Note to the reader: This is a seventh in my “Home Alone For The Weekend” series. This story features 14-year-old Michael. He thinks he’s gay. In fact, he is gender-trapped, a female in a male body. He stands barely 1/2” taller than his 6th grade sister Mina, outweighs her by only 2 pounds. He secretly wears her underwear. With the help of some potent weed, a 12-pack of his mom’s Heineken, and his renegade reflection, Michael transforms over the weekend into girlhood. Note that Michael is my most effeminate, undersized, least endowed protagonist yet. He pleasure’s himself with the usual vibrators and dildos overnight as all my Home Alone for The Weekend characters. This story is not for homophobes or gay-bashers. It contains explicit self-sex.

Although Mina figures prominently in the story, in keeping with SOL guidelines, no sexual relationship exists between she and Michael (or anyone else), and none occurs in the story. She is never detailed in sexual terms, nor does she appear nude, or doing anything indiscreet. I state this, to avoid any issues with SOL’s moderators.

The story features a Sci-Fi element, where weekend activities slowly effects a change in Michael. This occurs in most of my Home Alone stories, so it won’t be a surprise to most repeat readers.

The other stories in the Home Alone series are (Listed oldest to newest): World’s Record, Apparition, Power Failure, Star Light, Star Bright, Mrs. Dexter’s Magic, & Event Planning.

Thursday, Oct. 25, 2018

Michael was 14 years old. He stood 58.7 inches tall and weighed 88 pounds, the average height and weight of a 6th grade boy. Michael had just started 9th grade.

He was the smallest boy in his class, arguably the entire student body. He certainly bore the smallest penis of any boy in his school, through only a certain deity knew that. He measured 3-1/2” long, achingly erect, and the thickness of his middle finger. His penis was the humiliation of his life. His testicles were the smallest in school, also, known only to Michael’s higher power.

He stood in his bedroom, dressed in his sister’s panties and bra. Mina was 11 years old, and not yet graduated to big-girl’s bras. It disgusted Michael that Mina’s underwear fit him so well. Twisting effeminately, hands on hips, he inspected his girlish behind. It looked perfectly suited to Mina’s red and white panties. She and her friends still preferred Hello Kitty, Shimmer & Shine, and Sofia The First to more mature underwear, giggling about it in school and teasing each other relentlessly. Cartoon characters suited Michael just fine.

“I’m gay,” he told his reflection. Giggling, he lowered his Hello Kitty panties and exposed his tiny pinkus and accompanying peanuts. He was devoid of hair, a little boy’s plaything. Despite appearances otherwise, however, his pinkus and peanuts worked just fine, dispensing copious confection on demand.

How gay was Michael? Training bra gay. Gay as Mina’s nighties, which he longed to wear to bed. Gay as David Miller’s exquisitely perfect penis and testicles. (Okay, not really a ‘Gay as’ descriptor, but hey.) He was the gayest boy in Martin Luther King High School. Yet, Michael had never been with a boy, and had no desire to do so. (Except possibly, David Miller.)

“I’d get gang-banged if anyone saw me in these,” he muttered. Twisting again, he admired his imitation-Mina backside. (She’d kill him for wearing her underwear; of course, she would.) In truth, he was nearly as shapely as his sister, though he hadn’t seen her compromised in years. (Of course, he hadn’t; she’d scream bloody murder.) He often fantasized of being gang-raped, preferably by the varsity football squad on the team bus coming back from a game. Often, he wondered if it would be better if the team won or lost.

“I want to suck your cock,” he said. Of course, he did. “Would you suck my cock?” he asked.

“Of course I would,” his reflection snorted. “How’d you like to 69, Michael?”

Conversing with his reflection in Mina’s Hello Kitty panties and training bra had his finger stiff as a widget. In a moment, he’d flood her panties if he weren’t careful. Uh-oh, he thought.

“Have you ever 69’d?” his reflection asked.

Michael sadly shook his head. “Look what I did to Mina’s pretty panties.” He’d need to wash them and her training bra before putting them back in her drawer. Let’s hope she doesn’t miss them, he worried.

Twisting to see his backside again, then turning to face the mirror, he considered his remarkable effeminacy. “I really am more girl than boy,” he mused. No one present disagreed. If any boy at MLK was destined to become a girl, it was certainly Michael Greenlaw.

Suddenly excited, Michael stripped naked and shoved Mina’s panties and training bra under his mattress. He quickly lay down and fingered the delicate head and finger wide shaft. How he wished he were only one inch longer. Just long enough to allow his small hand to efficiently wrap and masturbate the poor thing. Maybe someday, he thought, sighing.

