So thanks to everyone for the input. Between the replies here and some PMs it appears that numbers 1 and 2 are the favorites in that order. My aim is to have the first one posted a week from this coming Saturday and the next two weeks thereafter. Looking forward to writing them for the first time in a while.

Cheers
 

Glad to hear the latest installments coming to reality

Keep up the great work!
 

Thank you for all the wonderful humiliations of haughty, arrogant Danielle Parnell and co. I eagerly await your next story!

Thanks for the kind words and great pic! Jane Leeves' expression says it all!

Somehow I missed the question regarding Larissa Burgess. Can you tell more about her?

Another idea for Miss Parnel
 

Love the story ideas so far. But maybe another one could be this...
Danielle is a counselor at a summer camp. The campers and other councilors get fed up with her usual BS. They make a bet to see if she is a natural blonde and so everybody can confirm their findings they expose her in the shower tent in front of everyone. And yes, that is stolen from MASH! LOL!

The Halftime Show -- Part 1
 

From the time she was 5 years old it was clear that Maria Parnell was a gifted athlete. Whether playing field hockey, lacrosse or -- as was the case this autumn -- soccer, she always excelled. Even more impressive was the fact that despite the now sixth grade Maria's talent, and notwithstanding that she played on a travel team of older seventh and eighth grade girls who easily could have resented her skills, the young prodigy was ceaselessly humble and grateful for whatever playing time she saw. Alas, Maria's mother -- Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell -- possessed neither her daughter's humility nor gratitude.

Quite to the contrary, Danielle Parnell epitomized hubris and was grateful only that her privileged life did not ordinarily subject her to having to deal with the likes of the parents of Maria's teammates -- the peasants. That said, despite her disdain for the overweight, fanny pack wearing mothers and their pathetic khaki pant and golf shirt wearing husbands, Mrs. Parnell loved the attention that the latter group of losers couldn't help but pay her and, especially, the humiliation that their ogling brought upon their wives and daughters.

The inability of the team's male spectators to avert their collective gaze from her spectacular face and body for even a second humiliated not only them (the creeps) but -- to Danielle's complete delight -- their slovenly haus frau wives, inadequate girlfriends and unkempt mothers as well. Indeed and not surprisingly given Mrs. Parnell's incredibly high opinion of herself, she delighted in the fact that the wives, daughters and girlfriends of most any man were rendered all but invisible in her presence. After all, Danielle thought, if she had to cavort with this motley collective of suburban "soccer moms," there should be no mistake that she alone among them was worthy of the World Cup.

At 45 years old, thanks to fabulous genetics and a ceaseless dedication to fitness, Danielle possessed a body that surpassed those of most women half her age. Standing only 5'3", the suburban sexpot had for her height spectacularly long and perfectly toned legs that went from her femininely muscled calves to an ass so perfect it appeared carved from marble. Her fit, trim waist gave way to a very ample bust line the pertness of which begged the question of its authenticity. The sculpted arms that descended from her well exercised shoulders played perfect accompaniment to the rest of her peerless body which she always dressed to it best advantage.

At work, as the managing partner of SmythKnight, one of the Nation's largest and most prestigious law firms that she ruled with an iron fist, Danielle wore only the highest of heels and the most fashionable suits and dresses. The lustful stares of the firm's male partners, associates and staff fueled her ego almost as much as the daggers stared by the institution's female population. Outside the office, be it while shopping, dining at her country club or attending one of her three children's sporting or other events, Danielle always dressed to impress. So it was today, as Maria's soccer team was going through its warm-ups for the Maryland State Junior High School Championship at a packed Naval Academy football stadium mere minutes from her home in Davidson, that Danielle Marie Parnell made one of her patented grand entrances.

As she emerged from a stadium tunnel onto the field -- with the express mission of either cajoling or cowing Maria's coach into starting her young daughter in the championship match -- Danielle immediately drew the attention of men and women alike. The former, almost without exception, were captivated both by her beauty and purpose while the latter, especially those mothers and sisters of Maria's teammates who with their husbands and fathers respectively would be able to watch the game from the sideline rather than relegated to the stands, stared daggers at the little tease who seemed in her lust for male attention always to get the better of them.

Resplendent in the late morning sun, Danielle strode purposefully along the field's sideline in a pair of 4.5" black, Manolo Blahnik Oceai cage heels, the silver buckles of which secured the leather straps of the towering shoes snugly across her leanly muscled calves. Reveling in the warm fall weather, the bare-legged beauty's toned legs were profiled to their best effect as they rose lithely from her fashionable footwear to just above mid-thigh where they disappeared beneath a pair of black, leather Jean-Claude Jitrois couture shorts that themselves were held tight by a gold Versace chain link belt. The spectacular nouveau hot pants -- made famous when Jada Pinkett-Smith sported them to one of her husband's recent premieres -- cupped Mrs. Parnell's hyper exercised bottom like a glove. The zipper -- located strategically in the back -- echoed the wonderful cleave that parted the exquisite cheeks of her magnificent ass.

Up top, the magnificent mother of three sported a light cashmere Burberry poncho the collar of which revealed that the nape of her supple neck, around which was tied a silk, Hermes, leopard-skin print scarf, was framed by two thin shoulder straps of the ribbed white Polo tank-top that she wore beneath the autumn cover-up. The short poncho itself reached Mrs. Parnell’s waistline in front and back but was not so long as to deprive anyone the view of her undeniably fit form. To provide the wind a plaything, Danielle's magnificent brown mane, sun kissed with artfully done blonde highlights, flowed freely. Her tanned skin was done in a complimentary natural hue and mirrored aviator shades protected her emerald eyes from the sun. In a word, she was a vision.

Shortly after her arrival on the field Mrs. Parnell spied Maria's team in a pre-game huddle around their coach -- Dr. Richard Miras, a local dentist, father to one of Maria's teammates and husband to Rachel Miras, one of Danielle's neighbors who, like most women in Davidson, she held in naught but disdain. Unfortunately for the preening narcissist, whose present intent was to cow Richard Miras into ensuring that her daughter started this important match, Danielle would be forced to "engage" with Mrs. Miras -- the Hobbit -- and some of the other team moms who now stood between the comely counselor and her goal.

"Why good afternoon Danielle," offered Rachel Miras, inwardly detesting the showy and smug prima donna standing before her but outwardly intimidated by the woman who had for so long lorded over her and the other team mothers.

"Why hello there Rachel," Danielle replied imperiously while flashing her best fake smile, "I'm just on my way to make sure your husband over there starts Maria in today's game."

"I don't think . . .," Mrs. Miras began before Danielle rudely and authoritatively cut her off.

"And you really shouldn't think dear, it's hard on you and painful for the rest of us to witness."

Satisfied as usual with her domination of Mrs. Miras, the arrogant uber-MILF surveyed the group of “mom jean” and sweatshirt wearing women before her -- a group that in addition to Rachel Miras included Emily Duncan and Katherine Wray, two other mothers whose daughters played on Maria's team. Disgusted but not surprised by the motley crew before her, Danielle rolled her gorgeous emerald eyes beneath the cover of her mirrored sunglasses and, in her classic "frenemy" manner, snidely chastised them all.

"Far be it for me to give sartorial tips to sophisticated dressers such as yourselves ladies but I would have expected -- given that this is the Maryland State Championship after all -- that you might have taken your wardrobes up a notch."

Flabbergasted even more than usual by her narcissistic neighbor's sharp rebuke, Rachel Miras managed to drop her oversized purse from which spilled the likes of any ordinary mom's weekend arsenal of emergency standby items including two clear-wrapped sandwiches, a pack of dental floss, any number of paper clips and candy wrappers and some assorted sticks of chewing gum.

"Pull yourself together there Miras,” Danielle laughed mockingly at the other woman's discombobulation before, as Rachel recovered the fallen sandwiches, going in for her characteristic kill.

"At least we know for sure why you're wearing those sweats," the preening beauty continued, "that's quite the lunch you've got there."

But before Rachel could even contemplate a response, or either of Emily or Katherine could come to the disgraced woman's aid, Mrs. Parnell had already turned on one of her very high heels and was quite purposefully making her way toward the coach.

Emily Duncan was the first to voice what all of them were thinking.

"Can you believe the nerve of that woman . . . take our wardrobes up a notch . . . maybe she should take hers down a notch."

Or maybe she should take it completely off daydreamed Katherine Wray who out loud, as the tall Tennessean's eyes stayed glued to Danielle's incredibly well exercised posterior moving away in its tight little leather shorts said, "just once I'd love to see her get hers."


"You can say that again," added Rachel, "she always manages to fluster me and I inevitably end up humiliating myself while she smugly flips her hair and marches away laughing. I'd sure like to see her be the one out of sorts for once."

"Or maybe out of those shorts for once," Emily Duncan added laughing.

* * *

Meanwhile, having just witnessed the aforementioned scene from not twenty yards down the touchline, a stunned Alex Morgan turned to an equally flummoxed Hope Solo and, in no small amount of disbelief inquired, "oh my God did that really just happen?"

The two women -- among the most famous female footballers on the planet -- were in Washington, D.C. that weekend for a friendly match between the U.S. women's national team and Brazil and, in the interest of promoting the women's game, had accepted an invitation to appear briefly at halftime of the Maryland girls under-14 State Championship match. Their presence was the reason for the Naval Academy football stadium sell-out -- nearly 25,000 young girls and their families had come to get a glimpse of the two stars.

"Oh it happened alright," replied Ms. Solo seeming more irritated by Mrs. Parnell's arrogance than Alex thought the situation warranted. "That's Danielle Parnell, the lawyer who just yesterday convinced the Players' Association to fire my lawyer -- to 'shut me up' -- and replaced him with her fancy firm. You should have seen her at the pitch -- she had those old men eating out of her well-manicured hand."

"Calm down Hope," replied her beautiful teammate, "there's nothing we can do about that today." Or was there?

* * *

"I honestly don't want to hear it," Danielle Parnell chided Richard Miras as he tried to explain why Maria Parnell would not be starting the day's game, "life is about winning Miras, not about participation and my daughter is one of the best -- if not the best -- player on this team. Why should she sit idly on the sidelines while some fat incompetent kid who just happens -- boo, hoo -- to be playing her last game, puts the championship at-risk. Just because you’re a loser doesn't mean these girls need to be."

"Please Mrs. Parnell, the girls can hear you . . . and as I said, Maria is great but she has two more years left with the team. She understands that fact and, in any event, I promise she'll start the second half today."

"Listen you little pipsqueak," Danielle sneered as she used her extraordinarily high heels to tower over the diminutive dentist, "I don't care if a bunch of entitled little brats can hear me and I don't care if you promise me that Maria will start every game next season but if she doesn't start today I'm going to tell that frumpy mess of a wife of yours how I'm constantly catching you leering at me during practices."

"But Danielle . . . please . . . you know that's not true," murmured the discomfited dentist kicking himself for ever even glancing at the vile vixen's astounding form.

"Oh isn't it you little pervert," sneered the sexy solicitor knowing, as usual, that she was about to get her way. "I guess we'll just see what the league's advisory committee has to say about that . . . unless you honestly think those fine men are going to side with you over . . . well . . . this."

And as the arrogant mother of three cocked her bejeweled hand upon her flawless leather encrusted hip, Richard Miras knew he would be changing the day's starting lineup.

"Of course, Danielle . . .," he began.

"It's Mrs. Parnell to you . . . Richard . . . or should I just call you Dick."

"I mean of course Mrs. Parnell, Maria will be starting today's game."

Self-satisfied with her latest conquest, Danielle Marie Parnell, with a little extra sway in her very sexy bottom, made her way back to the sidelines where, as the game was about to begin, she installed herself directly in front of the now seated Rachel Miras.

"Mrs. Parnell," the annoyed but always intimidated Rachel Miras began, mindful that her husband had just been cowed by the diva before her, "Danielle . . . you're . . . well . . . you're blocking my view of the game."

With characteristic disdain for Rachel Miras and her ilk, Danielle looked over her well exercised poncho covered shoulder and, raising her mirrored aviator sunglasses so as to look the shuddering Mrs. Miras directly in the eye, imperiously proclaimed, "there is nothing for you to see right now Rachel dear. Your husband has benched that daughter of yours so that Maria could start the game in her place. Maybe now would be a good time for you to dig into your delicious looking sandwiches."

Rachel Miras was at her wits' end. The domineering Danielle constantly made her look the fool and now it had happened once again. Not only that but Will Parnell, Danielle's high school aged son who had begun to take on his mother's worst traits had just showed up at the game in his Gonzaga High School shorts and crew tee-shirt and, standing next to his officious mother, further occluded Rachel's view. It's what she heard the stuck-up preppy say next though that really brought Rachel's blood to a boil.

"Nice one mom," the lanky teen smirked, "that comment about the sandwiches was priceless."

"Now, now William," his mother pretend scolded him in a stage whisper she clearly intended Rachel and the other moms to hear, "I'm sure she is doing the best she can with what God gave her."

And as mother and son alike laughed at the people they so looked down upon, Danielle got yet another chance for one of her oft desired "look at me" moments. As luck would have it, the ball had rolled off the field and settled right at the base of her booty-short encased legs. Convinced as always that every set up male eyes in the stadium was glued to her fantastic body, the perennially sexy soccer mom slowly bent at her waist to pick the ball up and then, with her sparkling white teeth gleaming in the daylight sun, coyly tossed it to the strapping young college referee who, caught up in the delicious diva's show, nearly swallowed his whistle as he handed the ball off to one of the girls to be put back into play.

Mrs. Rachel Miras had finally had enough. Her endless effort to endure Mrs. Parnell's disdain for -- in fact outright mockery of -- Rachel and the other moms coupled with Danielle's calculated mix of flirting with and mocking her hapless husband of a coach to make sure she maximized Maria’s playing time, had most definitely in Rachel's mind set the little tease up for a well-deserved fall.

The constant barrage of comments like, "oh my God, she is as out of shape as her mother" and "does everyone really need to play," combined with the arrogant MILF's stalking the sidelines like a fashion runway in her tiny shorts and heels had really raised the ire of the ordinarily quiet Rachel. That Richard and the other dads in attendance couldn't keep their eyes off the little trollop, which clearly stoked the fire of Danielle’s ego even more, was straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Well, thought Rachel, that all ends today. But how?

Black leather shorts! I cannot wait for the next chapter. As always, first rate writing.

The Halftime Show -- Part 2
 

No sooner than Rachel had asked herself that question, however, had Danielle and her son managed harmlessly to avoid yet another miskicked ball that -- not surprisingly given how her day had gone thus far -- smashed directly into the seated Rachel Miras and, as Will and his mother laughed heartily at the scene, caused Rachel's overstuffed bag to one more time dispel its contents to the ground.

As her unscathed nemesis once again bent at the waist to retrieve the ball, Rachel characteristically found herself humiliated and without a voice. To make matters worse, she came face to face with Mrs. Parnell who, still in full bend as she gathered the errant ball, couldn't resist hurling yet another insult, this time out of earshot of anyone but its intended target.

