Miss Mcmillans Milkshake Parlour

Walking past a row of shops one afternoon on his way home from work, Trent noticed a sign above one of them that read "Miss McMillan's Milkshake Parlour". He was not familiar with that particular establishment, but he did love milkshakes, so he decided to go in.

The parlour was about ten feet wide. The front wall, including the door, was completely paned with glass. A counter ran the width of the parlour about fifteen feet from the entrance, preventing passage past that point. In front of the counter were five round tables, each of which had four chairs around it. Behind the counter stood a rather attractive woman, and behind her was a wall with a door leading into a back room and, beside the door, the milkshake menu.

Trent looked at the menu and was completely floored. One hundred and sixty flavours of ice cream, any possible percentage of milk fat in the milk, five different thicknesses, five different glass or cup sizes, and seven different methods of preparation including stabbing the milk-submerged ice cream repeatedly with a hot knife. Trent studied the menu carefully from just inside the door, trying to figure out what everything meant. While he was doing this, the woman beckoned him to the counter.

"Come on up," she said pleasantly.

"Um, I haven't decided yet," said Trent uncertainly.

"That's okay, there's no one else here," the woman replied. It was true; Trent and the woman were the only ones in the parlour. Trent approached the counter cautiously, looking away from the menu just enough to avoid colliding with any tables or chairs. When he reached the counter, the woman introduced herself. "I'm Miss McMillan. Welcome to my milkshake parlour. Take your time, and let me know if you need help deciding. I have a knack for matching people to milkshakes."

Trent could feel Miss McMillan's eyes on him as he continued to read the menu. It was not the passively expectant gaze of someone waiting for a decision to be made; Miss McMillan appeared to be

examining

him. Perhaps she was merely trying to, as she said, match him to a milkshake, but it made Trent feel a bit uncomfortable. He tried to read the menu (and thereby make a decision) more quickly, but Miss McMillan's stare was making it increasingly difficult for him to concentrate.

"I'm having a bit of trouble deciding," Trent finally admitted, hoping that Miss McMillan could help him speed this process along.

"Do you have any dietary restrictions?" asked Miss McMillan.

"I won't eat mushrooms or olives, but that's just because I really don't like them."

"And how are you for time?"

"I'm okay for time."

Miss McMillan glanced around the parlour quickly, then leaned in close and said quietly, "I'm about to offer you something that is not on the menu, and is not available to just anyone. I don't want you advertising this. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said Trent. A definite answer seemed best, even though he had no idea

why

Miss McMillan would make such an offer.

"It's my own personal creation. I call it the McMillan Shake. It's basically a vanilla milkshake with a few extra herbs and spices mixed in, but believe me, it tastes

fantastic

. It would be on the house. The only condition is that you can't take it out of the parlour; I can't risk having you analyze it and figure out the recipe. So what do you say?"

"Sure," said Trent, not wanting to spend any more time or mental power making a decision.

"Great!" said Miss McMillan, straightening up and smiling brightly. "I'll go make you one." She went into the back room. Trent thought he heard a click behind him. He looked over his shoulder but didn't see anything unusual. Perhaps someone had dropped something on the pavement just outside his field of vision. It didn't really matter; noises in the city were as common as grains of sand on the beach.

After a few minutes, Miss McMillan came back out with a glass of white milkshake, complete with a straw and a paper napkin. "Here you are," she said, handing Trent the milkshake and smiling. Trent thanked her, brought the milkshake to a table, sat down, and took a sip.

Whoa! Miss McMillan had not been exaggerating when she had described the McMillan Shake. It was by far the most delicious thing that Trent had ever tasted. He looked back at Miss McMillan in amazement. She was smiling at him. He smiled back, then broke eye contact and continued to drink his milkshake.

Why was she doing this for him? Trent wondered. It was not as though she knew him personally. Perhaps she thought he was some sort of celebrity. If so, then correcting her might cause unnecessary embarrassment, so he decided to leave that issue alone.

Glancing back at Miss McMillan, Trent noticed that she was still watching him, and that her smile had widened. She licked her lips, and Trent thought about the witch from "Hansel and Gretel", who fed children candy to fatten them up so that she could eat them.

This had to be some sort of trap. Trent could think of no other reason why someone would give the world's best milkshake to a complete stranger for free and then watch with an ever-widening smile as the stranger drank it. He looked around the parlour, but could not see anything suspicious, other than the grinning woman behind the counter. He looked out the window and watched the rush hour traffic go by. Would Miss McMillan risk doing something unethical in front of so many potential witnesses? Trent briefly considered simply getting up and walking out, leaving the milkshake unfinished. But he couldn't actually

prove

that this was a trap, and the milkshake was

so good

, so instead he merely tried to drink it more quickly, hoping that, if this was indeed a trap, he could get out of there before it sprang.

Through the window, Trent saw a man who looked to be in his seventies walk up to the door of the parlour and try to open it. The door wouldn't open, even though the man seemed to be pulling pretty hard. The man gave up and walked on. Trent had not found the door particularly difficult to open when he had entered, so it couldn't simply have been a matter of the man being too weak. Trent turned to Miss McMillan, who was smiling even more widely.

