Little Sister 13

Author's note: This story takes place in the Richard's Enterprises universe: Kitty & Teddy, LLC; K&T, LLC; [K][T] and Family,

etc

. An understanding of the events of those three books is helpful, though not necessary. I consider this a coming of age story, even though the main character is in her mid-20s.

There is no sex in this installment.

Prologue: Moving Out but Not Going Away

Phone:

Please hold for the President of the United States.

Phone:

Good Morning Dr. Richards, or, should I say, Representative-elect Richards. Congratulations on your victory. I look forward to working with you in the coming session.

Me:

Thank you, Mr. President. I won't keep you with chit-chat. I suspect you have a number of these calls to make before dawn.

Phone:

[laughs]

They said you were smart. I would add, savvy for your someone new to Washington. Perhaps we can work together. Again, congratulations.

Me:

Thank you, sir. Good luck.

Phone:

[to himself]

I'll nee...

[click]

Chapter 1: In the Beginning

I should tell you about myself. My name is Siobhan Richards. I grew up hating the name, because no one could pronounce it correctly (shuh-VAHN), even when I sounded it out. Jo is the usual nickname, so I went by that. It was a good nickname because it is a bit androgynous—I hung with the guys and flirted with the girls, not that flirting ever worked.

I am 181 cm tall (5' 11"). My famous and powerful brother, Sean, is only 178 cm (1½" shorter). In addition to my unreasonable height, I have a face not even my mother loved. "Fleshy" and "strong boned" are not words of endearment when describing a young girl's features. A scar or other disfigurement might have helped. Those are subject to surgery.

Gran was a famous socialite in her day. She took mother to any number of mother/daughter events. Mother would have liked to repeat the process as the parent. I would tell you a story, but by the time I was three she had given up. I was a homely baby and an unattractive child. Since no amount of money or attention changed that basic fact, Mother's attention was usually just long enough hide me from guests

As you might imagine, attending school was not fun. School status, in the lower grades, was based on parentage followed by appearance. With Mother being low profile, I could safely be ignored on both counts. Being naturally sociable which might have compensated. I was the opposite. When I did not like the other children my age, I said so. Not surprisingly, I made no friends my own age. Instead, I had Sean to adore. He was years older but never talked down to me.

That relationship was enough for a few years, but things change. The first jolt was when Sean graduated from middle school. The primary and middle schools shared a campus, while the High school was miles away. Without Sean's constant influence, I started to gain a reputation as a smart mouth. This might have escalated into being a problem student had I not discovered the library. It gave me a means of coping—mostly. The world will never know how much disciplinary action I avoided by being buried in a book.

The next jolt was biological. When I started 5th grade, Theresa Waltermuth was tallest in the class at 158 cm (5' 2" (she still is)). By Christmas, I was 160 cm and growing fast. More to the point so was my chest. I was the first in our grade to need a training bra. By spring, I was using the real thing. Over the summer I kept growing.

6th grade is middle school. Though still eleven years old, I was tallest by more than 4 cm (2½ inches). Any doubt that my B cup bra was necessary ended on the first day. My second period was Phys Ed. The news was that my breasts were real spread over the whole school before lunch. Because of them, I could no longer be ignored.

Being competition was a change. Girls I knew stopped ignoring me. Girls I had never met were hostile. Things started verbally. For some reason, the popular girls thought I was not allowed to answer back. Melissa Andrews is a case in point. She called me an overgrown cow, while a couple of her friends moo-ed in the background. I asked if she was studying fencing. That was outlandish enough that everyone wanted to know what I meant. My patient explanation was that her nose was long enough to count as a second weapon. She actually reached to touch it, which led to a quick reminder that I was the bigger and stronger. After that, things escalated.

Nothing happened instantly, but dismissive name-calling yielded to more personal attacks. Every level of society practices competitive insults as a dominance game. However, with verbal attacks there there were rules, a level field of a sort, and I was smarter. Groups would huddle for weeks, trying to come up with the best way to put me in my place and I learned to better them off the cuff. The observation skills I developed still serve me well.