"Maybe if you stopped stuffing that fat face of yours with food Miras you'd be able to dodge a ball kicked by a child -- not to mention to regain some interest from your husband who seems almost unable to keep his eyes off me."

And then, while she remained bent over in a manner clearly intended to inspire drool and more from the stadium's assembled men, Danielle Parnell turned away from Rachel Miras -- giving the latter a clear view of her there for all to see leather short encased bottom -- and, finally standing up, rolled the ball back over to the quite evidently aroused referee. As if to add insult to injury, the lovely lawyer managed to step directly onto -- and crush -- one of Rachel's fallen sandwiches and, as the afternoon sun caught the golden zipper pull where Danielle's sexy little shorts met the base of her perfectly formed back, it reflected directly into Rachel's eyes which caused her to spill her soft drink into her sweat pants covered lap.

But in that moment, as she dabbed her wet clothing with some of the old napkins that had fallen from her bag, a providential plan came together in the mind of Rachel Miras -- a plan that would set into motion a cataclysmic shift in the balance of power between her and her longtime tormentor. As Rachel looked up at Mrs. Danielle Parnell's highly aerobicized, leather short encased bottom she focused not on what treasures her dimwitted husband and most other men imagined beneath Ms. Perfect's fancy little pants but rather on the very large golden zipper pull that held those fancy pants together. The surface from which the actual light of the sun's reflection had momentarily blinded her a moment before had --ironically -- shown her the metaphorical light of her soon to be revenge!

Reaching down into the scattered mess of her shoulder-bag's former contents, Rachel quickly seized upon a large paper clip and the half-used container of dental floss. Then, working as delicately as she could, the now driven Mrs. Miras pulled the entirety of the spooled up floss -- a good eight feet or so -- from its holder and tied one end tightly to the base of the paper clip. Bending the clip so that the floss would not slip off -- and as delicately and naturally as possible so as not to attract anyone's attention -- Rachel Miras threaded its open hook shaped end through the pull on the top of the zipper fastening the rear off Mrs. Parnell's oh so small, oh so tight little shorts. Chewing quickly an old stick of gum, Mrs. Miras used the resultant “glue” to ensure the hook did not slip off.

As the preening Danielle, completely unaware of Mrs. Miras' mischief, continued to drink in the adoration of all the men present, Rachel quite snugly tied the other end of the dental floss to a very sturdy leg of a nearby immovable picnic table upon which the team's halftime drinks and snacks had been arranged.

Although she fully intended to cause Danielle no small amount of embarrassment with her makeshift plan of sabotage, Rachel Miras never could have imagined the episode that was soon to transpire. Before that show began, however, and as the game drew ever closer to half-time, Alex Morgan and Hope Solo overheard a conversation between Mrs. Parnell and her arrogant young son that soon would cause them unknowingly to ally themselves with the up-to-now hapless Mrs. Miras.

"Hey mom," young Will inquired of his model-worthy mother, "I see that amazon Hope Solo had the nerve to show up here even after you made it clear at your meeting that she was all washed up."

"Everyone is entitled to a victory lap at the end of his or her career Will, even if one tops it off by bringing shame and disrepute to the very game that handed her life on a silver platter. I mean really, getting into a fist fight with her sister and nephew, getting arrested, thinking she should be the one to champion equal rights for women and then behaving like a baby after the team flamed out of the Olympics. The woman clearly has no shame," Danielle -- quite shameless herself -- arrogantly proclaimed.

Laughing heartily as his mother verbally dressed down the character of the bigger, younger, woman, the teenage Oedipean added his own two cents to the assault, "that's what these women get for trying to be men -- girls' professional soccer -- who is watching that nonsense anyway. And what kind of adult nephew gets beaten up by his aunt -- what a wuss."

"I'm nothing if not a champion of women," his mother confidently countered, "but in this case I have to agree. It's too bad really, that other girl with her is so pretty."

* * *

Hope Solo was incensed.

"I should just kick her ass right now," the seething star steamed to her friend, "and that snotty kid's too."

"Calm down Hope," shot back the lovely Ms. Morgan, "I'm just as pissed as you -- 'the other girl is so pretty' -- but you know as well as I do that one more misstep and you'll never play on the national team again. Let's just smile and wave at halftime -- snap some pictures with these kids -- and get out of here."

As Hope took in Alex's suggestion, perhaps more thoughtfully than usual because her teammate was not in her ordinary uniform or gym togs but rather, like Hope, in a light sun dress and heels, the keyed-up keeper began to calm down. It's just not worth it she wisely thought to herself -- fate has a way of giving the Danielle Parnell's of the world just what they deserve.

* * *

No sooner had that thought crossed the great goalie's mind than did fate indeed lend a hand. As the run of play again made its way toward where Danielle, Will and the other family members of Maria's team were watching, a very powerfully kicked ball crashed quite unceremoniously into the sixty or so cups of pre-poured cherry Gatorade that sat on the aforementioned immovable picnic table. The resultant impact showered the mother and son Parnell with a veritable torrent of the sticky, red drink as -- continuing its only slightly interrupted flight -- the miskicked ball then managed to knock Mrs. Parnell's aviator shades from her now equally startled and angered face.

"Oh my God," the stymied stunner screamed, brushing the ruby juice from her soaking Burberry frock as well as from the Hermes silk leopard skin scarf tied around her supple neck, "my poncho -- it's ruined."

Pulling the cashmere casualty over her head -- and in so doing revealing her tight, white, cotton-ribbed Polo tank top that covered but most certainly profiled her taught midsection and laid bare her tan, fit arms -- and notwithstanding her annoyance at the common haus fraus now having a laugh at the expense of her and her son -- Danielle Parnell immediately fixed her growing rage on the fat, little, snot nosed kid whose lack of athletic talent had caused her this sudden embarrassment -- Sarah Miras. It came as no surprise to Danielle that the child's overstuffed mother, still sitting right behind her, seemed to be laughing loudest of all -- the pig.

Determined despite the minor setback to bring some order to this sideline chaos Danielle Marie Parnell decided to make an example of the little brat and in so doing show her hillbilly of a mother what it means to impose some discipline on a child.

Striding purposefully in her towering heels as every man present remained transfixed by her mouthwateringly long and fit legs, Mrs. Parnell began to scold the little Cretan from a distance. What happened next would be the talk of the youth soccer league for years to come . . .

Thanks Chasmo for continuing these great stories. And the best is yet to come. Danielle shorts are not long for her body..

Waiting for the next installment -fun story well written. ;)

The Halftime Show -- Part 3
 

"Why you little brat . . .," raged the vindictive vixen as the now terrified Sharon Miras stopped dead in her tracks and the entire stadium looked on, "you wouldn't even be on that field if your loser of a father wasn't the coach -- do you hear me -- you'd be sitting there next to your overstuffed mother . . ."

But before the next breath left her lips, the length of dental floss reaching between the shiny gold zipper pull on the back of Danielle's tiny black leather shorts on the one hand and the sturdy table she had just marched past on the other, could extend no further and -- to the sweet sound of a loud ziiiiipppppp followed by an even more resounding riiiippppp -- Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell's very fashionable, very sexy, very short leather pants were torn from her incredibly trim, incredibly well toned waist before being dragged over her perfectly muscled thighs and exquisitely sculpted calves and finally coming to rest as a shredded, useless, mess at her towering high heel encased feet.

After a moment of stunned silence, and as the women in the crowd burst into hysterics and the men collectively groaned while their blood ran rapidly to their nether regions, the once imperious alpha-lawyer stood temporarily terrified in naught but her sky high heels, a very naughty and quite translucent leopard print silk micro-thong -- that left no doubt as to the firmness of her spectacular bottom -- a body hugging white ribbed tank top and her silk leopard print Hermes scarf.

"What happened to my pants," screamed the disgraced diva," oh my God . . . I've . . . I've . . . I've never been so embarrassed in my life!"

Little did Mrs. Parnell know, the real embarrassment had not yet even begun.

As her hands instinctively flew between covering the perfection that was her thong-covered ass and the translucent leopard spotted wisp of silk that was all that separated leering eyes from her completely shaved sex, Danielle's usually facile mind tried desperately to process what had just occurred. Where are my stunning sunglasses? How could my shorts have torn off? And why are these people -- these nobodies -- pointing and laughing at me -- at me! Oh my God, is Will staring at me . . . at my panties . . . and what's that lump in his shorts . . .

Despite having no answers to her own queries, Danielle's instincts told her definitively it was time to flee. But no sooner did she begin her high heeled run to safety than was the soon to be zeta-mom tripped up by the tattered shorts at her feet. As the crowd continued to howl at her humiliation, the once regal uber-milf toppled downward, only adding to the hilarity. To make matters worse -- at least for Mrs. Parnell -- in an attempt to break her fall she grabbed onto the first thing that she saw, which unfortunately for her now catatonic voyeur of a son -- but karmically spectacular for the likes of Hope Solo and Rachel Miras -- was the waistband of Will's tight black gym shorts.

In a scene that would have done Vaudeville proud, and not even a minute after she stood before the crowd as a picture of perfection -- imperiously looking down her nose at the peasants in her midst -- the town's self-appointed Queen Bee found herself on all fours staring slack jawed at the jockstrap covered raging hard-on of the son she had unwittingly teased to distraction.

"W-W-W . . . Will," stammered the undone beauty unable to avert her eyes from the forbidden fruit before her, "stop looking at my b-b-b . . . bottom."

"Mommy," squeaked the usually arrogant jock, trying to shield his quite inappropriate "excitement" from the smaller boys in the crowd who he picked on at school and the girls he had snubbed as "unworthy losers," all of whom were laughing uproariously, "mommy . . . you tore my pants off . . ."

Howling so much it hurt at what had become of the sexy, sophisticated fashionista who for so long treated her and the other soccer moms with disdain, as well as at the fate of her usually conceited but now pant-less son, Rachel Miras -- the very saboteur who began Danielle's epic downfall with a paperclip -- reached down to lend her a genuine hand. In an attempt to evade the grasp of the very woman who now intended to help her, however, Danielle permitted Mrs. Miras to inadvertently grab hold of the collar on the sexy solicitor's tank top. Unfortunately for the increasingly humiliated beauty, her unsuccessful evasive maneuver also caused Rachel Miras to lose her balance and, as the latter fell back into her waiting chair, she tore the fancy shirt from Mrs. Parnell's perfect body leaving her, still on her hands and knees, wearing only high heels and a matching thong and scarf.

Mortified by the sudden loss of her top and almost any remaining modicum of modesty -- and with her formerly imperious smirk replaced by a daffy stare -- Danielle Parnell helplessly watched as a small army of moms and daughters doubled over laughing at her. The officious and imperious know-it-all – Danielle Marie Parnell -- who had for so long looked down at them, was now displaying in a most undignified way the tight little ass with which she had ceaselessly teased their husbands and sons.

And while those husbands and sons too reveled in the sight of the nearly naked narcissist who had tirelessly mocked them with her beauty and arrogance, Danielle's own son began finally running for cover. Unfortunately for the jock wearing jerk, however, his inability to redirect his stare from his sexy mother's nearly nude form caused him to crash headlong into Alex Morgan and in so doing to begin to fall face first onto the field.

Attempting to break that fall, the ungainly teen grabbed onto the back of Ms. Morgan's flimsy yellow sundress which, to the now familiar sound of rendering fabric, was torn completely from the fabulous footballer's incredible body leaving her in a very lacy, very small white silk thong and a matching push-up bra.

As many of the boys and men in the crowd began as surreptitiously as possible to touch themselves at the sight of the two spectacular women now revealed before them -- and as the humiliated Alex Morgan attempted to shield herself with what remained of her dress -- Will Parnell, a "big man on campus" and rowing star at the exclusive Gonzaga High School, felt an incredibly powerful hand grab him by the wrist and begin to lift him to his feet. Still shocked by the loss of his shorts, and standing dumbfounded in only sneakers, socks, his jockstrap and a tee-shirt, the terrified teen found himself looking up into the steely blue eyes of one Hope Solo.

Meanwhile, as the assembled mothers taunted her with jeers of "meoooww" and "not so snooty now, are you?" Danielle Parnell struggled desperately to get back to her feet while simultaneously attempting to cover her spectacularly pert tits -- the nipples of which were now rock hard from a mix of autumn cold and abject degradation -- and her perfect leopard print thong-covered ass, the site of which had caused several men and boys to darken the fronts of their trousers.

Despite its best attempts the brilliant lawyer’s mind still couldn’t comprehend what was happening. How did she go from looking down upon these unworthy men and dominating their equally pathetic wives to a pinup fantasy for the former and a laughing stock of the latter? How could it be that just minutes ago she was adorned in the height of sophisticated fashion and now she was standing before them in only her highest heels, naughtiest panties and an Hermes scarf? And Will -- she had torn the shorts right off her athletic 18 year old son and come face-to-face with his manhood. And now that bully Hope Solo had Danielle’s little boy in her grasp. What would become of the two of them?

But before the comely counselor could process her family’s fate she was again soaked as the mirthful mothers she had so long looked down upon together poured the ice filled contents of a giant orange Gatorade container over her once perfectly coiffed hair. As Mrs. Parnell's newly messy mane stuck to her head, her normally exquisite make-up ran down her still stunned face and her pert nipples got even harder due to the sticky but ice cold drink, a chubby hand grabbed her bejeweled wrist and wrested the petrified prima donna from standing stupefied in her stilettos to lying over the unexercised knee of the very mom who had begun her undoing with a paper clip – Mrs. Rachel Miras.

In a similarly salacious scene, Hope Solo had torn the "Gonzaga Rowing" tee shirt from Will Parnell's now nearly naked body and – after marching him over to a chair mere inches from where Mrs. Miras held his mom -- begun to assert her version of equal rights.

The beginning of the end of the Will and Danielle Parnell was nigh . . .

Overexposed -- Part 1
 

“She’s on the line again Principal Bradley,” came the anxious voice from Sheila Bradley’s intercom, “what do you want me to tell her this time?”

She’s never going to stop calling, the newly appointed principal of Davidson Central Middle School thought to herself as she prepared to respond to her new secretary, Ms. Linda Bertrand. Lori Whiting – Sheila’s predecessor as the school’s top administrator -- had warned her about this woman but Sheila Rudolph Bradley had never imagined it would be this bad.

“She sounds more upset than usual,” Ms. Bertrand’s voice continued, this time with more than a hint of trepidation in it, “and I should know.”

Before joining the staff of Central’s “Office of the Principal,” Linda Bertrand had been the executive assistant to the now agitated caller – a woman who she feared even more than she despised. It was Ms. Bertrand’s unceremonious firing by the woman now on hold -- for “not presenting herself in a professional manner” -- that had resulted in her having to take the much lower paying but mercifully more humane position in the public school system.

“Put her through,” answered a resigned Principal Bradley, “I can only imagine what she’s on the warpath about now.”

