by Brandy Dewinter
(c 2001, All rights reserved)
Chapter 11 - "Because I Know You're Mine"
"That concludes our progress report to date. As you can see, we are
substantially ahead of schedule in the critical areas of defining
interfaces and partitioning responsibilities. I know I speak for the team
when I say that is due in no small part to Mr. McDaniel, who has shown us
things we wouldn't have invented on our own in a dozen years of flailing
around," said Tyler Andrews, pointing at McDaniel where he sat along the
side of the long conference room. The other members of the software team
were nodding in agreement, though McDaniel himself gave no sign he had
even heard the praise.
"I should hope so," grumbled Harrison, but his gruff words were
contradicted by his pleased smile. "As much money as we're paying you, we
ought to get some help, right Logan?"
"Hmm?" McDaniel murmured, then jerked his head. "I'm sorry, what did
you say?"
"Geez," Harrison snorted. "You guys are ALL from another planet."
"Most of the time," McDaniel said, trying to recover a bit of his
lost ground with humor.
"*I* know," declared Constance Spencer, the woman who dressed so much
like McDaniel. Once again in fact, since for this formal status report
he had worn his pinstriped suit as had the redheaded woman VP. She
ostentatiously straightened her own tie, then smoothed her lapels and
said, "He's just thinking about his costume for the charity ball. After
all, he has such *excellent* taste in clothes."
McDaniel smiled good-naturedly at the laughter, even though it was
at his expense. He had a perplexed look, though, not understanding the
basic reference.
"Of course," Harrison seconded Spencer's comment. "You will come,
won't you?"
"Um, sure," McDaniel said, backed into a corner. The smiles around
the room, including one from his friend Tyler Andrews, showed he wasn't
really getting into any trouble by agreeing, though they all enjoyed his
confusion.
"Let him know what he's getting into, will you Tyler?" Harrison asked
as he stood. "And all of you, thanks. Good report. I'll look forward to
the next one."
"What *did* I just agree to?" asked McDaniel as soon as the room had
cleared.
Andrews laughed and said, "Oh, just that you'll participate in our
annual charity costume ball."
"I figured out *that* much on my own."
Andrews laughed again and offered a real explanation. "Each year we
hold this costume ball. Entry in the contest costs a hundred bucks, with
prizes for the top costumes in several categories. It benefits the local
Children's Hospital."
By this time they had gathered up their things and were making their
way to the work area. Andrew's comments were interrupted by the
congratulations of a few co-workers on his well-received presentation and
McDaniel had to hold his questions until they were out of the main halls.
"What sort of costumes?"
"Any sort. No real restrictions. Actually, the prizes are almost
always donated too, so basically everyone just shows up to give a hundred
bucks to the charity. Harrison pays attention to those who do a good
costume, though. The best ones get coverage on the local TV - they always
send a camera crew - and if we look committed to the community it's good
publicity."
"I can see that," McDaniel nodded. Then he dropped his voice to a
whisper and said, "But I can't see anyone besides Tylara winning. Who
could top that?"
Andrews' face transformed into a pixie grin, but he shook his head.
"No, actually Tylara never wins. Her costume is just a high school
cheerleader outfit she, um, 'drags' out of her closet every year - not
very creative at all. Mostly she helps with punch and, oh, nametags and
things."
"I can't believe she doesn't win!" McDaniel said.
Now Andrews dropped his voice to a whisper and said, "No, you don't
understand. People don't see me in a great costume masquerading as a
pretty girl. They see a pretty girl in a rather unimaginative costume
as a cheerleader. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Harrison knows,
of course. But he's agreed not to point out who the 'babe' in the tight
sweater really is."
The light dawned in McDaniel's eyes as he realized just how important
it was to Andrews that no one gave his most basic 'costume' a second
thought, focusing only on the obvious one. He nodded, then grinned.
"I can understand that, better than I would have even before last
weekend," he said.
"What happened?" Andrews asked with a conspiratorial grin. "Is that
what you were thinking about in there?"
"Yes," admitted McDaniel. "I expect you can just about guess what
happened."
"Probably," Andrews said. "I can still remember my first time, once
I moved into this area and could try to pass. It was panic and pride all
at the same time, all at maximum intensity."
"You can say that again," McDaniel agreed. "I wasn't sure whether to
throw up or cry or just run and hide."
"And so you did none of the above, and just had a great time,"
Andrews concluded.
"Close enough," McDaniel said.