Enter Trina. I don't recall her family name but she played a pivotal role in my development. In Trina's case, wit was not an option, so she started with the physical. One-on-one was a joke. She spent one second in my face, then took a seat on the floor. After that attempt failed, she got serious. Two days later, she brought an older male cousin along. Sean took care of him while I took care of Trina.

It was no accident that Sean was nearby. Though he was still in high school, he served as de facto parent in Mother's absence. He would pick me up from school every day. When necessary, he would talk to teachers, even Vice Principals. Sometimes it helped. In this case, he was nearby when Trina and her cousin jumped me. After he ran off Trina and her cousin, Sean stayed close. We both understood that things were unfinished.

Two days later, Trina attacked again, this time accompanied by three boys. Sean took on all three and left me alone with Trina. Since she had not been very careful, I had a few moments to plan my response. In retrospect, I proved a good tactician. I began by assessing the ground. It was after classes, but we were on school property. However, Icould gaina bit of privacy if I wanted it.

Next, it was the allocation of forces. Sean would buy me time, so it would be me against Trina. The four boys would serve as witnesses, so things could not get very messy, but I saw a way to make that work for me. In preparation, I took off one shoe and sock. Thinking she had backup, Trina came right up to me. I never bothered to talk. My left hand grabbed Trina's ponytail while my right hand stuffed the sock in her mouth. She fought, but that was good for me.

It was school grounds, but we were away from most of the activity and near the corner of the building. I jerked Trina around the corner, which put us near the AC units. There was a crate handy, which was perfect for what I had in mind. I had Trina bent over the crate, with her skirt up on her back and her panties partway down, before she started to scream into the gag. One of my hands held her there while the other spanked Trina's bare ass until my fingers were numb. By then, I was out of time.

I grabbed my sock from Trina's mouth and left her bent over the box. Teachers had already arrived and were separating Sean from the three boys. By the time I was noticed, I had the sock back on and was putting on the shoe. Trina came around the corner looking shocked. The teachers marched us all to the Principal's office.

This was part of Trina's master plan. The three boys were supposed to be her witnesses. When Trina told her story, she expected the wrath of the school to fall on me. Even before I said anything, the Principal was skeptical. The numbers were uneven, so Trina's team was marked as the aggressor.

Worse, the physical evidence was against Trina's story. She did not have a mark while my shirt was torn and my face had scratches and bruises. I will never forget the look on Trina's face when she admitted putting them there. I never had to say a word. Sean asked a few questions, but he could also see the way the wind blew.

In the end, I served detention all week. Trina was suspended for five days and kicked off the spirit squad. She avoided me like the plague for the next two years. For my part, I thanked Sean and asked him to never do it again. The incident proved that I could handle such things myself.

It was also to give Sean relief. He did not have suitable standing with either teachers or parents. Already, some fathers wanted to know why an older boy was interested in their pubescent daughters. Since I could handle anything my peers could bring up, Sean could focus on getting ready for college.

It worked. Packs of girls still stood afar and talked, but they would scatter if I approached. I had no social life but Sean still filled a big part of the gap. He was really cool to be around because he always treated me like an equal. This was not always the case. One girl told friends that her younger sister was actually the maid's daughter. The younger sister was one of my social tormentors, but I still had sympathy for her.

At home, Sean was my anchor in the storm. Even better, I always knew what he was thinking. Sean habitually thinks aloud. If you listen, it comes as a low confusing mumble. That never bothered me, because I learned to read his lips before I learned to read print. It's ironic because Sean has trouble putting his finished thoughts into words. I could always follow his thinking as it unfolded, which is much more illuminating. Over time the skill has proven useful. A great deal of my famous timing is based on it.

Time passed and things changed, puberty being just the most obvious transition. Everyone grew and classes matriculated. Sean graduated third in his class and was accepted to an Ivy League school. Much to Mother's disgust, it was Brown. Sean moved away and I moved across town to the high school.