"Are you trying to close?" he asked. He did not think that he could drink his milkshake any more quickly than he already was, but perhaps Miss McMillan would offer him a shortcut. Of course, if she

was

setting a trap for him then it was unlikely that she would help him to escape, but he had to try.

"Take your time," said Miss McMillan, without the slightest hint of impatience. No shortcut there.

Trent, of course, had no intention of taking his time. He finished off the milkshake as quickly as he could, then brought the glass and napkin back to the counter, handed them to Miss McMillan, and said, "Thanks. That was truly delicious." Miss McMillan took the glass and napkin to the back room while Trent quickly walked to the front door.

The front door wouldn't open.

There did not seem to be a mechanism for opening the door from the inside when it was locked. Trent turned back to the counter. Miss McMillan was coming out of the back room. She was starting to giggle. Trent deliberately kept his tone casual as he asked, "Could you unlock the door?"

"Not just yet," Miss McMillan replied, still giggling. "I want to have a little fun first."

"So you lock me in a store," Trent said quizzically.

"Yes," Miss McMillan responded without missing a beat. "And guess what? One of the ingredients of the McMillan Shake is a powerful diuretic. You're about to have to pee really, really badly!" Her giggle turned into a laugh.

"

What

?!" asked Trent, horrified. But he was only half surprised. He had been fairly certain that Miss McMillan was up to something, he just hadn't known what. Now that she had revealed the nature of the trap, or at least part of it, he could fight it directly. "Unlock the door

now

or I will scream," he said firmly.

"I don't think you want to call attention to yourself with the rate that your bladder is filling right now," Miss McMillan said, shaking her head but still laughing.

She was right, Trent realized. He was already feeling a rapidly intensifying need to pee. Not wanting passers-by to see him in this condition while he negotiated with Miss McMillan, he started taking small steps towards the counter, staying alert for further traps. "Come on," he said when he reached the counter, trying to sound reasonable. "Unlock the door."

"You're feeling it, aren't you?" Miss McMillan asked, starting to laugh harder.

"Yes, I'm feeling it.

Unlock the door

," Trent said impatiently.

Still laughing hard, Miss McMillan chanted,

"Cute guy drinks a special shake

Delicious as can be

But something in that special shake

Makes him have to pee!"

"Come

on

! Please?" Trent begged, grabbing his penis tightly. He really needed to pee soon.

Miss McMillan started to laugh even harder. "Aww," she teased. "You have to pee so-o-o bad, but you're locked in a store and you can't get out. Whatever will you do?"

Trent, still holding himself tightly, scowled at Miss McMillan, who just kept laughing really hard.

"What do you want?" Trent asked, irritated.

"I want to watch you squirm and dance, trying not to wet your pants," Miss McMillan chanted gleefully.

"Real clever," Trent said sarcastically. "Seriously, though, what's it going to take for you to let me go?"

"You want me to think of something I want

more

than a man who needs to pee really bad standing right in front of me?" Miss McMillan asked with apparent incredulity (though her laughter did not diminish). She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't."

Trent tried to think of an amount of money that might impress Miss McMillan without putting him into debt. "I'll give you $300 if you unlock the door

right now

," he said desperately.

Miss McMillan seemed to consider this, then said, "Tempting. But no, I can't buy situations like this for $300. I can't buy them at all, so don't bother raising the amount."

Maybe if Trent could get behind the counter he could wrestle the key from Miss McMillan and use it to unlock the door himself. He looked along the counter, but it stretched from wall to wall with no visible gaps or hinges. He looked along both side walls of the parlour, but could not see any doors in either wall. (He probably wouldn't have wanted to go through a door anyway, since it might have led deeper into the trap.) The only way he could think of getting behind the counter would be to leap over it, which would be difficult considering the state of his bladder and the fact that Miss McMillan would almost certainly not cooperate. He briefly wondered how Miss McMillan had managed to lock the front door between the time he had entered the parlour and the time he had finished his milkshake, but he quickly realized that trying to figure this out would be a waste of precious time.

"You can't keep me here forever," Trent protested.

"Not forever," Miss McMillan replied casually. "Maybe thirty, forty-five minutes tops."

Trent felt certain that, by the time thirty to forty-five minutes had passed, he would have wet his pants uncontrollably, they would have dried again, and he would be ready to call for help (it would still be rush hour, so he needn't fear a shortage of witnesses). So Miss McMillan wasn't really offering him anything. Unless — "Is there any chance that time could be shortened?" Trent asked hopefully.

Miss McMillan shrugged. "I might let you go sooner," she said offhandedly. "If I get bored."

What could he do to bore her? Trent thought frantically. Well, he could let go of his penis, for one thing. But if he did that, he didn't think he would be able to prevent himself from peeing. Another thing he could do would be to stop complaining. But was he really supposed to just stand there and do nothing to end a situation that was getting worse by the second? "What if

I

get bored?" he asked, frustrated.