The “she” is question was Danielle Marie Parnell, the soon-to-be 46 year-old mother of two students presently at the school, Anna and Maria. Fourteen year-old Anna was nearing the end of her tenure at Central and about to head off to a very fancy private high school north of Baltimore. Twelve year-old Maria was just about to finish her first year at the affluent suburb’s middle school but, sadly for Sheila Bradley, she and her mother would be around for at least two more years.

Rumor had it that Lori Whiting had taken early retirement in no small part to avoid the officious Mrs. Parnell who, like many an early 21st century Tiger Mother, was the first to call the school with a complaint, loudest to criticize any teacher or administrator who challenged the imperious diva’s assessment of her perfect children and least hesitant to take any perceived affront to those children “to the highest level.”

* * *

“What is this cow waiting for,” Danielle Parnell stewed to herself as she waited to be put through to Central Middle School’s new principal, “does this woman have no idea who I am.”

The gorgeous mother of three – whose oldest child Will was soon to be a junior at the prestigious Gonzaga High School in Washington, D.C. -- was making the call form the opulent bathroom of her South River facing manse while preparing for another day as the managing partner of SmythKnight, one of the world’s largest and most influential law firms that was based squarely at the foot of Capitol Hill.

As she waited impatiently, the imperious uber-MILF looked almost lustfully at the vision she loved the most – her own reflection in the mirror staring back at her. With a body better than most women half her age -- kept perfectly toned by her ruthless dedication to fitness – and a face that she often described (accurately but without a hint of modesty) as the perfect combination of Miranda Kerr and Kerri Russel, Danielle Marie Parnell was truly a vision.

At the office she wore only the finest of fashions be they body hugging power suits or the snuggest of suede slacks. Her outfits were always “appropriate” – one of her favorite words – but never failed to accentuate her magnificently aerobicized ass or her pert, ample bosom. There was no room into which she’d walk where every male head would not turn. She was, in her view, and that of most any man, physical perfection personified.

The problem was she knew it and, more troubling to those around her, she loved to lord it over the likes of the pathetic Linda Bertrand and that newly installed puppet Sheila Bradley. It was bad enough that Danielle had to tolerate Sheila’s portly daughter Jessica as a “partner” in her law firm. That she was now on hold awaiting that stuffed sausage’s mother was infuriating her. She laughed inwardly as she thought of all the times she left Jessica Bradley and the other useless women at her firm and elsewhere humiliated as their husbands, sons and boyfriends abandoned any thought of them in Mrs. Parnell’s splendiferous presence. She couldn’t figure out in her brilliant mind which of them was more pathetic, the unworthy men who wanted to see her or their pedestrian mates who all wanted to be her – and she couldn’t care less – they’re all such peasants.

* * *

At last the voice of Principal Bradley came on the line snapping Danielle from her reverie and instantly releasing upon the unsuspecting administrator Mrs. Parnell’s latest tirade.

“How I can I help you today Mrs. Parnell,” Mrs. Bradley asked with the patience she had learned over thirty plus years dealing with parents.

“Well you could start by not keeping me waiting for ten minutes,” Danielle snipped, “but seeing as how that ship has sailed perhaps you can explain to me why my daughter Anna was texted a most inappropriate image by – and of – one of the horny little perverts of whom you’re in charge. I thought you had this disgusting behavior under control.”

“Now Mrs. Parnell . . .,” Sheila Bradley interjected.

“Don’t you ‘now Mrs. Parnell’ me you weak-willed excuse for a gate keeper. If I didn’t need to keep Maria at this school for another two years I would wash my hands of this nonsense but seeing as how she seems to insist on being with her friends for until high school I guess I have no choice.”

“Danielle, please,” the pained principal tried again.

“It’s Mrs. Parnell to you Bradley,” Danielle interrupted, “and because you’re clearly doing nothing on your own to stop this nonsense you’re at the very least going to arrange a parents’ meeting so those of us who want to protect our children from these adolescent exhibitionists and voyeurs can discuss how to address the problem.”

“Mrs. Parnell,” Sheila Bradley calmly continued, “I realize that you’re upset but as you just suggested problems like this really begin with parents and are not all that easy for the school to control.”

It was the break that Danielle had been waiting for and for which she had all along been planning to close the trap on the elder Mrs. Bradley.

“How right you are, Sheila,” Danielle practically purred into the phone, “this problem does begin with parents and their general lack of discipline in respect of their entitled little children. Why am I not surprised then that the first instance of these – nary I mention them – dick pics -- involved your grandson sending them to some poor unsuspecting girl less than five years ago. Perhaps if your overstuffed daughter had put him over her knee, or you her, this all could have been avoided.”

Embarrassed by her grandson’s horrible judgement along with that of his mother, Sheila Bradley blanched.

“I don’t think corporal punishment is the answer Mrs. Parnell,” Sheila weekly defended herself.

“Of course you don’t, Sheila,” Danielle mocked, “what kind of card carrying union member liberal would ever support such a thing. Well from where I sit there is nothing that the little pig deserves more than a good spanking – other than perhaps a night in jail.”

Knowing there was naught left to say in her defense, and wanting this call desperately to be over, Sheila Harris willingly gave Mrs. Parnell the benefit of the bargain the alpha-lawyer was seeking.

“I’ll arrange a meeting for parents and students alike later this week Mrs. Parnell where, as you say, you’ll have a chance to take things into your own hands. Is there anything specific I should say you’ll be addressing.”

“Phone etiquette is what I’ll be discussing, Sheila,” Danielle arrogantly proclaimed, “the appropriate use of photos on social media to be exact. I’ll bring my daughter’s phone as an example. I assure you it contains none of the prepubescent nonsense that most of these little beasts are carrying around. All I need from you is a wireless projector so that I can share with these little miscreants and their hillbilly parents an example of the propriety that has clearly gone missing in today’s society.”
* * *

“Why are doing this to me mother . . . why,” Anna Parnell asked in vain, “you’re going to humiliate me in front of all my friends.”

“You quiet down this instant young lady,” came the stern rebuke from Danielle as she drove with her daughter to the parent-teacher meeting she had brow beaten Sheila Harris into calling, “the only people who will be humiliated are those perverted little animals in your class and their irresponsible parents. To think I’m forced to waste my time to show them how to exhibit proper social media etiquette is disgraceful – as are they!”

“But mom,” pleaded Anna, “why do we have to use my iPhone as an example?”

“Because Anna – thanks to good parenting – it’s a perfect example of how to use social media to profile one’s interests and hobbies in a productive manner,” her mother haughtily responded, “now that’s quite enough out of you.”

Anna Parnell was mortified. It was bad enough that her martinet of a mother insisted that they each have the same phone – a rose gold iPhone 7 Plus – but that Danielle also insisted that her finger print be able to access Anna’s phone made the 14-year old feel like a little kid. The reason Anna’s phone had nothing but pictures of horses from her riding lessons and school band rehearsals was that her mother’s limitless access made it very perilous to post anything else. That fact, combined with Danielle’s constant policing of her daughter’s texts and e-mails and the requirement that she be able to follow her children on any social media platform, had already caused Anna endless teasing by her friends. Having to demonstrate just how sterile her online life was in front of them today was going to really subject the young teen to some – thankfully good-natured – ribbing.

“Let’s go,” barked Danielle as she eased her brand new Mercedes convertible into a spot marked “Reserved: PTA President.”

“We can’t park here mom,” objected Anna, “Mrs. Miras is the PTA President and I know she’ll be at this meeting.”

“Well then that little Hobbit will just have to find another spot now won’t she. I don’t have time to waste driving around some junior high school parking lot just to end up where any workaday teacher or, worse yet, some half-witted cow like Linda Bertrand, can put a ding in my one-hundred-twenty-five-thousand dollar Mercedes.”

Knowing it wasn’t worth the fight, Anna Parnell stepped out from the passenger side of the car while her mother exited from the driver’s side. And what an exit it was. As Danielle stepped from her car the neck of every man and boy within view immediately snapped to take in the scene.

Always one to make an impression, Mrs. Parnell on this day was wearing on her perfectly formed feet a pair of black leather 5” Christian Louboutin Alti Spike pumps. From her bare sculpted ankles upward the preening uber-MILF had outfitted herself in a pair of skin-tight black leather Lanvin leggings. The obscenely expensive $2700 pants profiled peerlessly the perfection that was her undeniably fabulous ass, carved as if from marble.

Up top she sported a short-sleeve black and white checkered Alexander McQueen wrap top. The fashionable silk garment hugged her pert and ample bosom giving her onlookers a tantalizing view of the top of that canyon of cleavage that disappeared beneath the luxurious fabric. The veritable crop top was tied together – its only fastener – immediately above her left hip, permitting any interested viewer, and there were many, a flash of her toned, tanned midsection every time she took a step. Around her supple neck hung a diamond encrusted “D” which acknowledged her to others as Danielle but to her private delight as the Dominatrix. She smiled just thinking about it.

Her thick hair today was flat-ironed straight in order to convey to the cavalcade of nobodies she was about to address the gravity of her concerns. Mrs. Parnell’s gorgeous face was made up exquisitely but in neutral tones broken only by the dark red lipstick that framed her perfectly white teeth. Her emerald eyes were at this point hidden behind her favorite Porsche mirrored aviator shades.

“Keep up,” the suburban sexpot barked at her young daughter as she strutted through the front door of the school, “you’d think you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Although that is in fact exactly what young Anna was thinking, what happened next proved the point definitively.

“Well look who we have here Anna,” her mother said mockingly as the now eighteen year old Timothy Bradley – the subject of the original Davidson dick pic scandal some five years before – rounded the hallway corner, “it’s the little pervert who started this disgraceful trend but now he’s all grown up.”

Stunned by the beauty of the woman before him as well as by her stinging rebuke, Tim Bradley stood shocked and slack-jawed looking like a proverbial deer in the headlights.

“Nothing to say have we Mr. Bradley,” Danielle played her advantage loving the humiliation she was heaping on the now admittedly fit and handsome young man.

“It seems you have as little to say today as you once did to show,” she mocked, while Tim and Anna both turned three shades of red, “perhaps if you were more like my son Will and less of a deviant you would have learned your lesson sooner – but I guess you now know that. Well, excuse us Little Timmy, while we go teach a similar lesson to your overstuffed mother and ineffectual grandma.”

Drunk with the delight of emasculating the now humiliated Bradley boy, and especially pleased that his dressing down by her had been witnessed by the growing crowd of students and parents heading to the meeting, Danielle made her way down the hall with a little more sway in her perennially sexy hips. More than one woman – be it mother or student – was forced meekly to watch as her husband or boyfriend was transfixed by wanton lust staring at the diva of Davidson. And Danielle loved it – the losers.

What a wonderful surprise! Another episode with the lovely Ms. Parnell, Great to see you writing again.

Agee what a pleasant surprise and as always a great start to Danielle ultimate humiliation.

Overexposed -- Part 2
 

Walking into the large but crowded science lab, the makeshift arena for her presentation in which parents, teachers and students were sitting cheek to jowel at the twenty four lab stations that lined the room in four rows each six deep, Danielle sensed the concern of the parents over recent events as well as the apprehension of some of the students who were no doubt caught up in this disgraceful behavior. More satisfying to her insatiable ego, however, was that every man and boy present, whether teacher, parent or student was fixated on her beauty as she made her way to the head of the class.

Waiting for the meddlesome mother’s arrival, and prepared to be seated alongside her in front of the one-hundred-fifty or so people in the crowd, were Principal Brady, the nitwitted Linda Bertrand, Jessica Bradley, PTA President Rachel Miras and a representative of the local police force, one Sergeant Lori Heilkamp.

Danielle presented her best false smile on the outside and a mocking one on the inside as she greeted the women each of whom she had belittled in one way or another for years. She took particular delight in the fear she so clearly struck into the hearts of Linda Bertrand and Jess Bradley one of who she had already fired from SmythKnight and the other – although technically Mrs. Parnell’s partner – who clearly served at her pleasure.

The imperious alpha-lawyer likewise flashed a wry smile, more a barely concealed smirk, at Sergeant Heilkamp, having only minutes before trumped the fetching officer during a traffic stop. Danielle and Anna had been pulled over for speeding by the stunning, 5’10” German-American on the way to the meeting. Although the sexy sergeant was more than prepared to give the preening prima donna the ticket she deserved, Lori was shut down by her partner and senior officer, a strapping you lieutenant who was quickly manipulated by the brown haired beauty behind the wheel into letting her off with a mere warning.

“Good afternoon ladies,” Danielle snipped without a hint of kindness or recognition, and then, directing a veritable order to Lori Heilkamp, “why don’t you get this riff-raff settled so we can begin.”

Steaming at the arrogance of Mrs. Parnell, the pretty patrol-woman, with a forced smile on her face, asked that everyone be seated so that the program could begin. In the meantime, as she motioned to Anna to approach her in the front of the classroom, Danielle sifted through the contents of her Louis Vuitton bag to find her daughter’s phone.

“I thought I told you to put your phone in my bag Anna,” Mrs. Parnell scolded the pretty teen.

“I did mom, it should be in there,” the young girl replied, “see there it is, right next to yours.”

Picking up her daughter’s now discovered device, Danielle quickly used her well-manicured thumb to unlock it before tapping on “Photos.” After teeing up a video of the carrot munching George Bailey, Anna’s erstwhile equine companion, the comely counselor handed the phone back to her daughter who she had charged with synching the device to the wireless projector and advancing through the photos and videos -- at Danielle’s command – during the presentation.

As Anna retreated to the back of the room, her mother spied the young girl flashing a smile at that trouble-maker Tim Bradley. It was bad enough, Danielle thought to herself, that the little punk was always hanging around the stables where Anna rode, helping out with the horses and otherwise attending to odd jobs, but this was a bridge too far. Putting aside the fact that Little Timmy was too old for her precious daughter, there was no chance that Danielle Marie Parnell would countenance having Anna cavorting with some shiftless and perverted stable boy. The bothered beauty made a mental note to make that fact very clear to her daughter after the meeting.

Once the crowd had finally been seated, Sheila Harris called the parent-teacher-student meeting to order. As diplomatically as possible, the newly minted principal recounted some of the uncomfortable problems that had arisen due to students’ irresponsible use of social media and, to drive her point home, she acknowledged the attendance of Lori Heilkamp and made it clear that going forward local law enforcement would be involved as necessary.

With that introduction, officer Heilkamp said a few words as did Rachel Miras in her role as the lead liaison between parents and teachers and Jess Bradley, as a parent who had addressed this issue some years before with her son Tim. Finally, and to the waiting men and boys in the room, at last, Principal Harris stood up to introduce the evening’s guest speaker Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell.

“Parents, teachers and students,” Sheila Harris began, “without further ado, it is my great pleasure and privilege to introduce to you prominent Washington, DC attorney, concerned parent and mother to two of our students Mrs. Danielle Parnell, who will deliver a brief presentation on the appropriate use by students of photos in social media.”