At Andrews' encouraging nod McDaniel sat down and recounted his
weekend as Lauren. There wasn't much to tell, and at the same time
there was way *too* much to tell, at least in a working conference room.
"So I guess it's like you said," McDaniel concluded. "The most
special part is when nothing special happens. Jayla and I just went
shopping together, no big deal except for spending *way* too much
money."
"Don't I know it," Andrews laughed. "So, tell me. Do you like
dressing now?"
"Um," McDaniel hesitated, not willing to undermine his friend's
enjoyment. "It was fun. But mostly because Jayla was having such a
good time. Frankly, getting all dressed up instead of just throwing
on some jeans and a polo shirt was a lot of plain old bother for me. If
it weren't so, um, unusual, it wouldn't have been that big a deal."
"Are you going to do it again?" asked Andrews.
"Sure!" McDaniel replied without hesitation. "Jayla had a *great*
time, and that's all I need to know."
"Good," Andrews said. "I can't wait to meet - what did you say her
name was? Lauren?"
"Huh, not likely," snorted McDaniel.
"Why not? She sounds like a natural for the costume ball."
"Not on a bet! Harrison may cut you some slack, but I'm not taking
the chance he won't let Lauren fade into the woodwork. Besides . . ."
McDaniel's voice faded off as a wicked little grin settled on his
features.
"Besides what?" asked Andrews.
Now McDaniel dropped his voice to a very faint whisper, though even
those soft tones carried a sudden animation as Lauren's voice was heard.
"Besides, I look a *lot* prettier than Connie Spencer, and I do NOT think
that would be a good idea."
Andrews erupted into laughter, nodding his head frantically in
agreement both that it was eminently possible, and that it would be a
*very* bad idea to show up the female executive.
*****
"Hold still!" hissed Jayla. "If I poke your eye out, you've got no
one to blame but yourself."
"Well, don't blame me for being distracted when you're leaning over
me showing everything from your neck to your navel - and beyond."
Jayla laughed and straightened up from her position bending over his
face. "Uncross your eyes, buster. You wouldn't want them to freeze that
way."
"Might be worth it, if the view stayed as lovely," Logan claimed
with a leer.
In response, Jayla tugged at the admittedly daring bodice of her
dress. "You won't be able to see so far down it when you get the corset
tight."
"True," Logan admitted. "So I was, um, storing up memories for
later."
Jayla gave him a stripper shimmy, almost slipping right out of the
bosom of her gown, then giggled and caught at it again. "Let me get you
finished, or we'll have to start all over again."
"Promise?" asked Logan quickly, leaping at an implication of her
warning."
"From the time I started on your makeup, you idiot!" Jayla said,
laughing. "Not from the time we arrived in this hotel room."
Logan's face fell, tugging with it an artificially full lip into a
pout that would have done Jayla herself proud. She just laughed at him
again and bent back to her task. It wasn't much longer before she was
finished though, and stepping back.
"Very good, if I do say so myself," she said proudly.
Logan looked at his face in the mirror, surprised once again at the
artistry she could create with cosmetics. It was so perfectly done it
looked undone, as though it were natural - only better. He studied what
he saw for a few minutes, trying to understand the 90% that he had felt
yet which was now hidden like an iceberg under the surface, when his
wife poked him in his own armored ribs.
"Corset time, first squeezing," she declared.
Her partially costumed spouse sighed and stood up, reaching for the
laces that dangled down the back of her corset. "How tight do you want
it?"
"Pretty snug," she said. "And we'll have to do it again if I'm going
to get into that monster you got for me."
"Monster that *I* got for *you*?" Logan said incredulously. "As *I*
remember it, *you* picked out both costumes."
"Don't get lost in the details," Jayla said. "I may have picked out
the styles, but you picked out the specific gown."
Logan started tugging firmly on the laces to her corset, grunting
almost as obviously as Jayla did when the air was squeezed from her lungs.
She gasped out, "I still say we should have worn the powdered wigs."
"No way," Logan declared implacably. "You have the most beautiful
hair I've ever seen, and I've worked too damn hard on mine to cover it
all up under a bloody horsehair wig."
"Thank you, darling," gasped Jayla, "but that's what goes with 17th
century formal court clothes. But I do have to admit, curling the ends of
your hair under in that lovely page boy is just too pretty for words. Ah
... that's ... enough ... for now."
Logan tied off her laces, then took one last, longingly deep breath
before turning to present his own laces to her. If either of them could
have laughed at their mutual, self-imposed distress, they would have.
