[Chasmo]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Miras family had been avenged.