“Tell me that you are going to wear this brassiere.
Ask me nicely for it, and sound like you mean it!”
“Please. . . Mom. . . uh, can I wear it?”
“Oh, no! I told you to tell me that you want to wear your lovely brassiere. Tell me that you want to put it on. Promise me that you won’t take it off, either. I
want to hear some enthusiasm here.”
I squeezed out the terrible words. It was eerie hearing
my own voice begging to be allowed to wear the
ghastly thing and promising to do so.
Mother was only too quick to grant my wish. She
parked me on the stool in front of her skirted vanity
and ordered Olivia to fetch a washcloth and towel to
clean up the mop debris that covered my shoulders.
As I reluctantly held my arms out in front of myself,
Olivia slipped the shiny shoulder straps up my
arms and Mom hooked it in back. I was allowed to lay
my hands in my lap as Mom slipped a pair of molded
breast forms into the cups of the brassiere. My new
bosoms swelled and rose into pointed fullness.
“You are not going to get into any more trouble,
now,” Mom ordered. “Wearing this for the next six
weeks will cause you some problems. That is my intention.
Despite your promise to wear it, I don’t feel
you are to be trusted to keep it on. You don’t want to
know what I will do to you if you do take it off, so I will
remove the temptation.”