Jayla's costume was tailored just a bit more snugly than the one
Logan wore, so it was possible for him to don the rest of his outfit while
they waited for her ribs to settle a little. It would take another set of
good pulls before she could put on the gleaming mountain of silks and
satins she had termed 'the monster'. His own corset was stiff enough that
he needed help of his own, despite having already donned the silk
stockings that would, in the end, be completely hidden anyway. Other
parts of his fanciful costume would show only too clearly, though.
"Good thing I practiced on those high-heeled cowboy boots for so
long," he grumbled as he donned a new, even-higher pair of heels.
"Quit complaining," ordered Jayla with a snicker. "You'll be
beautiful."
"If you can talk that clearly, you need another tightening," laughed
Logan, menacing her with threatening fingers, about the only parts of his
encumbered body he could move easily.
She sighed, almost, and turned once more to his not-too-tender
mercies. Then he was helping her into the voluminous petticoats and
heavy skirts of her gown.
"Did we ever figure out who was wearing the most gold?" she asked.
"Gotta be me," Logan claimed.
"I'm not so sure," she countered, pulling her wide skirts out to show
seemingly acres of braid.
"I'd bet, but I don't have any idea what stakes we might use," Logan
offered slyly.
"I'm sure you'd think of something," Jayla said offhandedly as she
tugged and pulled her dress into position. Then it was a long, slow
process of doing up dozens of tiny buttons on the back of her gown, only
possible because they had closed her corset completely.
"Lordy, lordy, you are gorgeous," he said as he walked around in
front of her. "But if you take a deep breath, you're going to come right
out of the top of that thing."
"No risk of that," Jayla claimed. "I think I've already had my last
real breath for the night."
"So, you're ready to go?" asked Logan, fighting to hide a smile.
"I think so, except for my gloves," she said.
"Let me help you with them," he offered. Instead of going to the
trunk they had used to transport her gown though, he went to his own
bags. She didn't pay much attention since he drew out snowy white gloves
just as she had expected. Then it turned out they were not quite as she
had expected.
"What's wrong with these gloves?" she asked as he slipped the first
one onto her fingers.
"What do you think is wrong?" Logan replied without really answering
while he tugged the second into position. His smile showed he knew
exactly what the problem was, though.
"These fingers are so stiff I can hardly bend them."
"Really?" he asked innocently. Maybe it's just that they're tight."
As he spoke he fastened the tiny buttons on the wrists of the gloves,
making them impossible to remove until they were undone.
"These fingers are stiff as boards," Jayla repeated. "And a couple
of them are stuck together."
"Indeed," Logan said, now confirming rather than questioning what she
had said.
"Have you ever heard of samarium-cobalt?" he asked in a seemingly
irrelevant question.
"No," Jayla said distractedly, still trying to work her fingers.
"It's used in about the most powerful magnets in the world," Logan
explained, showing her disks of black metal about the size of half dollar
coins.
Reaching out to her gloved arms, he slipped the disks in slim pockets
at each elbow. Then, casually, he pushed her arms to her sides.
"What did you do?" Jayla demanded, straining to move her arms.
"Just a little something to add to your magnetic personality," said
Logan with a grin. He reached for her left hand, pulling the thumb away
from the index finger where it had apparently been stuck. He had to use
both hands to lever the fingers apart, then holding them carefully separate,
he moved her hand down to the folds of her wide skirt. When he released
her fingers, they were drawn inexorably together, this time separated by
a thick fold of all the many layers of her gown.
"What did you do?" Jayla asked again, a smile beginning to show as
she began to realize even without being told.
"Just gave you a little, um, challenge for the evening," Logan
declared with his own grin. "Two things, or three actually. First,
I found this interesting story on the web about glove stiffeners. The
guy in the story used titanium or stainless steel or something that would
be completely overkill. I just put some graphite-epoxy laminate, like
they use on fighter airplane wings, molded to the shape of your hands.
You might be able to flex them a little, but I doubt you can move them
enough to pick anything up."
He took her right hand in his and manipulated the stiffened digits.
Even with his strength, the fingers did not seem to move at all. Perhaps
Jayla could feel a little motion, but perhaps she just imagined it.
"The second thing, or things, are magnets. I had magnets put into
your gown at the waist, and put others, poles carefully aligned of course,
into your gloves. I think you will be keeping your elbows close to your
waist tonight."