"Are you bored?" Miss McMillan asked, surprised. "Do you want me to tell you some stories to pass the time?"

"Sure," he said, exasperated but hoping to throw Miss McMillan off by going along with a stupid suggestion.

"All right, let's see . . . Oh, here's one. I went whitewater rafting a few weeks ago. You might think that, being on a floatation device, one would stay more or less dry, but I can assure you that is not the case. There was water splashing all around us, and quite a bit of it ended up on me. Of course, that was nothing compared to when I actually fell off the raft and ended up completely soaked, with the rapids still splashing —"

"Stop!" yelled Trent. This was not helping. "Do you have any

other

stories?"

"Let's see . . . There was one time when I went to a museum on one of my days off. I don't remember much about the museum itself, but I do remember that I had decided to walk because it was a nice day. When I was about two thirds of the way to the museum, though, clouds started to fill the sky really quickly, I heard a few rumbles of thunder, and then rain suddenly poured down, drenching me in seconds. I tried to find some cover, but there weren't any trees and the only buildings around were private houses, so I just kept walking. By the time I got to the museum my clothes were saturated with water and it was dripping onto the museum floor —"

"Stop!" Trent yelled again. He could feel himself starting to pee in his pants and there was nothing he could do to stop it. "I'm starting to wet my pants.

Unlock the door now

!"

Miss McMillan's laughter reached a crescendo to match that of Trent's desperation, then subsided. She watched Trent intently as his pants became wetter and wetter. Trent let go of his penis so that his hand wouldn't get wet. He didn't bother to say anything further as his bladder emptied; any attempts to convey the seriousness of the situation only seemed to amuse Miss McMillan further. Trent wanted to close his eyes and pretend that he was somewhere else, somewhere safe, but he needed to stay alert in case Miss McMillan tried any more tricks. Trent hoped that the tables and chairs would hide what was happening from people outside. He looked out the window and was relieved to see pedestrians walking past the parlour as though it didn't exist. (This is what they would do normally; an independent shop in the middle of town does not tend to draw much attention.)

As Trent continued to wet himself helplessly, he looked around the parlour continuously, hoping to catch the next part of the trap before it sprang. He still could not see anything suspicious, but he continued to look until his bladder was completely empty. At that point, Miss McMillan, presumably noticing that Trent's pants weren't getting any wetter, clapped her hands three or four times and said, in an impressed tone of voice, "Nice."

Trent looked at Miss McMillan. She was smiling ecstatically. Trent had never seen anyone smile like that before, and it was beautiful. It made Trent think of a rainbow after a ferocious storm.

And it was because of him.

He instantly forgave Miss McMillan for what she had just put him through. He also stopped worrying about whatever else she might have had planned; that smile was worth anything he could imagine her doing to him. He smiled back, faintly. For a few moments, they simply gazed at each other.

Then Miss McMillan seemed to come out of a trance and bent down to reach under the counter. "I've got some goodies for you," she said.

"Goodies," Trent said, chuckling.

"No more tricks, I promise. I need to get home too." She took out a spray bottle and handed it to Trent. "This is a deodorizer for the smell. Spray it on wherever you see wetness."

"You really think the smell is the first thing that people will notice?" Trent asked incredulously.

"No," Miss McMillan replied evenly. "But it's the first thing you need to take care of."

Shrugging, Trent took the bottle and sprayed it on the wet parts of his pants, then held the bottle out for Miss McMillan to take back. Miss McMillan was already bending down to reach under the counter again, though, so Trent put the bottle on the counter. Miss McMillan straightened up and handed Trent something made of cloth. "This is a kimono to cover up the spot," she said. Trent took the kimono, unfolded it, and put it on. It was quite a nice kimono. "It's yours to keep," Miss McMillan continued. "You deserve it."

Miss McMillan then put the deodorizer back under the counter and took out a booklet. She tore a page out of the booklet (they were apparently perforated) and handed it to Trent. "This is a coupon for a free milkshake of your choice," she said. "Don't bother using it for a McMillan Shake; that one's

always

on the house." She winked. "If you decide not to come back, you can give the coupon to a friend — or an enemy." She put the coupon book back under the counter. "Let me get the door for you," she said, then turned and went into the back room. Trent heard a vaguely familiar click behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see what it was, but he couldn't see anything that — then it struck him.

The door

! She had a power lock on the door so that she could open or close shop from her side of the counter — or trap unsuspecting customers in the parlour.

Miss McMillan came out of the back room. "The door's unlocked," she said. "Have a good evening."

"That's it?" Trent asked, surprised.

"I told you, I need to get home too."

Trent turned, walked to the door, and pushed on it. This time the door opened easily. He left the parlour, letting the door swing closed behind him, and started walking the rest of the way home. He would not make any more stops; he wanted to get home as soon as possible so that he could change his pants. As he was walking, he heard the familiar click of the parlour's power lock. He smiled to himself, relieved to have finally been released from the parlour and also glad to have been such an immense source of entertainment.