With that introduction, Danielle uncrossed her incredibly toned legs, stood before the gathered crowd and, with an expression that was a cross between disdain for them and pity of them – and with her stare locked firmly on the offensive Tim Bradley – began her presentation.

“As most of you know by now,” Danielle began staring ever more intently at young Master Bradley, “certain boys – the original one of whom is now practically a man – have taken to social media to share prurient, deplorable and perverted images with our children. Most of these images are too lurid to warrant description in proper company but – as the Supreme Court once defined pornography – ‘you know it when you see it.’”

Shifting her stare to the women seated beside her, the domineering diva scornfully continued, “although decorum and our tax dollars tell us that we should be able to rely upon our community’s teachers, parents, PTA leaders and law enforcement professionals to put a stop to this tawdry behavior, experience has sadly shown us otherwise.”

As men and boys alike became aroused at the vituperative vixen’s minimization of the other women present, Danielle continued her screed.

“Perhaps not unexpectedly, it has fallen upon a true leader – one not ashamed of what she has done – to attempt to bring some rationality and civility to our children’s behavior and, what better way to do that, than by example.”

Gesturing to her daughter in the back of the room -- who was secretly hoping the floor would swallow up one or both of her and her arrogant mother – Danielle entreated further, “I’ve asked my daughter Anna to share with you – without need by me or anyone else to cherry pick or edit images in any way – a montage of the photos and videos she keeps on her phone, any and all of which a parent would be delighted to see. Hopefully, when this brief show is complete, it will usher in a more responsible approach by all of you. Anna – if you will.”

As Danielle took her seat and the lights in the room were dimmed, Anna Parnell endeavored to begin the slide show. In the darkness, however, she seemed unable to properly enter her passcode which, to the delight of many of the women in the audience, caused her mother the embarrassment of having to retreat to the back of the room and use her thumb to unlock her daughter’s phone.

At last, as Danielle rejoined the other women up front, the show began. One by one, photos of George Bailey trotting, George Bailey galloping, Anna’s friends at camp and at band practice and Anna and her friends at a birthday party began to flash across the screen causing Anna’s friends to giggle and the poor girl to suffer yet another humiliation brought on by her domineering mother. What surprised
Anna most though was just how few of the pictures she recalled taking.

As the last still shot faded away, the first video began. In it, with a bright blue sky as background, appeared the very fancy stables where the Parnell family boarded Anna’s horse and where the young teen did most of her riding. But rather than staying focused on the trusty old steed emerging from one of the paddocks, the video instead captured and followed a strapping young man, tan and shirtless wearing naught by jeans, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, hauling a bale of hay from the stables to a waiting pick-up truck – it was Timmy Bradley.

As the gaggle of Anna’s friends, boys and girls alike, began to tease her in the darkness with the likes of, “ooooh Anna,” and “Anna loves Tim,” and the mothers and female teachers in the crowd, who to a one despised Danielle, exchanged comments such as, “not so appropriate after all,” and “I guess she doesn’t have as much control at home as she thinks,” Anna Parnell stared dumbfounded for she had neither seen before nor taken the video on the screen. One of her friends, she angrily surmised, must have grabbed her phone as a joke.

But before she could consider who did it, the silence in the room was broken by an unseen but not completely discernable voice – clearly that of the videographer – saying, “mmmmm . . . mmmmm . . . mmmmm . . . don’t you look yummy little Timmy.”

“Oh my God Anna,” one of her friends screamed from the darkness, “you’re such a perv!”

“It’s not me,” Anna shouted, “I didn’t take that video . . . I don’t even remember taking those pictures.”

But no one in the room believed her. No one, that is, except her mother; because no sooner had the video appeared on the screen than had Danielle realized that she had inadvertently given Anna her phone. The lovely lawyer also realized that she needed to stop this show before that secret – and a much bigger one yet to be revealed – was out. If doing that meant humiliating her daughter in public then so be it.

“Anna Parnell,” Mrs. Parnell boomed as if in court thereby restoring silence again to the room, ”shame on you young lady . . .”

As a general principle, plots do not focus on a character unless that character later has a significant role to play. Hopefully, Lori Heilkamp and Danielle get some joint display time.:D

I'll say no more for now than this is neither the last nor the most that we shall see of the lovely Sergeant Lori Heilkamp!

Overexposed -- Part 3
 

“. . . here I am trying to show you to be a paradigm of virtue and propriety -- like me -- and it turns out you're no better than these other shameless children. Now you turn that phone off this instant -- we're going home and you're going to get exactly what's coming to you.”

“But mom, I didn't do it, I swear,” Anna protested as the likes of Jess Bradley, Linda Bertrand and Rachel Miras took no small amount of glee in the embarrassment that the girl's genuinely harmless behavior had brought upon her arrogant tease of a mother.

“I said turn off the phone right now missy,” Danielle stormed again now joined in chorus by her son Will who had come into the room part way through the meeting at his mother's request.

“You heard mom Anna,” the cocky young athlete smirked at his sister as her friends practically swooned at his presence, “turn it off you perv.”

But before the defeated Anna Parnell put her finger on the off switch, a new still image appeared on the screen -- one that exonerated one of the Parnell women present and began the downfall of the other. For as all jaws dropped, men's trousers stretched to the breaking point and smiles grew on the faces of every woman present save one, a very different and far less appropriate Danielle Parnell gazed out at the crowd from the large screen in front of the classroom.

Holding her rose colored iPhone in her bejeweled right hand, the onscreen Mrs. Parnell stood facing a full length mirror in what was a most opulent home dressing room wearing the same Louboutin Alti spike platform heels that her in personam twin had on but otherwise sporting only a tiny black, translucent, lace thong through which one could make out a very sexy landing strip, a matching push-up bra and, around her very supple neck, a 14-carat gold choker from which hung a diamond encrusted “D.” Better yet, the sexy suburbanite’s lips were pursed as if she was blowing her naughty reflection a kiss.

After a moment during which one could have heard a pin drop -- which seemed to Danielle and her gob-smacked children to be an eternity -- the gathered crowd broke spontaneously into a chorus of hoots, hollers and, especially amongst the women present, gut busting laughter.

“Mom,” cried out the shocked Will Parnell as he sought to cover up the growing bulge in his gym shorts, “what on earth are you doing?”

But unlike her brother who stood catatonically staring at the image of their scandalously dressed mother, Anna Parnell, who now realized that Danielle had knowingly let her suffer the humiliation of the last few minutes, decide to return the favor.

“Anna Parnell you turn that phone off instantly do you hear me,” roared Danielle as she rose from her chair with far less moral authority than she had commanded just moments before.

And then, realizing that she needed to try to change the narrative, the ordinarily hyper-confident beauty weakly croaked, “that . . . that's not me up there. . .” But the crowd’s laughter only grew louder at her pathetic protest.

“Someone must have doctored that picture,” the humiliated uber-MILF shouted as she tried to make her way past the women she had looked down upon and mocked for so long to get a hold of her phone, “turn it off you stupid girl.”

But smiling devilishly at her mother from the back of the room, Anna did no such thing. Rather, with a swipe of her finger -- curious to see what other naughty secrets her mother might be hiding -- she caused the ribald still shot of her barely dressed mom to transition to a video of a topless Danielle Parnell this time wearing only an obscenely high heeled pair of tacky, fire-engine red, Jessica Simpson brand “cowgirl” boots on her perfect little feet, a sexy straw cowboy hat, from under which pigtails made an appearance, on her normally well-coiffed head, a minuscule silk red thong in the pattern of a classic bandana on her oh so fabulous bottom and an actual bandana around her pretty, tan neck.

What's more, the soon to be far-less-powerful lawyer in the video had clearly set her phone on a counter in her majestic marble bathroom to record, now for posterity, her wanton display. With both hands therefore free she held in her right one a large glass of white wine and in her left a black leather lasso. As she did a turn for herself in the mirror, practically fawning at her scandalously sexy image, the very naughty vixen, for the first time, began to speak to what was clearly an imagined audience of one.

“How'd you lie to hog-tie this little filly stud,” she purred sexily, “what's the matter Timmy . . . don't you think you could handle the ride.”

As the crowd went wild, Danielle's normally facile brain reeled from the humiliation brought on by the outrageous performance of her onscreen doppelgänger. Although she knew she’d never again be able to appear at Davidson Middle School she also realized she needed to end this now in order to contain the collateral damage that this could have on her up to now unblemished professional career. With that in mind the panicked parent began a beeline toward her stunned but laughing daughter to put an end to this humiliating show.

“Not so fast you little hussy,” came the bellowing voice of Jess Bradley who on the one hand saw naught but red at the objectification of her barely 18 year old son by this two-faced, judgmental Jezebel, while on the other was giddy with delight at the haughty tease's downfall.

Suddenly terrified by the ire of the law partner she had berated so many times before, and aware now that she could be professionally as well as personally compromised, Danielle -- as quickly as her towering heels would permit -- sought to escape the infuriated Mrs. Bradley by squeezing between two of the room’s large lab tables. Unfortunately for the fleeing femme fatale, however, and in no small part due to the close quarters created by the large, laughing crowd in the rather small room, as Danielle shimmied by a hysterically guffawing mother and daughter already occupying the space she was seeking to traverse, she bumped into the immovable lab table causing, unbeknownst to her, the hip of her exquisitely expensive leather Lanvin pants to snag on the jagged corner of the ancient desk's metal top.

Thus, as the sexy solicitor continued her purposeful journey toward Anna and escape, her very fashionable, very sexy, very tight leather pants, gaining no release from the massive desk to which they were now attached, were peeled from her fabulous legs and ass like a banana skin leaving the soon to be further mortified mother in only her spiked stilettos, her wrap around Alexander MacQueen blouse -- that tied together a good two inches above her tan, toned waist -- and the merest wisp of a translucent hot pink micro thong that she had ordered online from a tawdry lingerie store and upon which -- across the barely there triangle of silk that covered her most private treasures -- were seven, white, silk embroidered letters, in cursive, reading “Got MILF?”

As she realized too late what had happened and as the crowd went yet wilder with screams of, “pornography . . . you know it when you see it,” and “I guess the true leader is ashamed of what she has done,” the smug look that generally graced Mrs. Parnell’s beautiful face was replaced with a blank, daffy, stare.

How could this day get any more humiliating . . . but then it did.

Overexposed -- Part 4
 

Apologies for the delay in getting this final part posted. It's getting a bit more difficult each time to find a way properly to give Mrs. Parnell her just desserts. I'll keep on trying but may start to bring the same end to some of the other women in the WMCU universe (namely Nicole Silver and Katherine Wray). In any event, please enjoy.

* * *

Emboldened by the karmic justice being meted out upon the arrogant MILF who not more than twenty minutes earlier had humiliated him, and under cover of the ensuing commotion all around, Timothy Bradley discreetly grabbed the tail end of the knotted blouse covering Mrs. Parnell’s fabulous body and gently gave it a pull.

The resultant unravelling of Danielle’s very fashionable Alexander McQueen top – which at first went unnoticed by the shell-shocked diva as she tried desperately to shield her perfect thong covered ass – unveiled not only the lovely lawyer’s taught and tanned midsection but also the clear fact that she had purchased a very tawdry and cheap pink bra to accompany her naughty neon panties. For as women laughed all the heartier and men got all the harder, the sexy solicitor was left from the waist up in naught but a diaphanous, neon pink, mesh, push-up bra that barely contained her incredibly pert, softball sized tits and each cup of which was emblazoned in white embroidery with the letters “TA.”

In case there was any doubt as to the meaning of said letters, it was erased by the now priapic Will Parnell blurting out, “Oh my God mommy . . . everyone can see . . . your . . . ta-tas!”

As the students and parents howled uncontrollably around her, Anna Parnell couldn’t help but smile at how much she was enjoying the very public comeuppance of her imperious know-it-all of a mother and her arrogant jerk of a brother.

That smile only broadened, however, when – reluctant to let them off the hook so soon – Anna clicked on the next video in her now nearly naked mother’s fancy phone. In place of Danielle’s turn as a topless, cougar, cowgirl, the appreciative audience was now treated to a very tipsy Mrs. Parnell, this time sporting a very short, black, silk robe – open in front to reveal a leopard print thong and bra – a towering pair of black platform heels and her patented diamond “D” hanging around her neck. Again with a glass of wine in her hand – this time red – the tantalizing tease appeared to be rummaging through a drawer in what was a palatial walk in closet.

“William Parnell,” she spoke out loud to herself clearly annoyed, “I think someone’s been stealing mommy’s panties again.”

And then, with a wry smile forming on her fire engine red lips as she rubbed her diamond “D” necklace in her free hand, “perhaps the dominatrix will have to give her little boy another over the knee spanking.”

As the video came to a stop and Danielle’s stupefied gaze locked with her son’s slack-jawed stare, Anna and the rest of the crowd went into an even greater frenzy.

“Who’s the perv now,” the delighted teen joked as her brother appeared to begin hyperventilating.

“Not such a big stud today -- eh Parnell?” came the voice of a young student who Will Parnell had terrorized for years.

“Didn’t you say if I was more like your son Will I’d be less of a social deviant,” Tim Bradley chimed in delighted to be turning the tables on the arrogant Mrs. Parnell and her son.

Equally mortified and aroused by his mother’s disrobing and clearly knocked back on his heels by the accusation leveled at him by her on-screen twin, the stunned soon-to-be former stud stuttered, “M-m-m-mom . . . what are you talking about . . . I would never . . . I mean . . . she’s lying . . . and . . . I don’t get spanked . . . anymore . . .”

But before he could finish his protestations or his mother could weigh in, a quick and deliberate move by Tim Bradley proved unequivocally that Danielle’s suspicions were very well founded. As Will stood stupidly staring at his mortified mother, young Mr. Bradley grabbed the waist band of the buff oarsman’s purple Gonzaga sweatpants and, in one fell swoop, pulled them down to the stammering student’s ankles. But instead of his school issued crew shorts, compression pants or even a purple jockstrap, Will Parnell was revealed to be wearing only a black and white zebra patterned silk thong that he had stolen from his mother’s drawer that very morning. Worse yet, the formerly haughty helmsman stood sporting a raging – although somewhat undersized -- hard-on brought on by both the state of his pink-pantied mother and his own secret joy at the indignity of being found out.

As mother and son were immobilized by their joint undoing, the former red-faced trying at once to cover her perfectly formed bottom and barely constrained boobs while unable to pull her eyes from her son’s obvious show of excitement and the latter too aroused by the discovery of his secret shame and the pulchritude of his humiliated mother to cover himself, the Bradley women, Linda Bertrand and Sergeant Lori Heilkamp all joined the fray.

It was Principal Bradley who spoke first after she and her daughter managed to box the quivering Danielle Parnell between themselves and two of the large lab tables.

“Well, well, well Mrs. Parnell,” Sheila Bradely smiled, “it looks like your reason for demanding this meeting – to protect our children from exhibitionists and voyeurs I think you said – was well founded after all. But something tells me you didn’t expect to be found out to be the biggest of both – video voyeuring my grandson and exhibiting yourself – for shame.”