He ejaculated 20 minutes later, shooting sperm high in the air to pepper his flat slender chest. He laughed when a drop landed squarely on his chin. He thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon delight.

Friday, Oct. 26, 2018

Friday morning, Mrs. Greenstein dropped a bombshell. “Michael, can I trust you alone here tonight?”

Michael stopped with a Pop-Tart halfway to his mouth. Blinking, he gazed at Mina, who gazed back at him unblinking, smiling wryly. “What?” he croaked.

“Mina wants to attend a Girl Scout Jamboree tomorrow in Wessex, and obviously that’s no place for a boy.”

Michael returned his gaze to Mina. Blonde and blue-eyed, pixyish with short, spiky hair, snippy and foul-mouthed away from her mother, a terrible boy-magnet, despite her obvious shortcomings, and terribly precocious, she grinned impishly.

She knows I wear her underwear, he thought distractedly.

“Me home alone?” he questioned.

“If I can trust you, yes. Can I trust you alone, Michael?”

He looked at Mina again. She appeared his age, rather than a 6th-grader. Her eyes were lined with mascara and highlighted with eye shadow. Her lips were red, and blush camouflaged whatever slight imperfections marred her cheeks. What possible interest would someone looking like Mina have in Girl Scouts?

“I told Mom you’d have a freaking heart attack,” she said tartly.

“Mina!” Mom admonished automatically. “Can you be good, Michael?”

Michael flashed to his bed, Mina’s underwear drawer (her other drawers and closet concealing her jeans and tops and skirts and dresses and bathing suits and nighties), and Mom’s closet and her safely guarded cache of intimate playthings and weed.

“Can I have something to drink tonight? Your beer?” he blurted mindlessly.

Mina exploded in laughter and Mom shook her head disgustedly. “No guests. No posting on social media that you’re home alone tonight, and no leaving the condo. Understood, Michael?”

Michael nodded dumbly. His mouth hung open; he should close it, he thought. Do something about the glazed look in your eyes, also. Make your heart ratchet down before you really do have an effing heart attack.

School Friday was the awful-most experience of his life. Every minute spent in class, at lunch, in gym (where every guy but he strode about, proudly displaying their huge members), the bus ride home ... pure torture. Then he finally arrived, and just inside the front door, he yelled without thinking: “Mina? Mom? Are you home?”

They left here ten minutes ago, asshole. You need to answer Mom’s goodbye text before she gets pissed and turns around, too. About now she’ll have the front end pointed at the on-ramp to 95. And you are...

In the house. Alone. With.

Gulping, he recited the litany under his breath: Mina’s clothes. Mina’s underwear. Mina’s pajamas and nighties and makeup and dresses and shoes and skirts and blouses and tops and leggings and tights and...

Jesus, he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Drawing a deep breath, he held it deep and counted to 10. Blowing out slowly, he thought of Mina’s underwear, stuff she’d discarded yesterday or the day before, tossed negligently on the floor, or possibly into the hamper in her closet. He could put them on dirty, something he’d never done before. Wear the same panties and training bra that had caressed Mina’s--.

“Stop!” He closed his eyes, shaking the unwanted image from his head. She was 11 years old: Sacrosanct. He couldn’t imagine anything having to do with Mina in the flesh. Her clothes were enough.

Obediently setting the alarm, he dashed room to room, assuring the house was truly safe. Things he did to and of himself demanded absolute, undisputed privacy. “Mom?” he hollered again. “Mina? Anyone here?” He’d probably run squealing like a girl if somebody answered.

Dropping his backpack on the floor, he went for a Diet Coke. Grabbing one from the half-empty 12-pack, he cracked the lid, and chugged down half the contents.

He still had his clothes on. Why the fuck wasn’t he naked with clothes strewn on the floor from here to the hall bathroom? (Had he checked the tub? Of course, he had. He’d checked behind Mom’s shower curtain as well, under and behind the beds, inside all closets, the rear balcony, and even inside the washer and dryer, how crazy was that?) More patiently, he consumed the remainder of the Diet Coke and then grabbed one of Mina’s real Coke’si for a follow-up. He liked Diet Coke better, but needed the rush of real sugar. Or corn sweetener. Or whatever the fuck it was they put in regular Coke.