By 10th grade, dating was a competitive sport in which I did not participate. If someone could pull it off, they could put me down concerning my lack of partner. That was a big if because I did not make it easy. As verbal sparring escalated, I learned how much could be accomplished with a sneer or a disdainful look. I was also ready if things turned physical.

Direct intimidation was never an easy option since I remained biggest and strongest. A couple of girls gathered packs and tried anyway, which played into my hands. In groups, there is always a hierarchy. Physical confrontations became a matter of figuring out who to take down first. That was easy, but aftermaths could be messier. Two years after Trina, another girl initiated a dust up, then tried to bring in official parties. I explained that five to one is unfair, even if I was bigger than any of the others. Once again, I received detention while they were suspended and lost places in various sports and drill team.

After that incident worked its way through the culture, things became more covert. In this my ability to read lips was invaluable. My locker was breached and drugs were planted. When the Principal asked me to open my locker, I knew enough to insist that the police be present to dust for prints. One cheerleader's boyfriend was expelled. That did not stop the smaller stuff. During gym, my bra was cut in half. I went sans bra from that day on.

Not surprisingly, I was soon on a first-name basis with the office staff. While I did not report the bra incident, the lack of bra was noticed in my first class. I was able to pull the two pieces out of my backpack. More often I was accused of something. Occasionally, it was even true, but usually my payback was more subtle than their imagination.

My speed was more along the lines of wardrobe malfunction. The wrong bra size is a real pain, but who will complain in public? I went through whole bottles of red ink. Buttons popped off. Zippers stripped. Purse handles failed. I rarely bothered to watch, which helped create solid alibis.

Most of the time my accuser's story was pure fiction and easy to disprove. Once or twice I had to do some investigating before I could quiet things, but a pattern developed. Eventually, the office would simply take statements and file them as unsubstantiated. By junior year, it was acknowledged I was too much trouble to mess with. Rah team.

That, of course, is ironic. There was no team. By then, Sean had done two years at Brown and joined the Army. Both were designed to irritate my mother. She believed in Harvard Med, Yale Law, and Princeton Engineering. Brown was bad enough, but enlisting in the Army was the last straw. Sean joined me on the list of disappointing children. It did not matter that Sean essentially took over running the company, by email, two years before his Army term was up. As soon as I finished high school, Mother moved to California and discovered tequila.

It all sounds lonely, and it was, but even high school loners have peers. A couple of the computer geeks would talk to me, but my real circle was the outcasts. Many were Goth before Goth was cool. Several claimed to be lesbian. I did not exactly fit in, but they did not throw me out. That counted as a win.

By senior year, I was attracting another kind of attention—the kind that comes from elite test scores. Computers and math were never my thing, but I was death in everything else. I could have graduated after my 11th-grade year. Instead, I took a full load of advanced placement and remote classes through the New Jersey University system.

For Senior Composition, I did a paper on

Huckleberry Finn

, describing him as a victim of child abuse. I received an A, which was the least of things that paper managed. It worked its through our high school, the university liaison, and eventually to the Sociology department at Yale. Two weeks before graduation, I drove the Mercedes to New Haven, Connecticut and met with Yale's Social Sciences faculty.

That day I met Alice Dumervil, the vice-chairwoman of Women's Studies. We connected on a fundamental level. She was more than forty years older and in poor health, so social contact was out of the question. I never even took one of her classes. After my first year, Alice retired and died not long after. I still refer to her as my mentor.

Chapter 2

--

Yale

You will hear that it is extremely hard to get into Ivy League schools. That is usually true. It is also true that top schools recruit, sometimes fiercely. Alice pushed me to file the proper forms and essays while greasing the wheels at her end. I spent my 19th birthday moving into a shared flat in New Haven. It would make a fine story to say that there was a coven of witches in residence, but it was just one pharmacy major named Fiona. She dabbled a little in Wicca and sold herbs on the side.