"And my fingers?" Jayla asked, eyes twinkling.
"More magnets," Logan confirmed. "I figured you'd need to be able to
gather up your dress for stairs or dancing or whatever. Now you can't
really do anything else."
"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"
"Well, nothing is actually *locked* on. You might be able to get
some help. But I think you'd better plan on, ah, watching what you drink
tonight."
"You are devious," she said reaching with her free hand for his
waist. She couldn't get very far, though, since her elbow was locked to
her own waist. Her hand might as well have been a board on the end of a
stiff wrist, so she couldn't even caress the parts she could touch, but
her smile showed the affection she was prevented from physically
demonstrating.
"Took this long to figure that out?" asked Logan with a snicker.
"I just *thought* I had you figured out," she said trying to snuggle
up to him and finding the corset took away even that pleasure.
"You'll have to be good tonight, or, um, nice anyway," he said.
"I'll remind you of that later," she threatened.
"The good part, or the nice part?"
"That depends on how good - or nice - you are," she said, accenting
her words with a purring leer that did interesting things to his body
temperature.
Logan reached for her, but even in her huge skirt she was nimble
enough to stay just out of his reach. "We better go," they said
simultaneously, laughing together as well as they realized how closely
they had become attuned through the strange things they had so recently
discovered about each other.
Despite his own encumbrances, Logan was better able to handle doors
and other impediments than his secretly constrained wife. He managed what
had to be done, taking advantage of the fact they were staying in the same
hotel that hosted the Harrison ball. Between them, they filled up an
elevator completely; a fact accepted by the other hotel patrons who turned
away to wait for the next car at three separate floors.
When they finally arrived at their destination, Logan looked around
for Tylara. She was there, looking like she had just stepped from a
Norman Rockwell painting - or maybe Antonio Vargas. Logan had found out
that they weren't really expected to give their real names, just present
the tickets that he had already purchased so he pulled them from where
he had tucked them in his own gloves and handed them, along with a
computer-generated personal card to the major d'omo.
The liveried servitor pounded his staff formally on the floor and
announced in a booming voice, "St. John Warwick-Bellevois, Count
Bellevois, Colonel of Her Majesty's Own Royal Lancers, and Guineviere,
Countess Bellevois."
"I must say, Colonel, or do you prefer Count Bellevois? You and your
lovely wife the Countess grace us with your presence," said a somewhat-
portly Dracula - a near-sighted Dracula wearing glasses exactly like
those favored by James Harrison, the officially unrecognized host of the
party.
"Thank you, Count. I think titles could be confusing among so much
nobility. Perhaps you would be so kind as to call me Sinjin."
"As you wish, and how might I address your lovely wife? Perhaps
'Angel' would be appropriate, if Guineviere is too familiar?"
"Milord Count," 'Guineviere' said, trying to curtsy without moving
her arms from her sides.
"Please, Milady, call me Vlad," the vampire said with an artificially
blatant accent. "As long as you call me."
Guineviere giggled dutifully at their host's attempt at flattery.
Before she could say anything more, though, the caped nightmare swirled
off with a passing, "Pardon me, I have to go suck some more blood out of
these hard-working peasants."
They watched him greet yet another pair of partygoers, Dorothy and a
very large Toto, before turning once again to look for Tylara. They found
her passing out drinks and flirtatious smiles at anyone brave enough to
attempt the punch.
"Hello, Tylara," Sinjin said pleasantly as they walked up. Instead
of a greeting in return, though, the pert little blonde turned as though
to look for someone behind her.
"Are you talking to me, mister?" she asked. "I don't know any, what
did you say? Tylara? I'm just Buffy."
Guineviere smiled and said, "Ah, and off duty tonight?"
"Excuse me?"
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer, with Count Dracula in the same room? One
or the other of you must be off duty tonight."
"Oh, yeah," Buffy giggled. "I never thought of that. Hey, maybe
this costume isn't so bad after all."
"Very fetching," Sinjin said pontifically.
"Oops, that did it," giggled Buffy again.
"Excuse me?" Sinjin echoed her earlier question.
"Now I know who you are," the cheerful blonde explained. "I was
truly expecting Lauren, but, well, wow!"
"Thanks, I think."
"So this must be the most beautiful, wonderful, loving, creative,
smart, vivacious, inventive, wild, gorgeous - did I mention pretty? -
woman in the world," Buffy said to Guineviere.
