, settled for putting it into a makeshift pony tail with what remained of the black ribbon.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Parnell quietly remarked more sheepishly than she had intended, "I don't know quite what happened there."

And then, attempting to regain her confidence, she distractedly asked of no one in particular, "now -- where was I . . ?"

"I think you were persevering in the face of abject failure," joked Emily Duncan loudly, eliciting peals of laughter from on and off the stage particularly from the women who loved seeing the tables turned, if only temporarily, on Mrs. Parnell.

Danielle -- already out of sorts -- was thrown further off her game. She knew she needed to reassert herself lest she be made to look even more foolish by this Duncan woman so, spinning around on her very high heels to confront the source of the joke that had been made at her expense, Danielle went aggressively, if somewhat uncharacteristically, on the offensive, "now you listen here you . . . you . . . this is my time to speak -- not yours."

As the chorus of women's giggles grew louder at Danielle’s evidently ebbing confidence, Mrs. Parnell snapped back around and, directly facing Nicole Silver who was now laughing along with everyone else, chided the pretty moderator, "and you Silver, get some control over this circus. Is there nothing you can do right!?!"

"Now, now Danielle," smiled Nicole Silver, loving that for once she had an advantage to play against the snooty Mrs. Parnell, "try to stay calm. The voters will want a councilwoman who is cool under pressure. You, on the other hand, seem to be . . . shall we say . . . a little hot under the collar."

"Don't patronize me you cow," shouted Danielle further losing her composure while trying to regain the upper hand as the likes of Katherine Wray, who had suffered many an indignity at the highly moisturized hands of Mrs. Parnell, laughed even more heartily, "do you honestly think that I feel any pressure competing against these two . . . nobodies . . . in this . . . this . . . high school popularity contest . . ."

Reveling in the beauty queen's distress, despite being called a nobody, Rachel Miras joined the fray, "clearly not Danielle . . . nothing can get you down . . . you're unflappable."

As the local PTA President laughed vociferously with the crowd that Danielle had now all but lost and the rage inside Mrs. Parnell bubbled up to the surface from having her own words thrown back in her smug but beautiful face -- the perspiration on which was causing her usually perfect make-up to run -- the comely counselor again spun around for a confrontation.

"How dare you speak to me that way . . . you . . . you . . . little . . . HOBBIT," Danielle finally shouted having abandoned all sense of propriety, "do you have any idea who I am?"

But before Rachel or anyone else could answer, and as the crowd and those on stage stared in shocked silence at Mrs. Parnell's venomous overreaction to Rachel Miras' harmless jibe, Billy Miras again flicked the wrist of his hand holding the laser pointer -- this time at the big button on Danielle's fashionable skirt.