He headed for Mina’s bedroom, disrobing one article at a time. He arrived at her door in his Adidas and socks. Predictably, his penis stood at perfect attention, his minute testicles (only Conner Allnut’s, another 9th grader at MLK, came close), tucked tightly against his groin. He shivered, chilled and excited, licking his lips. Behind this door with its No Admittance sign in huge capital letters were Mina’s underwear, her pajamas and nighties and makeup and dresses and shoes and skirts and blouses and tops and leggings and tights and...

He laughed, feeling rightly stupid. Gazing down, he bumped Mina’s bedroom door with the tip of his penis. Knock-knock, anyone home? He tapped the door six more times with his knuckles and went in.

Mina was such a slob! Scattered everywhere were tops and jeans and cords, panties and training bras. Selecting a duplicate set of Hello Kitty’s (she had 3), he wriggled the bra down over his head and about his thin chest, adjusting the snug fit. He weighed a mere two pounds more than his 11-year-old sister and stood only an inch taller. A moment later, he wiggled into her panties.

I am so effing queer, he thought. Flushed with excitement, he adjusted his pitiful erection, tucking it vertically against his hairless belly. Tiny or not, it ached from engorgement. How he wished for a hole there instead, with ovaries instead of peanuts. And breasts. Let’s not forget breasts. And a big girl’s bra to put them in.

Embarrassed, he touched his chest through the thin front of Mina’s bra. Maybe someday, he thought. Maybe Mom would talk about it once he got older, sit down in private, and discuss all the things he wanted to say. He looked in Mina’s vanity mirror. Would she talk to him, he wondered? Miserable pain in the ass she was, Mina could be amazingly adult at times, causing something of a mental disconnect. She had recently helped with his trig homework.

She wore this, he thought, fingering her bra. I wore her other set yesterday (one of her other sets, anyway), and soiled her panties with ejaculate. He planned to do it again, wearing these or another pair of her undies the rest of the day, and all night long. He’d sleep in her bra and panties and one of her nighties. Maybe he’d sleep in two or three, ejaculating all night long, filling her panties with cum. Oh, my God, he moaned. Why do I do this to myself?

He lay on her unmade bed, splayed his arms and legs and squirmed all over her mattress. Burrowing between her sheets, he wriggled free of her panties and bra and leaked a liberal amount of semen into her Hello Kitty bedclothes. Turning onto his stomach, he continued to squirm, naked and excited between Mina’s questionably clean sheets. Locating her panties with his right toes, he flipped onto his side and rubbed them all over his body, especially his aching penis and strangled peanuts, then pulled her panties over his head. He worked her training bra up his legs and around his slender hips. This was just madness.

Mom texted a message. An instant later, she called via Face-Time.

Tearing from Mina’s bedroom across the condo into his own, he reversed course, dove into the bathroom, and whipped the shower curtain closed and cranked over the faucet to hot. Panting, he set his phone on the tank top, wriggled free of Mina’s training bra and dove into the still-freezing water. He squealed, exactly as Mina would if sprayed by cold water. Frantically lathering his hair, he reached out and jabbed the green button to accept the call. His voice was appropriately strident.

“Mom! I’m in the shower, dammit!”

Mom laughed, and Mina cried “You better be alone!” slapping her thigh and stamping her feet on the floor. “Loser!” she caterwauled, making Michael complain more stridently still: “What do you want?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay. You never answered my text, Michael.”

Stupid fuck!

“I’m fine!” he answered truculently. “I just got all sweaty in gym, that’s all.” Mom didn’t ask why he hadn’t showered in gym. He never did.

“I wanted to remind you that I left $30 in the kitchen for a pizza tonight.”

“I saw it,” he lied. “I’m ordering pepperoni.” Mina snickered in the background for some reason. Where the fuck were they, anyway? “Are you there already?”

Mom laughed sarcastically. “We’re at a standstill on 95. According to Waze, a tractor-trailer hit a minivan and the backup is 5 miles long. We’re getting off at the next exit and taking Route 1 until we pass the backup.”

Michael heard a warble of sirens in the background. It had to be a bad situation if the backup was 5 miles long.

“Can I finish my shower now?” he asked petulantly.

“Can I finish my shower now,” Mina parroted in the car. Unseen, Michael jabbed a middle finger in the air.

“Yes,” Mom sighed. “I’ll text you later, dear, or your sister will.”

“I will not!” Mina disavowed loudly. Michael shot her another unseen bird. I had your underwear on, he wanted to yell, and I--

He killed that thought with a savage jerk of his head. “Fine. Bye Mom.”

“Bye,” she got in before he jabbed the red button. No goodbye to or from Mina.