"Don't believe a word of it," the statuesque brunette replied with
her own giggle.
"Oh, I do," insisted Buffy. "Except, old mundane Logan would need
to be a lot better poet than he is to capture your beauty in mere words."
"My, I can see why you like her," laughed Guineviere to her gallant
escort.
"Those are some costumes," Buffy said in awe, stepping back to once
again regard their bright display.
Guineviere was in her 'monster' gown, yards and yards of golden silk
and satin, accented by intricate lace. Her waist was tucked down to a size
she had never thought she'd achieve, made even smaller in comparison to
her voluminous skirts.
St. John Warwick-Bellevois just might have been even more gorgeous,
though. Gleaming golden spurs jingled on high-heeled cavalry boots that
reached up above his knees. Above the brightly polished black boots,
skin-hugging silk tights led into a tunic that was tailored to show his
own narrow waist. Only a purist would recognize that his military posture
was due as much to the authentic corset as to his intrinsic bearing.
Golden tassels and frogs and braid and any other excuse for shine danced
around his black tunic, setting off artfully styled red hair and a face as
carefully made up as Guineviere herself displayed.
"Costumes," Singin said pontifically. "I'll have you know this is
the official dress uniform of Her Majesty's Own Royal Lancers, of whom I
have the honor to be the Colonel."
"Yeah, right," Buffy laughed. "But you shore do look purty."
The band struck up a number that was just slightly too fast for the
gown Guineviere wore, so of course the Colonel had to take his lady out
there straightaway. If there were any sense that she was not as fluid as
perhaps a woman of her youth and energy might be expected to be, it was
put down to the obvious corset. Still, she was visibly flushed when her
dashing cavalry Colonel led her back off the floor.
"Here, Milady, have a drink," Buffy offered, holding out to her a
cup of punch.
"Um, no thank you," Guineviere replied.
"Why not? You look hot on that gown, and this isn't spiked. I don't
drink."
"I'm, ah, sure it's fine, but no thank you," the tall brunette
repeated, though she looked at the glass with longing.
"Should I tell her?" Sinjin asked.
"If you want," Guineviere replied.
"I don't want to embarrass you," he said, offering her a chance to
keep things just between them.
"I am yours, my hero," she said, indicating a curtsy with just a dip
of her head and hips.
"And I am yours," he said.
"Because I know you're mine," Guineviere said, "I am not worried
about your judgment on telling others. I think you once offered to me
the same sort of confidence."
"Indeed I did," the elegantly-dressed officer replied.
"Um, sorry if I'm butting in," Buffy interjected. "But do I need to
arrange a *room* for you two?"
"What? Oh, sorry," Sinjin said.
"I'm not," Guineviere said, leaning over to blow in his ear.
"Geez, guys. Don't melt the ice sculpture," Buffy laughed. "Do you
want some punch or not?"
"Yes, and no," Guineviere said, looking at her dashing escort for
further explanation.
"I don't think I ever told you about some of the things that Jayla
does for me," Logan explained, dropping out of character. "She enjoys,
for some strange reason I don't really understand, being just a bit
helpless when she's with me."
"I can understand that," Tylara replied.
"Really?" asked Jayla. "I've been trying to figure out how to
explain it to him."
"I don't know if I could do that," Tylara said. "But I do think I
understand it, at least a bit. Though, I don't think I understand what
that has to do with anything. You don't look helpless to me."
"Shake hands with her, love," Logan ordered.
Jayla let her hand come up from here it had rested on the shelf of
petticoats that surrounded her. In response, Tylara reached her own hand
out, only to find that Jayla's offer was not extended very far.
"If I get any closer, I'm going to be stepping on your gown," warned
Tylara.
"Can't be helped," Jayla said, smiling. "I guess you could say my
elbow is sort of attached to me - at the waist."
"Ooh, that's . . . interesting," cooed Tylara.
"That's not all of it, as I found out just before we came down,"
explained Jayla. "Please, take my hand."
Tylara reached out and shook hands with the sparkling glove Jayla
held only inches from the folds of her dress. To her credit, the short
blonde didn't ask what it was she felt. When she dropped the taller
woman's hand, all three fell back into their costumed roles.
"Now *that* is kinky," Buffy giggled. "I can see why drinking would
be sort of . . . challenging."
"My words exactly," Sinjin declared.
"Come with me," Buffy ordered the countess. "I'll work something
out."
They disappeared behind a service area leaving the ornate Colonel
standing all alone.