Yale was both harder and easier than high school. Academically, few students are ready for the workload and most cannot handle it. That made it a simple challenge—just do the work. Simple may not be easy, but the grades tell you how you have done. I did very well. The easy part is that everyone left me alone to study. It was almost Halloween before I noticed I never did anything but house chores, class and homework.

Fiona organized an All Hallows house party. It was not my first experience with alcohol, but it remains the deepest. Instead of ordinary weed, our pharmacy major obtained genuine hashish, plus other things. Halloween was Friday. I woke up Sunday in a bed full of naked female bodies, with someone licking my pussy. I passed out again and never even knew her name. Sufficient to say Monday's first class was not a highlight.

From that point on, I was acknowledged as a member of the house lesbian circle. I could never remember what I said or did, but there it was. For the most part, it made no difference in my life. Six days a week were consumed by school and homework. Saturdays I would occasionally go out with the other girls.

Five years later, I looked back on those two years with a critical eye. My alter ego, Frau Doktor Richards, dissected the string of one night stands. It is not something I am proud to acknowledge, but I had made progress. This was a tribe. I became a member in good standing—complete with appropriate dress.

The piercings were the simplest. I paid money, bought jewelry, endured some pain. Viola. I had a new ring or stud. Tattooing was common, but not universal. I never bothered. My look was distinctive enough without it. I still never wore a bra, though I kept one around. Cut pants, heavy boots, torn T-shirt and black makeup can be done is surprising variety. Try dangling a small bell, from a nipple ring, through a tear in the T-shirt.

Chapter 3

--

Boston

My third summer at Yale, sort of between my junior and senior years, was the first big change. All the social sciences require field work. The one I chose was to the Roxbury area of Boston. In some ways it was like living in the flat, without the homework. My alcove became a dorm bed, with half a closet and a military foot locker. Showers were communal and hot water a rare privilege. Food was done on a chore schedule. Same old, same old.

Forty hours a week I spent working at a transient shelter. Another twenty were at a legal-aid office, filling out government forms for people that could barely read. It was something that stayed with me when I went into politics. Another few hours were spent on daily notes. The rest of my waking time was spent with Veronica.

Roni loved Elvis Costello's song,

Veronica.

She would hum it all the time. Whenever we were about to do something daring, or even just a bit risqué, she would sing the line, "You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica." Her name in lyric seemed to empower her and she was just as wild as the girl in the song.

We met standing in line at one of the city offices. Veronica sang that line, over and over, til she was called. In seconds, she was a screeching harpy, gouging flesh out of a civil servant's hide. I stood to one side and handed her things as the need arose—paper, pen, a copy of the regulations, etc. I was the perfect contrast, standing quietly, but towering over the desk.

Eventually, the clerk picked up his phone and progress was achieved. Roni harrumphed with feeling. I presented my paperwork for the clerk to stamp. That done, we left the office. Once the door was shut behind us, she threw her arms around me and said, "I don't know who you are, but I owe you coffee. They never give in that fast."

Veronica bought two lattes to go, then I walked her home. She invited me in. We spent an hour on her sofa necking. Things might have gone further, but her roommate came home. Introductions were made and I left, promising to call. The next night we attended a poetry reading. The night after, Saturday, it was a 1930s art film marathon til five AM. We slept together and had sex for breakfast. She could not cook any better than I could.

It's easiest to describe Roni was a stereotypical redhead Irish New Yorker, with temper to match, except she was Dutch, brunet and no freckles, from Providence. Her attitude was so familiar my New Jersey roots felt at home. Perhaps that why I let her put a ring in my nose. Actually, it was three rings, but one suffices.

For two months she led me around. I learned a lot of things about sex, women, the club scene and politics. Always the politics. Veronica was a master of offering you three ways to make her life better. She could make you grateful for having a choice. Fortunately for me, she was not the Mistress of choices. That might have ended more badly.