“Stupid bitch,” he muttered.

Michael finished the shower, dried and wrapped in the towel as his sister might. Planting a foot on the toilet seat, he meticulously inspected his baby-smooth groin for any sign, even a hint of pubic hair. Nada. Nothing. Zippo. Zilch.

“Fuck,” he muttered disgustedly. 5260 days old, and not a sprig of pubic hair.

Playing it safe, he wrapped the towel about his middle and proceeded to retrieve discarded clothing from around the condo.

51550 Westland Avenue, Unit 504 was a four-bedroom, 3-1/2 bath floor plan, centered about a central kitchen/dining room combination. His bedroom was the soul sleeping accommodation this side of the condo; Mom and Dad’s room, Mina’s and the guest bedroom were on the parent’s side. The condo had balconies east and west, with access to the front balcony via the family room/den. Mom and Dad had their own balcony entrance out back, though Mina did not. It lay down the short hall from her bedroom door, however. Michael wished his bedroom had a balcony door.

Pitching his clothing and backpack on the bed, he allowed the towel to fall away, landing with a soft plop around his ankles. It had threatened to leave him bare all the way up and down the condo; he had refused to acknowledge or remedy the problem. Finally the tuck just failed. He stood naked before his bedroom window.

Add exhibitionism to his list of perversions. Never once had he closed a blind, curtain or drape when naked or performing perverted sexual acts in the daytime, knowing from experience that spotting someone naked or performing deviant acts in their bedroom in daylight was a lost cause. He acquiesced to common sense at night, of course, closing his blinds, and/or drawing his curtains. A 20-story condo sat across the parking lot, and another was catty-cornered to the west of his building.

“I’m naked. I’m also a girl,” he lied. “Want to see my naked body?” Thoughtfully, he made a quarter turn to face the open blinds, giving someone with binoculars his or her best opportunity to see his tiny erection. (He guessed a woman might have binoculars trained on his bedroom window; anything was possible.) Armed with binoculars, he’d done a bunch of spying himself. He’d spotted naked flesh at night, but never during the daytime. Unless (as he’d occasionally caught a stupid female doing) someone approached the window with no clothes on.

Gracefully, he spun about as his sister might, displaying--

Stop it, he mentally commanded. No thinking about your sister.

He turned his back to the window, more specifically, his tight little backside. The same little backside (encased in Hello Kitty panties, of course) he planned to slide into Mina’s skinny jeans tonight. Gazing over his shoulder out the open window, a hundred windows and balcony doors gazed back. He would never do something this stupid at night.

That’s what he told himself.

Retrieving and donning Mina’s panties, he wormed her training bra on over his head and about his slight, girlish chest.

Girlish chest, girlish bottom. Girlish boy.

“I am a girl,” he complained. “A girl with a penis, testicles, and no breasts.” No ovaries, either, or a vagina or the requisite uterus for making a baby. “I’d be a good mother,” he complained. Of course, he would. Twisting, he eyed his reflection in the mirror.

He liked the concept of boys. Boys, not so much. Given a disembodied penis to suck (David Miller’s, for instance), he’d critique it for size, color, and smoothness (the pinker and smoother the better), the type of head, preferring one such as his own (much larger, of course). Only then would he open his mouth. Often, mostly at night in bed, he fantasized sucking or masturbating David Miller into his mouth. And swallowing his deposit, of course. His precious deposit.

“You are such a faggot,” he muttered.

He crossed the condo to Mom’s bedroom, cautiously entered and approached her closet door. The top right shelf halfway down the walk-in held her no-longer secret stash. It contained her playthings, whatever marijuana and powdered cocaine she and Dad had on hand, issuing an irresistible siren song. Standing on tiptoe, Michael lifted the box and brought it down to his waist. Inside were plastic bags containing her stash and Mom’s various playthings. Startled, mouth dropping open, he ogled the latest edition.

“Are you fucking kidding me!”

Wrapped in Saran Wrap was a black monster the length and thickness of his forearm. Shaking his head, Michael reopened his eyes to discover the fearsome object was one of a duo of new objects, the second specimen a mottled, ghastly gray and red contrivance shaped like the penis of a large canine. It bore an unmistakable crested tip, a knot the size of a tennis ball, and realistically sculpted doggie testicles. Half the size of the black monster at only 8” long, the dog phallus was nonetheless horrifying.

“Mom,” he groaned. “You gotta be kidding me.”