“And it looks like the only thing overstuffed here today,” Jess Bradley joined in taunting Danielle with the same phrase the little tease had so often thrown at her loving for once that she had leverage over her usually imperious law partner, “is your sl*tty little bra and your son’s – well – panties.”

Trapped between the mother and daughter Bradley, her normally facile mind reeling from her own humiliation as well as that of her once proud son, Danielle reached deep inside herself in an attempt to cow her gloating junior partner who she hoped would respond with customary fear.

“You get out of my way this instant Bradley,” barked the barely dressed barrister, “or, mark my words, your days at SmythKnight are over!”

But as Mrs. Parnell, hoping to have thrown Jessica Bradley off guard with her stern rebuke, attempted to storm past the somewhat portly practitioner, it became quickly evident that ordinarily domineering Danielle had made a major miscalculation.

“Not this time Parnell,” smiled a newly confident Jessica Bradley who never before had addressed Danielle by her last name and who, with her mother’s help, stopped the mortified mother of three in her tracks by forcefully grabbing the smaller woman’s bejeweled wrist.

“Leave me alone you fat cow,” snapped the undone diva in a panic before shouting at her still stupefied son, “Will . . . do something you nitwit . . . help mommy!”

Pulled from the daze of his own demise, Will Parnell attempted to heed his mother’s call without first thinking to pull up the warm-up pants now pooled at his feet. To the further delight of the room’s already appreciative male population, the be-thonged teen’s resulting tumble caused him – in an effort to break his fall – to grab blindly onto the skirt of Officer Lori Heilkamp who was resolutely moving toward the kerfuffle between the terrified Mrs. Parnell and the now quite assertive Jess Bradley.

As another RIIIIIIIPPPPPP!!! echoed through the packed classroom, the statuesque sergeant was parted from her form-fitting blue uniform skirt leaving her in a pair of very high, black, patent leather heels, a tight white dress-uniform blouse that stopped at the very top of her waist, a meter-maid style police cap and the briefest pair of “police blue” thong panties – with a gold badge stenciled on the translucent silk triangle in front – that were most definitely not regulation issued.

“Oh noooo . . . my skirt,” cried Lori Heilkamp with a look of shock and terror replacing her austere gaze of officialdom as students, teachers and parents alike continued to laugh hysterically at the clothing catastrophes continuing to unfold before them.

But despite her own embarrassment and with a more than somewhat lessened aura of authority, the dis-dressed deputy grabbed Will Parnell by the scruff of his polo shirt covered neck and, depositing him on a nearby stool, whisked the young man’s sweat pants clear off him before quickly climbing into them herself. And as Will Parnell – now in only his trainers, a polo shirt and his mother’s thong – attempted to cover his “excitement” piqued by the site of his near naked mother, Lori Heilkamp pulled the handcuffs from the belt that had never left her slender waist and snapping one of them onto the wrist of the befuddled bozo, used her free hand to radio her partner – sitting in a patrol car in the Davidson Central Middle School parking lot – for backup.

In the meantime, while Anna Parnell and the rest of the guffawing daughters and mothers cheered her on, Jessica Bradley Esquire set out to administer her own brand of justice on the oh so pert be-thonged bottom of Will’s mother. Feeling more liberated than she had any time in her professional career, Jess Bradley – with the able assistance of her elated mother and Linda Bertrand – had managed to put her long-time nemesis squarely across the knee of the polyester skirt that Danielle had mocked so many times before.

“You let me go this instant, do you hear me,” protested SmythKnight’s soon to be ex-managing partner while she wildly kicked her legs like the spoiled brat she was a result of which was to send one of her very expensive Christian Louboutin spiked heels flying into the crowd.

“I’ll do no such thing you little tease,” Ms. Bradley shouted as she waived Linda Bertrand over.

“Miss Bertrand,” Jess then asked the smiling secretary, “I believe little Miss MILF here fired you from our firm for . . . what was that offense that you committed?”

“Why Ms. Bradley I was terminated for failing to present the appropriate professional image,” laughed Linda Bertrand loving that tables were for once being turned on Danielle Marie Parnell.

“You can’t fire me Bradley,” shouted Danielle, “I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m the managing partner.”

“Maybe I can’t you stuck up little show-off, but I can – and I will – call a vote of the partners to expel you in light of your violation of the morality clause that you insisted be included in our partnership agreement . . . Dani,” Jess responded calling Mrs. Parnell by a name she knew the defeated diva hated.

“And in light of your behavior here today,” Jess continued, “I’m fairly certain it’s your days at SmythKnight that are numbered not mine.”

As Danielle squirmed, the audience continued to go wild and Lori Heilkamp dragged Will toward what Jess Bradley knew could be the end of her fun, the newly confident counselor unclipped the diamond “D” necklace from around Mrs. Parnell’s supple neck and, after putting it on herself, whispered into Danielle’s ear.

“I’m the dominatrix now you little tart and I’m going to spank this tight ass of yours – that you love so much to flaunt – to pay you back for every time you’ve rolled your eyes at me, called me fat, made fun of my clothes or otherwise been an absolutely intolerable shrew. And if I ever see you as much as looking in my son’s direction again, I’ll strip you completely naked and kick that ass of yours so hard you’ll wish you’d never been born . . . do I make myself clear.”

And then, to the delight of all present, and with a look of abject terror on her once smug face, Danielle Marie Parnell, sounding like a child, squeaked, “yes Miss. Bradley . . . very clear . . . I’m a bad little girl who needs the dominatrix . . . I mean you Mistress . . . to spank my tushy for my completely inappropriate behavior.”

And as Jessica Bradley gladly accommodated that wish . . . raining spank after painful spank down on Danielle’s fabulous ass while the latter managed to kick off her one remaining oh so sexy, oh so grown-up high heeled shoe, Lori Heilkamp clasped the mate to the hand-cuff locked on Will Parnell around the diamond encrusted wrist of his once imperious mother. Then, pulling the literally and figuratively diminished diva to her feet (which caused the flimsy bra holding her “ta-ta’s” in place to fall uselessly to the ground) the powerful police woman marched mother and son out of the classroom, down the school’s long central hallway and out into the parking lot where, having retied her damaged skirt back in place after giving young Will back his warm up pants if not his dignity and outfitting Danielle in an orange “juvenile offender” jumpsuit that made her look much more like the naughty child she was than the haughty alpha-mom who had disdainfully addressed the crowd mere minutes before, Lori Heilkamp came face-to-face with her partner – the young, strapping lieutenant who had been teased by the speeding Danielle earlier in the day into letter her off with only a warning.

As Lori worried that she would once again be overruled, Danielle, in a last ditch attempt to restore some dignity and her freedom, tried again to play the sexpot card that had permitted her to manipulate so many men before.

“Officer, it’s me,” she purred using her most alluring come-hither voice as she pulled down the zipper on her ill-fitting orange jumpsuit in an effort to reveal some cleavage, “it seems there’s been a terrible mistake and I think your partner has . . . again . . . crossed the line.”

But as her former savior’s gaze shifted between this small, disheveled woman in the ridiculous children’s jumpsuit on the one hand and, on the other, his statuesque blonde partner standing tall in her black high heels and hastily repaired skirt that permitted him a view of Lori Heilkamp’s leanly muscled, sexy thigh, the strapping young lieutenant’s response instantly confirmed whose side he was on.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you must have me confused with someone else, you’re under arrest.”

As the blonde stunner smiled inwardly having triumphed over the once arrogant little tease in her grasp, and as she roughly deposited her two “perps” into the rear of the waiting cruiser, a tow truck was pulling Danielle’s very fancy Mercedes out of the spot into which it had illegally been parked barely an hour earlier.

Before the evening was over Will Parnell had been expelled from Gonzaga High School, the Davidson Municipal Court – where Danielle had sat as a judge on a pro bono basis for years -- had dismissed her from that position and issued temporary restraining order against her requiring – due to her inappropriate, shameful and lewd display – that she keep at least five hundred feet away from all Davidson public schools, the partnership of SmythKnight had held an emergency meeting expelling its once imperious managing partner, and videos of Danielle and Will Parnell’s public stripping – posted by Anna and many others – had gone viral on social media.

The following weekend, as Will Parnell was mowing the Bradley family’s lawn for some extra money now that his allowance was gone, Jess Bradley stared out at the shirtless boy and, smiling, rubbed the diamond “D” now hanging around her neck.

Damn, they really fell hard this time. I kinda feel bad for will.

Hey Roxxy -- I was worried I may have gone a bridge too far with poor Will's demise and your comment confirms that may be so. Once we're feeling bad for Will or his mom something has definitely gone sideways (although if you knew his real mom -- trust me -- you'd have no sympathy for her)!

I'll be sensitive to that in the next tale so thanks. I have a few other ideas in store for Danielle but always open to suggestions.

No sympathy
 

Danielle is furthest from garnering "sympathy" by any means. Will doesn't really either cause of his entitled personality just from being Danielle's son and not really doing anything besides being her sidekick

If anyone gets sympathy it's the daughter for dealing with these 2 lol.

next
 

While I do enjoy a good Danielle story, I wouldn't mind seeing some of the other ladies get some of the same treatment. It's happened a few times before.

What I'd really like to know is if any "accidents" happened to the real mom?

Thanks memfic!

I agree that it might be high time to see the likes of Nicole Silver and Katherine Wray suffer some additional indignity along with Mrs. Parnell. Susan Kayser (who featured a bit in the Sarah Palin story) is another hot, arrogant mom in Danielle's universe who can use some humbling as is Mrs. P's best friend -- the Chicago based Eileen Liu who, like Danielle, is quite the haughty professional.

As for the real mom, one can only hope for her actual downfall. Suffice it to say it would make a real universe of women quite happy! One interesting true tidbit is that the actual Mrs. P has apparently had her panties stolen from her gym bag multiple times at work although there is a rumor (again -- you can't make this stuff up) that she is just saying that so she can tease men by talking to them about her sexy underwear.

In any event, please feel free to share suggestions or ideas.

The Bigger They Are . . .
 

So this story is a bit different and perhaps slightly out of character given its predecessors. It's based very much on a tale that I read on the Valkyrie site some ten years ago that was called "The Baroness: A homewrecker gets her comeuppance" and authored by ToneToneMalone. A link to the original is here and I encourage everyone to read it (it's great):

www.thevalkyrie.com/stories/1misc21/baroness.txt

If in the view of the moderators I've gone too far in appropriating this story then by all means please remove it. That said, I've attempted to bring a Danielle Parnell angle to it, to pay it its due homage and to appropriately give credit where it is most certainly due. One funny note is that I really did plan on using "Tracy" and "Joe" (two people in the real Danielle's life) in this story and it is uncanny that those names were in the original. Without further adieu, I hope you enjoy "The Bigger They Are . . ."

* * *

Tracy Olie walked into her husband's home office, a pencil behind her ear, a cup of coffee in her hand. Light-haired and hazel-eyed, she was half-Irish and half-Polish, 4’ 9’, reed thin – some, and one in particular, would say too thin -- and whip smart if not at all beautiful. She sat down at the desk, ready to do some work at the computer, when she noticed that he had one unread message in his home email account. Sender: Danielle M. Parnell.

Tracy set her coffee cup on the desk and stared at the computer screen. She wasn't a sneak or a spy, but how could she pretend not to see this when it was staring her in the face? The problem was she knew this woman.

Tracy and her husband, Joe Cardozi, were both lawyers in Washington, D.C., and, thanks to their excellent credentials and the lack of an anti-nepotism policy, both had just joined the Washington office of the prestigious law firm of SmythKnight. Although they had only been there a short time, a few things had already become very clear.

First, despite her towering intellect and being a partner in her new firm, Tracy almost didn’t exist in the eyes of the firm’s Managing Partner who was the self-same woman whose e-mail, yet unopened, sat in the Inbox of Joe’s home account. To the extent that Mrs. Parnell gave the frail Ms. Olie any notice at all it was to practically sneer at her either in SmythKnight’s marble halls, conference rooms or – more disconcertingly – the Equinox fitness club adjacent to the firm’s offices where many of its lawyers worked out.

Second, although Danielle paid no heed to Tracy, she seemed to eye Joe like a delicious meal to be consumed at her pleasure. In stark contrast to his meek, mousy and by no means ugly genius of a wife, Joe Cardozi – though only an associate due to taking time between college and law school to pursue other interests – was both model good-looking and incredibly fit. Those facts however didn’t interfere with his being one of the nicest, most caring men at the office and loving his wife unconditionally.

Those same characteristics (nice and caring that is) were not shared by Danielle Marie Parnell. The 46 year-old mother of three was every bit the alpha female. As brilliant as she was beautiful, the gorgeous brunette had a better body than most women half her age. Her toned legs led up to a spectacular pear shaped ass and her firm midsection gave rise to a pair of pert, baseball sized tits. Her face, a cross between Miranda Kerr and Keri Russel with its emerald green eyes and perfect smile, was flawless. There wasn’t a man at SmythKnight or elsewhere whose head wouldn’t turn in her presence particularly because she wore only the highest heels and most fashionable clothing that, although in good taste, showed her body to its best effect.

Unlike the affable Joe Cardozi who in his wife Tracy saw love despite her lack of purely physical beauty, the only love that Danielle Parnell had was for herself. What’s more, her special thrill -- as she liked to think of it -- came from flaunting her ruthlessly exercised body, clad in her highest heels and power suits, in front of the pathetic men and boys who so desperately longed for her – the losers. The only higher high for Danielle came from knowing that the power she had over men manifested itself most satisfyingly in how weak and insignificant their lust for her made their actual wives, girlfriends and daughters feel. Perhaps they should take better care of themselves the cows.

Despite her principal role as the top lawyer at SmythKnight, Danielle had the body of fitness model and spent at least two hours a day at the gym, perfecting what was already the most perfect body Tracy had ever seen. Although only 5’ 3” tall she towered over the smaller Ms. Olie even while working out which is the only time Danielle was in anything less than a 4” heel. Mrs. Parnell also seemed perpetually tanned and Tracy had been unable to take her eyes off the woman when she first saw her showering in the locker room. If anything she was too perfect, her diamond belly button ring glittering in the center of her six-pack abs, the carved contours of her calves and thighs rising into a powerful, round ass neatly bisected by the pristine white crescent of her tan line.

One day in the locker room Tracy had realized with sudden embarrassment that Danielle knew she was being watched. She smirked at Tracy, her hands on her hips, the shampoo suds running down the steep cleavage between her heavy tan tits. Tracy wondered if they were fake-- she'd never seen real breasts that were that large and that pert, and the skin seemed stretched preternaturally tight.

Watching as Danielle Parnell curled her lips disdainfully at her, Tracy felt that old high school dread of being snubbed by the richer, more popular girls. The true injustice was that this woman didn't just have an insane body-- her face was perfect too, her eyes a brilliant, emerald green, her nose small and straight, her lips full and cruel. Her thick hair was brown but streaked almost perfectly with sunlit blonde highlights; in the gym she usually wore it pulled back in a tight ponytail.

