Campaign Chaos Pt 03

As if by magic, and as the entire community of Davidson looked on, the very fashionable, very sophisticated, black Armani skirt, that had so endowed Mrs. Danielle Marie Parnell with the power she had projected all night (and that Rachel Miras feared she was about to suffer in full), parted at the lovely lawyer's slender waist before quickly falling into a pool at her high heeled feet revealing a very tight, very translucent, pair of black and white leopard spotted lacy La Perla boy briefs.

As the shell shocked solicitor's eyes practically bugged out of her sockets, and her oh-so-stylish tortoise shell glasses slid down to the end of her perfect nose, the prior silence broke and the entire crowd -- particularly its women -- erupted into a thunderous cacophony of laughter. Standing there before them, in her barely there panties with a pattern that matched her towering high heels, was the town's biggest tease and narcissist -- her mouth wide open in the shape of a giant "O" -- but for the first time in anyone's memory, without a word to say.

For the men, seeing the outline of the sexy mom's gloriously exercised ass through the lacy confines of Mrs. Parnell's panties was more than recompense for any slights they had suffered whether from her mere eye rolls or withering tongue lashings. Long had they fantasized about what the stuck up little sexpot might be wearing under her power suits and now, unbelievably, they knew. There wasn't a flaccid member in the park. For the women, watching the little tease go from frazzled -- a wonderful enough comeuppance -- to

skirt-less

was a form of sweet revenge the likes of which they could never have imagined. If they only knew what was yet to come.

"Oh my God . . . my

skirt

. . . my

panties . . . stop looking at me

," screamed Danielle, finally giving voice to her predicament while her mind tried to comprehend how in mere moments she had gone from regally commanding the crowd to its laughing stock. As her hands instinctively sought to cover, in front and in back, her luxuriously sexy lingerie -- intended only for her private pleasure but now on display for all to see -- her usually facile mind kicked into an overdrive of doubt and confusion. How could this have happened? My hair . . . my skirt!?! Why are all these . . . these nobodies . . . laughing and pointing at me -- at

me?

How dare they . . . I'm beautiful . . . and brilliant . . . and . . . sexy . . . and . . . and . . . oh my God . . . they can all see my underwear!!

As the crowd howled at his mother's predicament, Will Parnell knew he had to act -- to defend his mother's honor, to restore her sense of decency (Mrs. Parnell's daughters had already made a run for it before their mother's wardrobe malfunction). So, ignoring the confusing feelings that had overtaken him upon seeing his usually, calm, cool, collected and domineering mother reduced to a quaking, knock-kneed, deer in the headlights who, with her hands now on her knees was inadvertently thrusting her firm, panty covered bottom rearward in an unintentionally sexualized pose, the young gallant sprang into action.

"I'm coming mom," Will shouted as he rose purposefully from the chair behind where his mother stood and prepared to rescue both her skirt and her quickly diminishing dignity. But just as he reached the apex of his still somewhat diminutive prepubescent height of five and a half feet, the effect of Billy Miras' earlier laser pointer test became fully evident on the 18-year-old Will. With their button having been surreptitiously sliced off and their zipper having fallen in the process, Will Parnell's khaki slacks dropped unceremoniously to his loafer encased feet causing Danielle's son and prospective rescuer to fall face first toward the stage floor . . . and his mother's waist.

As he thrust his hands out to break that fall, accidentally grabbing and tearing from his mother's hips her $500 La Perla lacy boy briefs, Will Parnell revealed two things that brought the already wild crowd to a veritable frothy frenzy of hilarity.

First, beneath her very lacy, very brief, La Perla panties was exposed not the incredibly tiny but oh-so-naughty matching La Perla micro thong that Mrs. Parnell purchased to round out her feline sex appeal -- the sight of which would have been more than mortifying enough for the unraveling

prima donna

. For some reason Danielle was unable to put her hands on that particular lacy delight this afternoon as she got ready and, in a reckless decision she now knew she would forever regret, Mrs. Parnell had instead slipped over her very fit, very tanned hips -- and into the cleft of her perfect little bottom -- a teeny, tiny black latex thong across the front of which, in tawdry, cheap and tasteless rhinestones, was written in block letters the word "SLAVE."