5 p.m. In Mina’s panties and training bra, he sat in the kitchen nook, sipping a Diet Coke. He was rattled. A horse cock, and one from a dog. Polypropylene, yes ... but still the sexual appendage of a horse and a dog. Did Mom like dogs?

Michael barked laughter. Was it a personal perversion, he wondered, or did Dad join in the madness when home? They’d never owned a dog--not since he was born, anyway--and certainly never a horse. (He choked laughter, imagining his joy at being gifted a pony on his birthday.) “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

These could be fake, he thought, a plant. Sitting up with a jerk, he imagined a webcam in Mom’s bedroom, live-streaming his entrance into her room wearing Mina’s panties and training bra. Violating her closet, returning empty-handed and flushed scarlet some two minutes later? Did a webcam point at him now, ramrod straight at the kitchen table wearing Mina’s panties and training bra? His heart trip-hammered, and stars burst in his narrowing field of vision. OMG, no ... please! Suddenly strength-less, he collapsed back against the cushion, gasping.

Get hold of yourself, he thought angrily. Mom would not plant cameras around the house, her bedroom included. (Mina, just might, he thought with sick realization, envisioning one in her bedroom.) The question was, did his Mom really like animals, or was she into taboo, like her son? (He obviously got it from someone.)

He arose sharply, disjointedly, dropping back onto the seat. “Fuck!” he croaked, smacking the table. His second attempt was more successful--if equally stumble-footed--and he floundered away from the table, grumbling, “Mother-fucking hell!”

What had him so fucking rattled? He should be enthralled, he told himself, knowing his mom liked horse-cock. Online, he watched a cute CD bone a 16” long Rambone all the way up his ass. Had Michael not seen it with his own eyes on three separate occasions, he wouldn’t believe it possible.

Had Mom had done it with her fat horse-bone? He could do it tonight if he wanted to. (Maybe.)

Back in her closet, tape measure in hand, Michael confirmed the length as 16 impossible inches. It was 2-1/2” thick. (A Coke can measured 2-1/4” in comparison.) He measured the canine phallus next and found it 8” long. Fuck.

He’d never touched a boy’s cock before, but he’d sucked Mom’s dildos, numerous times. Her shoe box contained a sleek electric vibrator, a pair of anal eggs, and twin Ballsy Cock’s. One was flesh-colored, the other a beautiful black. Both stood 6” tall from head to the faux-scrotum base, (7-1/2” overall length). He’d taught himself to deep-throat with the two, becoming semi-proficient at not gagging. He preferred Black Beauty. Mom would shit.

Returning everything to the box, he closed it tight and placed it back on the shelf. Whatever activity he chose to do tonight, it wouldn’t start until after dark. Not until Mom was in bed or had made her final phone call of the night. Dithering, he wondered if Mina knew about this.

In her bedroom, he slipped between the sheets and wriggled free of her training bra, and then her panties. He enjoyed his naked presence between her sheets. Slowly, he fingered his laughable erection with his fingertips. Each time he leaked a drop of semen, he worked it into her Hello Kitty sheets. Relaxed, his mind occupied with thoughts of canine and equine endowments, he drifted off to sleep in Mina’s bed, naked.

He awoke to the phone. As before, Mom sent a text and then followed a moment later with a call. Dashing to his bedroom, he yanked on a shirt and then a pair of shorts. Zipping up, he smoothed his hair and frantically glanced about the room. “Hey,” he said, picking up. It was Mina, not Mom.

“Loser!” Laughing, she hung up.

Michael stared at the screen. Fuck you, he thought, and then followed with a thought which can’t be repeated here.

Rattled, he dropped the phone and looked at his alarm. The red numerals told him it was 7:14 pm. He’d slept in her bed for an hour and a half, naked. “Fuck you,” he said, grinning. “I slept in your bed for an hour and a half, and starched your Hello Kitty sheets, you little...” He wisely left the sentence unfinished.

Dialing Mom’s number, he raised the iPhone to his ear, tapping his foot. They should be there by now, he thought; it was dark outside, and he’d run across the condo naked, into his bedroom with the window open. He’d never done that before. He might have been seen naked. “Hi,” Mom said. “What’s going on?”

“Just wondered if you were there,” he lied. “Dimwit called.”

“Called you a loser!” she yelled in the background. “Loser, loser, loser!”

“Mina!” Mom chastised. “We got here ten minutes ago. Got up to our room, just now. The motel is packed with Girl Scouts, Michael, everywhere you look!”

Disconnect again: Mina and Girl Scouts sharing the same sentence.

“I was just about to order pizza,” he lied.