So when Tracy saw the email, she felt a great sinking feeling. She clicked on it to open it.

"Dear Joe:

I genuinely admire how much you seem to adore that little wife of yours, but wasting all of your obvious gifts on her is really such a poor use of a beautiful man. In case you ever get bored of the weak little midget, let me know. It would most certainly enhance your career prospects (and protect hers). We could get a room at the Mandarin Oriental where I could show you a few things. After a few hours with me you'll forget all about wifey.

XXX
The Boss"

Below the message was a large, high-resolution photograph of Danielle, dressed incredibly provocatively in one of her most form-fitting skirts, a sleeveless blouse and a sky-high pair of leopard print heels. The sexy solicitor was bending forward over the white leather sofa in her opulent SmythKnight office. She was looking over her shoulder, giving the viewer a sultry look. It was a photograph that would make any straight man question his vows, even one as loyal as Joe.

Tracy stared at the Danielle’s arrogant, perfect features. She stared at the woman's long, well-muscled arms. She stared at the perfect smile that seemed to be smirking at her.

At 4'9", Tracy wasn't a midget, but she sometimes felt like one in Danielle’s presence. In addition to her incredibly fashionable office wear, the fantastically fit Mrs. Parnell wore infuriatingly sexy outfits to the gym: skintight black spandex bodysuits; short shorts that seemed to stop midway down her ass; sleeveless tops to better show off her developed biceps and triceps. Whatever she wore, her nipples always seemed ready to burst out of her clothing, as if she were walking around in a perpetual state of arousal. Which, in fact, all the men in the gym probably were as they stared at her fantastic body. Danielle knew her power over men and flaunted it constantly, flirting with everyone, bending over to give all the husbands and boyfriends a good view of her butt, brushing her tits against them even as she gave them withering and disdainful looks.

Tracy wasn’t alone in noticing the domineering diva’s behavior. Some of her new partners like Lauren Butcher and Karen Manley were equally intimidated by their boss’ preening behavior at the gym but none wanted to risk her job over challenging it and, unlike Tracy, neither woman had her husband in Danielle’s sites. Linda Bertrand, Mrs. Parnell’s executive assistant, had warned Tracy that Danielle’s interest in her husband Joe was matched only by the comely counselor’s similar view of Adam Hess, a bailiff at the Davidson Municipal Court where Danielle served as a pro bono judge.

Unlike Mrs. Parnell, Tracy tended to wear baggy sweats and old t-shirts when she worked out. Not that she wasn’t aerobically fit, but she already had a man and she didn't see the point in trying to impress a bunch of strangers. She only weighed 85 pounds but she thought her body was just fine. More than this, and unknown to most, Tracy was far stronger than she looked. She had grown up on a farm in Iowa, with three older brothers, and she had learned quickly that whiners were not tolerated and that she would have to defend herself in this world.

Still, she wasn't nearly as strong as the Danielle. She remembered one time when she was working out on the lat pull machine. She had finished her set and sat there panting when she heard a derisive snort. She turned and found herself staring into her boss’ white spandex crotch. The woman's shorts were so tight the outline of her waxed pussy lips was clearly defined beneath the fabric.

"I'm using this machine now, little girl. Why don't you run along before you hurt yourself?"

Tracy, intimidated, had stammered some kind of lame apology and scooted away, watching from a distance as Danielle did rep after rep with twice the weight Tracy could manage.

But later she grew angry, remembering how timid she had been. She wasn't going to be a coward anymore.

She typed a quick reply to the email.

"Have your assistant reserve a room at the Mandarin. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at 3:00 PM. Wear something sexy."

Tracy only had to wait three minutes for a reply. She had seen Danielle constantly sauntering around with her rose gold iPhone 7Plus, and now she knew why the woman always had it with her.

"Mmmmm, I figured I could turn you around. See you at 3:00 PM. Tell scrawny not to wait up."

Tracy gritted her teeth and erased both of the Danielle’s emails.

At 3:20 the next day, having told Linda Bertrand she was heading out to an important meeting and was not to be disturbed, Danielle Marie Parnell pulled into the roundabout in front of the Mandarin Oriental hotel in southwest Washington, DC, in her 2017 Mercedes AMG GT Convertible. She stepped out of the car in her 5” heels and dropped the keys on the pavement, smirking as the young valet stooped to pick them up.

"How long will you be, ma'am?"

"As long as it takes," she replied dismissively before turning on her towering heels and veritably strutted into the hotel with a little extra sway in her fabulous hips smiling as she imagined the pathetic valets watching her. Above her black Fendi heels she wore a pair of black Prada tights that profiled her incredibly well exercised ass as if it was carved from marble and made it eminently clear she could be wearing only the tiniest of thongs which indeed she was. Her imperious gaze as she strutted into the hotel lobby fell disdainfully upon the weak men who couldn’t take their eyes off her and their pathetic wives and girlfriends who couldn’t do a thing about it – she loved it. A gold chain belt was wrapped twice around her taut abdomen closed in front by a large Hermes “H.” On top she wore a very fashionable white, ribbed, cotton tank-top and no bra. A platinum chain hung around her neck, a small diamond "D" medallion dangling in the shadowed cleavage between her majestic tits.

She was deeply tanned, thanks to her recent return from two weeks in St. Tropez where she lathered herself in cocoa butter, stripped down to her thong and bikini top, and let herself bronze. The muscles in her shoulders and arms were sharply defined but feminine. In short she was the personification of every man’s uber-MILF fantasy.

Her sun-kissed and blonde highlighted brown hair was tied into a tight chignon, the better to reveal her high cheekbones and tanned, flawless complexion. She rode the elevator to the tenth floor, walked to Suite 1009, and knocked on the door. She raised one delicately plucked eyebrow as she saw that the door had been left slightly open. A note sat on the king sized bed and she picked it up.

"Take off your clothes and meet me in the shower."

Danielle laughed and entered the room. The bathroom door was closed; the sounds of soft jazz music and running water echoed soothingly through the suite that she had made Tracy Olie reserve for her earlier in the day – the irony was as delicious to her as she supposed would be her conquest – nee humiliation – of Tracy and her perfect specimen of a husband Joe Cardozi. How, Danielle thought to herself, did that anemic little nothing land such a stud?

"You move fast, don't you Joey,” Danielle called toward the bathroom door, “I like that. I was feeling a little dirty."

She pulled off her tank top and tossed it on the bed. She sat on the edge of the bed temporarily removed her shoes and then stood and unpeeled the black tights. Stepping back into her towering stilettos she couldn’t help but admire herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, turning in place, nude save for a tiny leopard print thong and her incredibly high heeled shoes.

Danielle’s only true love was herself, and nothing got her hornier than watching herself nearly naked. She always insisted on positioning a mirror during lovemaking, so that could she could delight in her own tanned, machined body, her grinding hips, her sweat-streaked thighs, her heaving tits with their creamy thong bikini tan line. Although she had originally intended merely to have Joe Cardozi service her with his tongue while she took compromising pictures of the Adonis like stud in the act to forever bind him and his weakling of a wife to her will, she contemplated letting the gorgeous young man have more than a taste if the spirit so moved her.

Charged with lust, Danielle Parnell opened the bathroom door and stepped into the steamy room.

"You ready for me, big boy?"

A camera sat on the counter and the Danielle grinned. She loved to be photographed naked and knew that she could manipulate Joe Cardozi into letting her have the camera when their fun was done. More than that, she loved sending compromising photographs of her conquests to the weak little whimpering wives who'd been left alone. How jealous they must feel, to see their husbands so aroused knowing that they had been unfaithful! How sexless and stupid they all were in comparison. Their frumpy forms and pea brains nothing when held up to Danielle’s goddess-like body and mind!

The glass door to the massive shower was closed and completely fogged over with steam. She smiled as she walked toward the shower, feeling her nipples hardening, her pussy getting slick.

Danielle only toyed with married men. She loved the power she felt, stealing them away from their obedient little wives. The thought of the women's agony, when they eventually found out their husbands had betrayed them – Mrs. Parnell could think of nothing sexier.

Humiliating weaker women – be it mentally or physically -- had always been a great turn-on for her.

She smiled as she stepped past the piled clothing on the floor. If she'd looked a little closer, she might have realized the hoody was too small, the tennis shoes only size 4s. But Danielle was quite distracted, her hairless pussy already slick with the thought of her imminent conquest.

"You know that little wife of yours can't compete with this," she gloated, opening the shower door. "I bet you don't even remember her name."

Danielle squinted into the steam. The shower was empty.

"Oh, I know her name."

Mrs. Parnell’s eyes widened dramatically. That wasn't Joe's voice. In fact, it sounded like a woman...

She turned, staring with shock at the little dirty blonde who stood before her with clenched fists, wearing nothing but a pair of blue-jean shorts and a t-shirt.

"It's Tracy."

Tracy's older brothers had taught her how to box when she was younger and she never forgot their lessons. Snarling with a lioness' fury, she pivoted on her rear foot, swiveling her narrow hips, getting all of her 85 pounds into the punch. She had placed her diamond engagement ring on her right hand for the occasion, and her little fist flashed through the air, smashing into Danielle’s chin with a very satisfying crack.

The power of the blow lifted the once domineering diva onto her tip-toes, her back arching backwards, her tanned buttocks clamping together. Her mouth opened and a pained groan sounded past her full lips, those same lips that had smirked at Tracy with disdain so many times before.

"Uhhhnfff..."

All this must have happened in half a second but for Tracy everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She had been waiting so long for this moment, had been hoping for it so badly, that now she seemed able to will reality to move frame by frame.

Any casual observer looking at a snapshot of the scene would have been startled by the implausibility. Danielle stood a good five inches taller than Tracy. She was far more muscular, her ass seemingly carved from marble, testament to the endless hours of squats she did while watching herself in the mirror. Her arms looked twice as strong as Tracy's slender reeds. Her perfectly muscled back seemed as faceted as a diamond, and her stomach was so chiseled it looked ready for use as an anvil.

But her glorious body, her powerful muscles, couldn't help her now. Danielle’s emerald green eyes rolled back in their sockets. Her pert breasts bounced as she began to fall.

Mrs. Parnell flopped backwards, her arms hung useless by her sides as she slammed against the tiled wall of the shower. She skidded slowly to the floor, squeaking against the wet tiles, ending up spread-eagled on her back in the shower spray, her mouth slightly open, and her perfect breasts rising and falling softly, her immaculately hairless crotch a thin strip of white on her bronzed body. Warm water showered down on her unconscious form, puddling in the gap between her breasts, running in rivulets down the channels of her abdominals, pattering off the slick pink skin of her exposed sex.

"Stay away from my husband," Tracy said.

Tracy turned off the water and stared down at her defeated enemy. She shook her head in disbelief. Tracy had hoped that, as with most bullies, Danielle Marie Parnell liked dishing it out more than she liked taking it. She hadn't even dreamed that she would end the fight with a single right uppercut. Giggling with the impossibility of it all, she bent down and jiggled one of the broken woman’s tits with her fingers. Danielle did not move. She was out cold. Despite her hatred of the woman she once feared, Tracy was impressed to learn that those tits were 100% real.

Finally, Tracy smiled. At 4'9" and 85 pounds, and she'd just knocked out a fitness-freak and office martinet who would have continued to bully her for years.

Tracy set up the digital camera, making sure she framed the picture perfectly. She stepped into the shower, placing one foot on Danielle’s wet face. Raising her arms in the victory pose, she turned to look over her shoulder at the camera. As the timer ticked down, Tracy gave a wicked grin and thrust her little butt out.

"Say cheese, b*tch."

She couldn't wait to send the photograph to Lauren, Karen and Linda. Danielle Parnell was finished.

alternative ending?:-)
 

Thanks for your effort. I really like your stories. In this one I see lack of the great opportunity to humiliate Danielle completely. It would be spectacular show to strip off her thong underwear and to get her bottom naked spanking in front of hotel staff and guests... I strongly believe she really does'nt want to be seen without her sexy thongs, besides in such degradation position over Tracy's lap....-)
(sorry for my limited English).

Hey Samos,

Thanks for the kind words. I like you’re idea for an alternate ending — or maybe just a continuance. Let me see what I can do. Also working on a standalone story for Mrs. Wray and really enjoying it. I hope you all will as well.

"At 4'9", Tracy wasn't a midget"

4'10" is the cutoff, so...yeah. That line should have been changed when the height changed. I know it's nitpicking, but for some reason that error has been bugging me since I read the story hours ago.

Other than that, a good conversion, though you write very good stories without any help.

Thanks as always Amfanon! I had intended the use of “midget” colloquially rather than technically so apologies for any confusion but thanks for pointing it out (and to all who might be offended I apologize — I realize the term is pejorative which is why it’s natural for it to be part of Danielle’s vocabulary). Hoping the Katherine Wray story (to come) will put some pep back into my writing. I realize these tales have become predictable enough that they need some sort of reboot!

The Bigger They Are . . . (continued)
 

Thanks to Samos for the inspiration to put an additional spin on the ending.

* * *

Flush with her victory, Tracy smiled as she watched the warm stream of shower water run down Mrs. Parnell’s once perfectly made-up face. Perhaps, thought Tracy, she should have a bit more fun with little Miss Perfect before heading back home to give her husband Joe the best sex he’d ever have. Although she loved the fact that her new colleagues would enjoy the private pictures headed their way, she felt that “The Boss” may need a more public comeuppance to put an end to her predatory behavior. But how?

Stealing out into the hotel hallway for a moment to think about it, Tracy spied a wheeled room service cart, white linen table cloth and all, waiting to be cleared from in front of a nearby guest room. As the proverbial light bulb went off over her head, she quickly decided on how to heap one final – and very public – indignity upon her still out cold nemesis.

Rolling the wheeled table into her suite, Tracy Olie lifted Mrs. Parnell, soaked and wearing only her sky high heels and leopard print thong, from the shower floor onto the white linen covered surface of the table laying her on her back to profile the large, tanned breasts she loved to flaunt so much while dressed. The resulting scene was completely ridiculous and Tracy loved it.

Danielle’s toned arms and legs hung from each side of the cart, her black high heels and jewelry still on. The once domineering diva’s head, makeup run amok and previously perfect hair drenched, was tilted to the side; her eyes were glazed over. The coup de grâce of course was that the formerly sex solicitor was still sporting the tiny leopard-print micro-thong that she had secretly worn to tease Joe Cardozi to distraction.

“Here’s where the fun really begins,” said Tracy to no one in particular as she changed out of her sneakers, jeans and t-shirt back into the suit and heels she had worn that morning to work.

As her semi-conscious law partner’s eyes rolled once again back in her head, Tracy Olie threw a sheet over the disheveled diva’s body and proceeded to roll the cart, with its clueless passenger now hidden from view, down the long luxurious hotel hallway and into a fortuitously open elevator. Smiling devilishly, Tracy pushed the “Lobby” button hoping she’d be able to descend the ten floors without interruption.