As the color visibly drained from her completely astonished face, and the crowd howled ever more loudly, Danielle silently cursed herself for the late-night, impulsive, online purchase she made from flirtylingerie.com recently after a combination of too much wine, a very long bubble bath and a finger-fueled fantasy of being taken -- being

dominated

-- not by the hunky Adam Hess who Mrs. Parnell loved to tease to distraction whenever possible while in so doing humiliating his wife Rebecca Ross, but

by

the jealous Rebecca Ross . . . all while the likes of Emily Duncan, Rachel Miras and Davidson's feckless men and boys watched . . . and pointed . . and laughed.

That Mrs. Parnell had attempted to push that fantasy from her mind's eye earlier today as -- slipping into her secret latex shame -- she prepared to play the role of dominatrix

to

the hapless Emily and Rachel now counted for naught. As veritable tidal waves of humiliation began to crash over her, Danielle feared that not only her two opponents -- those cheap-suit wearing soccer moms -- but everyone else in attendance would know that she -- Danielle Marie Parnell -- struggled between, on the one hand, her haughty, imperious, take-no-prisoners, alpha-female persona and, on the other, her need and desire to be dominated -- to be very publicly and very shamefully put in her place by the very women -- the

women

-- who she publicly lorded over on an almost daily basis. Would they now deduce that the construct of her fashionable clothing and domineering personality was nothing but a mere facade to hide what deep down was a truly submissive nature? What could

possibly

be more humiliating?

The answer to that question was found in the second impact of Will Parnell's fall for, as he rested on all fours with his mother's torn boy briefs in his hand, his pants at his feet and a blank look of disbelief on his face, it became immediately apparent to Danielle -- and the crowd at large -- why Mrs. Parnell couldn't find her leopard print La Perla micro thong earlier that day.

"William Parnell," screamed the equally mortified and flummoxed uber-MILF upon making the unsettling discovery, "are you . . . are you wearing . . . mommy's . . . panties?"

As Calum Duncan and Billy Miras doubled over in laughter at the Parnell family's continuing comeuppance, a practically shell-shocked Will Parnell, who only minutes before appeared the perfect picture of the conceited little WASP that he was, but who was now wearing one of his mother's thongs while staring slack-jawed at another -- with his mother still in it -- only inches from his face, croaked, "yes mommy . . . I mean . . . yes . . . slave . . . they're very soft," before passing out from abject humiliation.

Meanwhile, while Danielle teetered gob-smacked in her ridiculously high heels and minuscule latex panties -- with her hair in shambles, her usually perfect make-up running and her mind reeling from the realization that her life would never be the same, Billy Miras again put the laser pointer to work -- this time separating Mrs. Parnell from her very sophisticated, very fashionable, Tom Ford blouse.

As the black and white garment floated from her fit, tanned shoulders and landed, mercifully for her son Will's sake, over his recently exposed and thong encased bottom, the men of Davidson, who could no longer collectively contain themselves, broke into a round of spontaneous applause at the sight of Mrs. Parnell's pert, ample and tan-line free tits, the nipples of which looked like they could cut glass while the women continued to enjoy the haughty narcissist's unveiling.

With her hands alternating wildly between trying to cover her fabulously fit, there-for-all-to-see ass and her recently exposed, gravity defying breasts, Danielle knew it was time to go. But how . . . and where? Staring down at her feet, still trembling in their very high heels, the once supremely confident suburban alpha-mom realized that her skirt was well within reach. Unfortunately for Mrs. Parnell, Nicole Silver, who couldn't believe the rush she was getting from seeing Little Miss Perfect's meltdown, had made the self-same observation an instant earlier and, climbing over her moderator's desk to reach onto the stage with outstretched hand was able to snatch the black garment immediately before Danielle could reach it.

With a victorious grin on Nicole's gorgeous face, and as her gaze locked with that of her once spectacular nemesis -- the now humbled Mrs. Parnell -- whose own eyes had grown to the size of saucers as she watched her skirt get pulled from reach, Mrs. Silver mocked, "not so cool under pressure

now

are you . . .

slave

?"

Danielle was speechless. How many times before had she instinctively known exactly how to respond to this Amazonian red-head, to, with a turn of phrase slap her down, to humiliate her in front of everyone? But now . . . crouched down in only her high heels and her tiny, naughty, embarrassing latex thong . . . with more than half the town laughing at her . . . and with Nicole's degrading moniker of "

slave

" still resonating in her ears . . . now no words were coming to her . . . except the ones that she whispered softly to no one in particular as she fell to her hands and knees and, in only her Louboutins and thong, began crawling for dear life toward the back of the stage and hoped for escape.

"No Mistress . . ," the humbled diva said softly, "I'm not very cool now . . . not very cool at all."