“You know where the money is, right?”

“Sure,” he lied again. Crossing to his window, he closed the blinds. “You know when I asked this morning about having a beer... ?”

Mom chuckled at his faltering tone. “You can have 2. One with pizza if you like, one before you got to bed. I guess you deserve a little latitude, stranded the way you are. No more than 2, though, and no telling anyone, Michael!”

“Drunk!” his sister yelled. “Silly drunk on 2 beers like a little girl!”

Grinding his teeth, he jammed a finger in the general direction of her bedroom.

“Tell her to stick it,” he growled. “Better yet--” He laughed. “Tell her we’ll have a drinking contest when she gets home. Whoever throws up first, loses!”

Mom laughed, appalled. Mina cried, “Yes!” indicating Mom had her speakerphone actived. “I can outdrink you any day of the week, sissy little queer-boy!”

Shocked, Michael rocked back on his heels. Mortified, he listened to Mom cry: “Mina!” and his sister’s horrified yet silent realization of what she’d just said. Being 11 years old and all that entailed, she defended herself vigorously.

“What? I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“Mina! You apologize to your brother right now!”

“I will not!”

“You will too! Or I’ll take you home right now!”

“Fine!” Mina yelled. “Take me home then! I don’t want to be here, anyway!”

Michael heard a door slam closed. So much for his night home alone, he thought.

“Michael, I’m so sorry. Mina meant nothing by that. I’m sure she’ll apologize once she’s gotten over her embarrassment. You know how she hates to be wrong about anything.”

By extract, her mother’s daughter.

“It’s okay,” he allowed. “She’s only telling the truth, anyway.”

“Michael!” Appalled, now. “She is not!” Too embarrassed to continue that thought, she cleared her throat. “I really have a good mind to take her home.”

His phone pinged. Taking a moment, he saw the text came from his sister. The notification contained only three words: ‘Sorry. I’m sorry!’, followed by a tearful emoji.

“Don’t,” he said. “She just apologized via text.”

Mom snorted. “As if that means anything. She only did it to keep from missing the jamboree tomorrow, the brat.”

Sorry. I’m sorry! (Tearful emoji.)

“I don’t think so,” he countered. “I think she really means it.”

“Of course, she does.” Her sarcasm would cut through a tree limb, Michael thought.

“Anyway, I need to unpack. And prepare for a night of tearing my hair out wondering what she’s getting into with all these girls. Literally, Michael, this is a mother’s worst nightmare. A million pre-teens running around the hotel, intent on getting in trouble.” She sighed. “I should tie her to her bed.”

Laughing, Michael pushed that image out of his head and said they’d talk later.

“You behave yourself. I don’t need fighting on a second front. Eat your pizza and drink your beers, and be in bed by 11 o’clock. Do not stay up all night playing your X-Box, Michael.”

“Sure, Mom.” It won’t be my X-Box getting played with tonight, anyway. Was it you or Dad who ordered the doggy cock and horse dong online, he wondered. I assume you have a post office box I know nothing about?

“I mean it, Michael,” her voice sterner now. “Don’t make me regret leaving you alone tonight.”

Safely alone, he slipped the phone in his back pocket and went about the condo, securing windows and the balcony doors. The time was 7:33 pm, too early to consider doing anything perverted. If changing into Mina’s undies wasn’t too devilish.

Sorry. I’m sorry! (Tearful emoji.)

Apology accepted, he thought. Better than Fuck Off, or Up Yours!

Eschewing underwear for now, he instead headed to the kitchen to eat. Anticipation had his appetite suppressed (imagine a giant hairy foot mashing an ill-fated native), and pizza of any kind was out of the question. What he wanted (besides Mina’s panties and training bra and a giant black cock up his ass) was a beer. He yanked open the refrigerator door.

Mom (and Dad those times he was home on leave) was a Heineken drinker. Her second favorite lager was Samuel Adams. On the refrigerator shelf sat side-by-side 12-packs of beer, Heineken and Samuel Adams. (A trio of O’Doul’s inside the door was available for non-alcoholic guests.) Michael withdrew a Heineken’s and savored the cold, slightly moist green bottle. This would fit nicely up my ass, he thought idly. (He thought that idly about many things, not all in the condo.)

The kitchen clock read 7:36 pm, too early to drink a beer. (It would only lead to more, and he could possibly justify drinking 4 bottles tonight, but no more.) “Fuck,” he muttered, hating the restrictions placed on 14-year-olds everywhere. Replacing the bottle, he turned to lean against the refrigerator door.