To her delight that hope was realized and, having quickly reached the lobby, the elevator’s gilded doors opened to its bustling, marble covered and highly sophisticated environs. Men and women in business suits crowed the fancy hotel’s cavernous first floor en route to lunch at its celebrated two Michelin star restaurant or to meet up for a midday cocktail at its swanky new rye bar. Many of them were members of Congress, business leaders and prominent lawyers, all of whom SmythKnight’s imperious managing partner had rubbed elbows with in the past. The throng included women whom for her part Danielle had viciously demeaned and overshadowed as well as men who the faux-feminist fashionista had teased mercilessly or somehow otherwise manipulated. In fact, none of the lobby’s visitors that day were particularly fond of Danielle Marie Parnell, although the male contingent couldn’t help but be “attentive” whenever she was around, a fact that had always delighted the domineering diva.

“This is going to be better than I ever could have imagined,” thought Tracy as, pulling the sheet from the still unaware Danielle, she splashed a glass of ice cold water on the woman’s face and, with all her might, pushed the wheeled table from the now open doors of the elevator out into the center of the crowd. In an instant, the teeming lobby went from a cacophony of concurrent conversations to near absolute silence. As jaws dropped and trousers strained to their breaking points, the errant trolley and its nearly naked passenger rolled to a standstill at the epicenter of the magnificent, multistory marble atrium.

Before the crowd could react, Danielle Parnell, still groggy and completely disoriented but awakened somewhat by the water splashed by Tracy on her face, peered confused at the awestruck onlookers. As she panned the room she saw Lauren Butcher and Karen Manley and thought, “typical, these useless women are off to feed their fat faces instead of back at work.” Was that her assistant, Linda Bertrand, standing alongside them? She can kiss her job goodbye. Among the men she spied Jerry Sarano, one of her male partners at SmythKnight, about whom she had grown increasingly less interested. What a loser. And was that Adam Hess, the hunky husband of that cow Rebecca Ross who was also in the crowd. I think my next e-mail will go to him.

To the right of her was . . . but before Danielle could register yet another familiar face in the throng before her, the still confused counselor realized that her jaw was quite sore and, reaching up to rub her face, she was taken aback by the fact that the previously silent crowd, each member of which appeared to be staring only at her, burst as one into hysterics. Danielle was completely confused. Why on earth were these ridiculous miscreants laughing? Come to think of it, where was she?

Only then, as the crowd continued to howl and point in her direction, did the event of the day begin slowly to return to her. As usual, to make sure that the temple that was her fabulous body remained flawless, she hit the gym at first light and got to the office early so that she could make note of those who straggled in after 8:30. Once behind her opulent desk she made a few very important phone calls for clients and then, stepping into her private dressing room, changed into the very sexy outfit she now was wearing . . .

“Oh my God,” Danielle cried out as her recounted timeline crashed into the present, “my clothes . . . where are my clothes?!?”

As Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell – powerful lawyer and sexy socialite – leapt from her prone position on the wheeled hotel table and landed nearly naked in her towering heels, she began instinctively to cover with one hand her fabulously tanned tits and with the other her there for all to see thong covered ass.

“Do you mean these clothes,” replied a voice from a small, nondescript woman in the crowd that none but a very few present even recognized.

And that’s when the full weight of what had only recently transpired hit Danielle Parnell like a ton of bricks.

“You,” the dis-dressed diva shouted clearly terrified, “ya . . . ya . . . you stay away from me.”

The juxtaposition of the ordinarily domineering alpha-lawyer – Danielle Marie Parnell, Esquire as she signed her name – cowering before the diminutive, if not downright frail, Tracy Olie – who somehow had clearly managed to relieve the tan, fit beauty of her clothes, was as delicious a scene as it was improbable. For the women in the crowd, so many of who had been looked down upon and insulted for years by the now trepid show-off, the tables could not have been more sweetly turned. How many times had Danielle flaunted her fabulous body, in the sexiest of professional clothing, in front of their husbands, boyfriends and sons? The crowd’s male population on the other hand was aroused by the view of the hot little lawyer whose naked body they had so long imagined but whose scorn and ridicule they had instead so often encountered. Witnesses of both sexes were equally excited by how afraid the normally haughty women appeared to be of the small stranger now holding her clothes.

“Give me back my clothes,” croaked Danielle weakly as she attempted unsuccessfully both to hide behind the wheeled table and interpose it between her and Tracy and as the humiliation of what Tracie Olie had done to her began further to set in.

“Why don’t you come and get them tough-girl,” smiled Tracy as the other women present stared in disbelief at their new hero, “or are you afraid I’ll kick your ass again?”

As the titillated crowd imagined what this woman could mean, Danielle Parnell merely stood gob-smacked.

“Wait – I have a better idea,” Tracy continued, “why don’t you tell all of these people what brought you here today and then I’ll give you your clothes back.”

“But . . . I mean . . . what . . . what are you talking about,” Danielle stammered her mind reeling with a mix of humiliation and fear.

“Oh . . . you know . . ,” Tracy continued, “why don’t you tell them how you sent my husband an e-mail telling him to meet you here for some ‘afternoon fun without the midget’ . . . and how you included a very sexy picture of yourself in that e-mail . . . and how you intimated that if he didn’t come he, and I, might lose our jobs.”

“She’s lying,” Danielle shouted, “that’s not true . . . I . . . I came here for lunch and . . . well . . . she must have snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking . . . and hit me with a bat or something . . . and stripped me . . .”

Most in the crowd, although still laughing, began to wonder whether the humiliated beauty might be telling the truth and Danielle . . . sensing it . . . decided to play one last desperate gamut.

“I mean, look at her,” Danielle implored, “she’s nothing . . . do you think that little twerp could ever have done this to me without sneaking up on me as part of some crazy jealous plan she hatched in her pea brain.”

“Wrong answer,” stormed Tracy Olie as, casting Danielle’s clothes behind her she moved in like a panther on the unbelievably still arrogant MILF.

Danielle, growing in confidence by the second, reared back with her fantastically fit arm to slap the oncoming Tracy Olie and then unleashed what she hoped would be a knockout punch. Unfortunately for the tanned tease Tracy saw her feeble attempt coming from a mile away and, ducking under the errant swing, used Danielle’s own momentum to put her quickly into a choke hold before lifting her off the ground and, standing on one leg, using her free foot to kick off the taller woman’s heels. Now only barefoot and wearing only a thong, Danielle found herself staring up at Tracy Olie who in her own 5” heels was the slightly taller figure.

“Who’s the midget now Danielle,” Tracy taunted as, taking a seat in an open lobby chair, she proceeded to pull Danielle across her knees to administer a well-deserved spanking.
“I said who’s the midget now . . . shorty,” Tracy asked again as she slapped Danielle across her perfectly formed behind.

“I am,” whispered Danielle.

“You’re what,” cried Tracy raining more spanks on the degraded diva’s ass.

“I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m the . . . midget,” Danielle croaked as tear formed in her eye.

“And why were you here today,” Tracy continued.

“Because I’m a bad little girl who likes to show herself off to tease other women’s husbands,” Danielle confessed, now sobbing at the spanking being administered to her.

“That’s right Dani,” Tracy laughed tearing the thong from Danielle’s body, “and I don’t think little girls like you need such grown up panties do they?”

“No ma’am, they don’t,” blubbered Danielle as Tracy rolled her unceremoniously to the floor.

And then, as men and women alike cheered her on and laughed uproariously at Danielle, Tracy Olie issued one final warning.

“Now you get out of here you little tease. And if I ever see you as much as look at my husband again I’ll punish you until that perfect ass and beautiful face of yours are completely unrecognizable.”

Now completely naked, the humiliated Danielle ran for the door where the very valet in front of whom she had dropped the keys to her fancy new Mercedes smiled as he dropped them in front of her. The reason for the smile was two-fold. On the one hand it was karmic justice for the formerly arrogant MILF who had insulted him earlier and on the other, it was because her son had come by earlier and traded out his own old 1985 Ford Mustang convertible beater for his mother’s fabulous ride. It was in that car that Danielle would be pulled over speeding by Lori Heilkamp a mere mile from her home.

Thanks
 

Thanks a lot. The best part is: ...“and I don’t think little girls like you need such grown up panties do they?”...
Are you going to continue in this story?

[QUOTE=Chasmo;2519993]Thanks to Samos for the inspiration to put an additional spin on the ending.

Great "ending" for Dani. Thanks for the good story all along. ;):D

Great ending!
 

Fantastic conclusion! I really enjoy your stories.

"Natitude" Adjustment
 

My first standalone story featuring Mrs. Katherine Wray. Hope you enjoy.

* * *
Katherine Wray was elated as she walked into Nationals Park in Washington, D.C. for the decisive game 5 of the American League Division Series between her beloved Washington Nationals and the Chicago Cubs. She simply loved sports. The 40 year old mother of two had been an elite college runner who even today continued regularly to win her age group in regional races. Katherine was likewise a phenomenal basketball player who, during her time at Stanford University, would have played on the women’s varsity squad were it not for her serious dedication to studies.

In the years since college, including three spent at Harvard Law School, the willowy Nashville native kept herself in stunning shape through a continued dedication to running and participating in local basketball leagues. She supplemented that with a rigorous toning and weight lifting regime the result of which served to keep her 5’ 8” body in spectacular form. With long toned legs and a fabulous ass there wasn’t a man who didn’t take notice of the lovely Mrs. Wray. Her firm abs and wonderfully muscled arms – sculpted but not at all masculine – made it quite difficult not to stare.

When one matched that vision with Katherine’s beautiful, fresh face, incredibly friendly demeanor and genteel southern accent it was almost impossible for anyone – man or woman – not to like her. In fact, the only time that Katherine Wray ever rubbed anyone the wrong way was in the heat of competition or – on rare occasion – when a few extra cocktails would make her all too aware of just how fetching she was. One could only wonder what effect the combination of flowing competitive juices and flowing alcohol might have on the ordinarily adorable Mrs. Wray. Tonight, one would find out.

“Katherine . . . those shoes . . . “you’re just too much,” joked Emily Duncan as she, Mrs. Wray, Rachel Miras and Rebecca Ross made their way along the stadium’s bustling concourse on the way to their seats.

The shoes in question were a pair of 4.5” fire engine red Manolo Blahnik heels that Katherine had worn that day to work but had most certainly not intended to wear to the game especially in light of her wearing a very cute, very short, pleated, wrap-around “Nats blue” skirt that appeared even shorter given the length of her spectacular legs.

“I know,” Katherine giggled back at her friend blushing, “I had meant to slip into my red, low top, canvas Chuck Taylors and some white running socks for the game but when I went to change at the office I realized I must have left them home. Does this look too ridiculous?”

“Are you kidding,” Rachel Miras chimed in, “if I had a body like yours I’d wear high heels and short skirts to the grocery store.”

That the four friends could laugh about the issue was even greater testament to Katherine’s good nature and general sweetness. She was just plain likeable and, even looking like a model in her high red heels, short blue skirt, red Nats t-shirt -- with the word “#natitude” on the back – and the club’s red “curly W” hat, Katherine was neither arrogant, threatening nor dismissive of anyone. At least, that is, not yet.

“Hey, let’s grab a drink before we hit the seats,” said Rebecca Ross with a smile on her face.

“Sounds great,” Emily answered, “and there’s that new tequila bar – “The Tequilaria” – right by the “Nat Dogs” stand near our section. Shall we give it a whirl?”

As the other girls nodded their assent and all headed for some Jose Cuervo, men and women alike were taking notice of Mrs. Wray’s incredibly – if unintentionally – sexy outfit.

“Keep your tongue in your mouth JD,” Cherie Owen snapped at her husband.

Cubs’ fans both, Cherie and JD Owen, along with their ten year old son Tommy, had flown into DC with two other couples specifically for the game.

“And you two do the same,” Cherie only half-jokingly chided the other men as they too eyed Katherine Wray’s departing derriere.

“Can you believe that woman,” Cherie’s friend Sara Pikofsky intoned, “what a show off.”

“Forget about her ladies,” exclaimed Tracie Stit, “the third of the three Chicago friends, none of whom was blessed with Katherine’s physical gifts, “it’s game five of the playoffs – all or nothing –now let’s go get some hotdogs and find our seats.”

In the meantime, Katherine, Emily, Rachel and Rebecca had each already thrown back two shots of tequila and, in a great mood, went searching for their own seats. Not surprisingly, there was not a man or boy who saw Katherine who didn’t hope she’d be sitting close by.

“They’re right down there,” said Rebecca excitedly as she looked at her ticket, “only one row back from the field.”

“Wow,” Rachel Miras smiled widely, “these seats are great!”

“Too bad we’ve got a row of Cubs fans in front of us,” Katherine added as she spied Cherie, JD, Tommy and their friends taking their seats. “I sure hope they’re ready to get spanked.”

As Katherine laughed a bit too loudly at the unintended double entendre of her own joke – fueled by her strongly partisan feelings for the Nationals and two shots of tequila – Cherie and JD Owen turned around to see who was causing the ruckus. The former cursed her luck that in a stadium of nearly 50,000 people Miss Short-Skirt-and-Heels ended up right behind her while the latter tried to contain his ear-to-ear smile as well as the growing bulge in his jeans.

After the introduction of the teams and a performance of the national anthem by Adele that prompted a slightly tipsy Katherine Wray snarkily to remark, much to the consternation of Cherie, Sara and Tracie and the surprise of Emily, Rachel and Rebecca, “well she sure hasn’t missed too many meals,” the baseball game began. From inning to inning, the closely fought contest provided each team’s fans reason to cheer. Katherine – now fueled by a few ballpark beers in addition to her earlier shots – was as relentless in her criticism of the Cubs’ players as she was vociferous in her support of the Nationals. As much as her cat calls and other insults thrown at the Cubs rubbed Cherie and her friends the wrong way, Katherine’s jumping up and down as she hurled them, in her high heels and short skirt, kept their husbands more than a bit interested.

For their part, the Cubs fans in front of her, to set a good example for Tommy, were less critics of Washington than supporters of Chicago. It was in a show of such support that the first hint of outward tension developed between Mrs. Wray and Mrs. Owen. Excited by one of the Cubs stars making a terrific defensive play, little Tommy leapt to his feet, Cubs pennant in hand, and nearly poked Katherine Wray in the eye.

“Hey, watch it kid,” Katherine snapped irritated both by the Cubs player’s success and her nearly getting hit, “you almost took my eye out.”

Holding her tongue as best she could, Cherie Owen turned around and, facing the very long legs of the willowy sex kitten before her, offered a very tight lipped apology, “we’ll try not to let that happen again Miss but . . . please remember . . . he’s only a little boy.”

Unimpressed by Mrs. Owen’s gesture, Katherine merely rolled her eyes.

Not three plays later, Nationals’ star Bryce Harper stepped to the plate and, with a hearty swing at the first pitch, sent what would be a home run screaming into the seats in Katherine’s section. As fortune would have it, JD Owen, trusty mitt in hand, was the lucky fan that caught the ball.

“JD honey,” Cherie Owen beamed with pride, “what a great catch. Tommy did you see daddy’s great catch? Now give Tommy the ball sweetie.”

“Now just one second darlin’,” came the dulcet tones of Katherine Elizabeth Wray as, bending forward over JD Owen’s seat she placed her long-fingered hand gingerly on his forearm.

As Cherie, Sara and Tracie looked on with shock that closely bordered anger – and even Katherine’s friends stared in stunned surprise – the slightly sloshed Mrs. Wray continued her seduction.

“I don’t think little Tommy here wants to have a ball that Bryce Harper hit out of the park do you JD,” Katherine purred, taking with her fingertip a dollop of mustard from atop JD’s hotdog before continuing, “that ball should really go to a fan of his team – the winning team – don’t you agree?”

Mesmerized by the short-skirted vision before him, whose long legs were squarely in front of his eyes and whose hand was now gently stroking his forearm, JD Owen simply handed the ball to Katherine with a smile.

Licking the purloined mustard naughtily from the tip of her finger as she gently took her prize in one hand, Katherine very seductively ran the other, one last time, across JD’s arm before winking at him and practically smirking at Cherie, and offering, “thanks darlin’ . . . I knew you’d do the right thing . . . and I really enjoyed the . . . sauce . . . from your hot dog.”

Cherie Owen was incredulous as she watched her idiotic husband fall prey to this high-heeled trollop’s wiles.

“I can’t believe you gave her that ball,” she stormed, “that was for Tommy.”

“Just relax,” JD said sheepishly, “can’t we talk about this later.”

“Yeah, sweetie,” Katherine Wray interjected with a self-satisfied smile on her beautiful face, “just relax . . . why don’t you and your girlfriends go back to eating some more of those bratwursts y’all seem to like so much and . . . you know . . . have a change of Natitude.”

Emily, Rachel and Rebecca were astounded by Katherine’s behavior. She had clearly let what appeared to be the Nationals imminent victory, along with no small amount of alcohol, go to her head.

“Katherine,” Rachel whispered to the now preening beauty who, standing proudly with her new possession, was giving JD and his friends every opportunity to drink in her fabulous body, “don’t you think you were a bit hard on them.”

“Oh settle down Rachel,” came Mrs. Wray’s flip response, “I’m not here to worry about how some corn-fed fatty from Chicago raises here half-witted son and, besides, look how happy that JD is after doing something chivalrous for a lovely southern gal. A guy like him doesn’t get to see this every day.”

And as Katherine Wray looked lovingly at, and ran a hand down, her admittedly fantastic figure, Rachel Miras realized she felt more empathy for Cherie Owen than she felt anything for her now very haughty neighbor.

As the game progressed and Katherine continued loudly to cheer on the Nationals and jeer at the Cubs, shouting on more than one occasion, “I’ve got the winning Natitude baby,” others in the section, both Nats and Cubs fans alike, began to take notice with the men in the crowd longing for more and the women staring daggers. Thankfully, the game was nearly over and the Nationals were three runs ahead. With the top of the ninth inning set to begin, Katherine was elated by the score and, with only three outs to go for the Cubs, was positive that her team would win. Her always competitive nature was at its zenith in situations like these and, with her confidence sky-high and a fair bit of alcohol in her system, Katherine Wray was hubris personified.

“There’s nothing left now for y’all but the crying,” she jibed at the Cubs fans sitting in front of her, “and ladies . . . I’d pack some of those hotdogs for the flight home if I were you . . . it may make the spanking your team took here tonight easier to swallow.”

“I’d sure like to give her a spanking,” Cherie Owen thought to herself as she felt her blood starting to boil.

“And JD honey,” Katherine continued emphasizing her already sultry southern voice, “thanks again for the ball . . . by the look on your wife’s face over there I’d say you best lookout for the two you have left or she’ll have them in a jar on her nightstand.”

Bursting into laughter at what she believed to be the height of wit, Katherine turned her attention back to the game.

“Come on Nats, let’s close this thing out and send these losers packing,” she arrogantly cheered – making sure that Cherie, JD and their friends knew she was speaking about them as well as their team.

But it appeared that the Nationals were heeding neither her call nor the raucous support of the team’s tens of thousands of other supporters urging them on. After striking out the first Cubs batter the Nats pitcher had, in succession, hit a man with a pitch, allowed a bloop single to fall softly into the outfield and, even after being replaced by the team’s ace closer, watched him give up a walk. In very short order, the Cubs had the bases loaded with only one out.

“I think we may be in trouble,” Emily Duncan exclaimed, giving voice to a concern shared by many at the stadium.

“Put a sock in it Emily,” Katherine chided her friend, “only losers talk that way.”

“Strike three, you’re out,” shouted the umpire apparently affirming Katherine’s rebuke of her friend.

“What did I tell you,” Katherine gloated, “another Cub bites the dust. One more out and we’re off to play the Dodgers.”

And so it was, that with two outs and bases loaded in the top of the ninth inning that Chicago Cubs slugger Anthony Rizzo stepped to the plate. With their team’s best hitter in a clutch spot, Cherie and JD Owen, along with Tommy and the rest of their friends, were going wild cheering on their team, a fact that only pushed Katherine Wray to jeer at the Cubs star even more loudly.

“This guy’s a bum,” she shouted, “strike him out!”

After Rizzo swung and missed on the first two pitches, it looked as though that might well be his fate. But then things began to change. Two balls followed the first two strikes before Rizzo fought off some good pitches with foul tips until, finally, the count was full and tensions were high. The Nationals fans were going crazy hoping for a third strike while the Cubs fans prayed for Rizzo to hit one of his vintage home runs. The crowd collectively held its breath as, winding up for yet another pitch, the Nationals star closer hurled the ball over the plate. With a resounding crack, Anthony Rizzo made contact and – without yet exhaling – the gathered throng watched as the ball soared through the air on a path not at all dissimilar from the one Bryce Harper’s homer had followed some three innings earlier.

As Bryce himself raced to catch the mighty shot, JD Owen, again poised with his mitt in hand, prayed that the gods would smile on him twice in one day and permit him to grab another prize – this time for Tommy.

Time practically stood still as, while JD and his row of fans and Katherine and hers, craned to see where the ball would land, the gods did smile on JD Owen. Although Bryce Harper made a herculean leap to grab it, Anthony Rizzo’s hit cleared the wall and landed squarely in JD’s glove, giving the Cubs a one run lead and silencing the Nationals’ fans – including a gob-smacked and angry Katherine Wray. The Cubs’ fans on the other hand, most notably the son of the man who had just caught the ball, went wild with happiness.

No sooner had the ball that put his team ahead dropped cleanly into his father’s glove, than had little Tommy Owen, pennant in hand, leapt ecstatically and unrestrained with glee from his seat. Unfortunately for Katherine, who was standing directly behind the young boy – still shocked by and angry at her team’s failing - when Tommy began to celebrate, the long wooden stick in his hand, with its small Cub’s pennant at the top, managed, unbeknownst to anyone, to find its way up inside her short blue pleated skirt. Worse yet for Mrs. Wray, as the small boy jumped excitedly that same wooden stick somehow unhooked the fastener that held her tiny wrap-around skirt together and, as young Tommy charged forward to hug his dad, Katherine’s short, pleated, Nats blue skirt was peeled from her fantastic ass and went floating harmlessly from the stands onto the field.

Within the course of ten seconds the expression on Katherine Wray’s beautiful face went from smugness to dejection and, as the fans surrounding her gasped almost in unison, complete befuddlement. In the instant before she processed exactly what had transpired, an avalanche of thoughts crashed down upon her usually facile mind. Why was everyone suddenly staring at her, and pointing? And why did she suddenly feel a slight breeze on her bottom? But then, as the chorus of laughter began, Katherine Elizabeth Wray, who had for the entirety of the game reigned over this section of the crowd like an imperious queen, realized that she now stood before them in only her Nats hat, #Natitude t-shirt, 4" fire-engine red high heels and a very tiny thong! And what a thong it was! Feeling naughty one night when it became clear the Nationals would make the post-season, Katherine had gone on to the team's official website and ordered herself a diaphanous red thong with the Nationals' trademark "curly W" embroidered squarely in the front.

Instinctively reaching to cover the prize that was her now there-for-all-to-see, spectacular, be-thonged ass, Katherine screamed into the growing chorus of laughter, "my skirt, what happened to my skirt."

Reveling in the humiliation of the formerly haughty housewife before them, the likes of Cherie Owen and just about every other woman present -- including Rachel, Emily and Rebecca -- were doubled over in hysterics. JD Owen and his friends in the meantime -- as well as every man and boy within eyeshot -- were channeling the arousal they now felt into a memory they'd hope to have forever. Although Katherine should have run as fast as her towering heels would carry her, she instead decided to make the little miscreant who had done this pay a price for his transgression.

"You . . . you little brat . . . you did this to me," Katherine railed at Tommy Owen while drawing back her arm in what appeared an attempt to slap the child.

"Katherine no," cried Emily Duncan who, in an effort to keep this situation from becoming much worse reached out to grab her arm.

Unfortunately for Katherine, however, although Emily managed to keep the willowy woman for hitting little Tommy, she also succeeded in grabbing the back of ravishing runner’s tight cotton t-shirt which had the two fold effect of knocking Mrs. Wray off balance and, as she fell forward into the row in front of her, relieving her of yet another item of clothing.

As Emily stood dumbfounded holding Katherine's now ruined t-shirt in her hand, Mrs. Wray, recovering from her tumble, found herself -- wearing only her red heels, sexy little thong and hat -- standing directly between a seated Cherie and JD Owen.

"JD . . . d- . . . d- . . . darlin'," Katherine stuttered at the smiling Mr. Owen, "p- . . . p- . . . p-lease . . . help . . . cover me!!"

"Oh no you don't you little tease," came the booming voice of Cherie Owen loving how the tables had turned on the blonde stunner and aching to play her advantage, "not this time!"

And as a look of fear spread across Katherine's gorgeous face, Cherie Owen -- the woman who she had insulted and looked down upon for hours, whose son she had attempted to strike and whose husband she had mercilessly teased and manipulated -- pulled the nearly naked Nats fan across her ample lap. With women and men alike titillated by the scene before them, a panicked Katherine Wray pled for help from all quarters.

"Emily . . . Rebecca . . . Rachel . . . help me you idiots," she commanded before next addressing Cherie, "and you - get your fat fingers off me – just who do you think you are?"

"I know who I am you little show-off," Cherie answered more confident in herself than ever, "I'm the mother of the little boy whose ball you stole, the wife of the man you teased into being your accomplice and the woman who is going to spank this tight little ass of yours that you've been parading around here all night. What was it that you said earlier -- that the Cubs were going to get spanked by the Nationals. Well sweetie, the game just ended, your team lost and now I'm going to give you a spanking!"

True to her word, and as Katherine kicked her long, powerful legs to no avail, Cherie Owen began to rain spanks down on Mrs. Wray's spectacularly fit bottom while Sara Pikofsky and Traci Stit made it clear to Emily, Rebecca and Rachel that they dare not interfere. What the two burly Chicago women failed to realize was, in light of Katherine's behavior tonight, that her own three friends were actually enjoying watching their naughty neighbor get a well-deserved comeuppance.

"Who has the winning Natitude now baby," Cherie taunted the struggling beauty on her lap. “Tell me!"

"You do," Katherine croaked weakly as her face reddened to match the color of her tiny panties.

"I what," Cherie stormed spanking Mrs. Wray all the harder.

"You have the winning Natitude," Katherine offered breathlessly, hoping the release of being humiliated in front of the crowd like a little girl was giving her wouldn’t be too evident.

"That's right Katherine," Mrs. Owen enjoined, calling Katherine by name for the first time, "because I'm the winner here am I not."

"Yes ma'am," muttered Kathrine, shocking her friends with her submissiveness.

"You're a winner ma'am, and I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . a . . .," but Katherine couldn't bring herself to say it. Her hyper competitive nature and absolute disdain for losing and losers was still fighting her underlying but ever increasing desire to permit this woman to dominate her completely – the very woman who she had been dominating, albeit using slightly different tactics, during the entirety of the game.

“Say it,” demanded Cherie spanking Katherine’s fabulous ass all the harder as women cheered her on rabidly and some men began rubbing themselves where they stood, “I said say it you little tease . . . tell everyone what you are.”

Finally Katherine couldn’t take it any longer. Her being broken by this out-of-shape nobody while luridly displaying her tits and nearly naked ass to three of her closest friends and a broader crowd of complete strangers had brought her nearly to climax.

“I’m a loser,” Katherine screamed overwhelmed by an impending orgasm, “I’m a naughty girl . . . an arrogant tease who thinks she’s better than everyone else . . . a show-off who likes to shake her tight ass at anyone who’ll look . . . but never let anyone touch . . . !”

As jaws dropped in shock at Mrs. Wray’s orgasmic confession, Cherie Owen pulled Katherine to her feet and, throwing the spent sexpot over her shoulder, carried her – as men and women cheered -- up the aisle to one of the large open-top trash cans that sat on the stadium’s concourse next to the hamburger and hotdog condiment stations. Having regained her senses after her uncontrollably wanton display, Katherine realized that she was being wedged, ass first, into the top of the giant waste bin with her high-heeled legs hanging out of the front and her bare muscled-arms – no longer capable of covering her completely exposed tits, hanging out the back.

As she turned three shades of red at her complete and utter undoing, Cherie Owen, having already recovered the ball that Katherine had taken from her son, grabbed an open container of mustard from the condiment stand and, using it as a makeshift writing utensil, squeezed out the words “#Natitude Adjusted” across Katherine’s perfect breasts.

Smiling like the Cheshire cat as Mrs. Wray began to pass out Cherie put the mortified MILF in her place with finality.

“Well darlin’ . . . it looks like you got JD’s sauce sprayed across your tits after all . . . loser!”

* * *

As Will Parnell and Calum Duncan made their way to the stadium’s garage, they were shocked to see Mrs. Wray – a friend of each of their moms – being helped from a garbage can wearing only high heels, thong panties and a Nats cap. Overhearing a woman in the gathered crowd exclaim, “the little tease really got what was coming to her,” each boy – already rock hard at the site – imagined separately how much they’d like to see Will’s mom – the ever arrogant Danielle Parnell -- get exactly the same treatment.

You are a freaking genius. What a great story, right to the point. The spanking and the garbage can toss were awesome. Thanks for you efforts. The stand alone was a great idea and Kathrine was the perfect foil. Can't wait for the next one.

I'm not a huge fan of the runner's build type, but that was so great I honestly didn't care.

This was much shorter than your other recent stories, but the build up, pacing, detail, etc. worked great. Plus, since it's all published at once, instant gratification!

Great job again! The mustard was a nice touch. Please keep it up.

Nice to hear a bit of back story

Danielle needs more
 

I think I speak for a lot of people here when I say we need more Danielle Parnell in less clothing (if any). Her family is due to be knocked down a peg or two