A Grown Boy

[Sandra B]

I  A Short Vacation

His name was Simon – Simon Nimmo - but his mother – and consequently the rest of his family – always called him “Simmy”, a name he had accepted when he was a little boy, but which now, at the age of twelve – (“nearly thirteen!” he protested) – he hated for its juvenility.  He was in big school now, but a couple of his friends who had visited him at home had found out his secret and begun to tease him with it.  He had begged his mother to call him Simon;
“Please, mum.  When Jack and William come over for supper, please, please, remember its Simon…Simon, not Simmy…okay?  Okay?”
“Yes, darling, I’ll remember.  But I don’t know why you’re so sensitive…”
“You don’t understand…”
She didn’t, it was true.  But she was as good as her word.  Unfortunately, however, Simon had a sister a couple of years older than he, and Sinead – that was her name – took a certain delight in abusing her seniority, and liked to entertain herself by embarrassing him on any available occasion, and watching his face turn from its usual freckly fairness to a glowing scarlet, which it was capable of doing with remarkable quickness.
“All I said was I thought you’d look nice in a pair of my panties, and you turn as red as a beetroot!  You must admit you’d make such a pretty girl, though!”
“Mum?  Why does Simmy blush so easily?  All I said was I thought he fancied my friend Imelda who was here yesterday and he coloured up like a traffic light.  I guess maybe he does…”
“You’re blushing again, Simmy!  Just because I asked you about those magazines I found under your bed.”
And of course she couldn’t resist forgetting herself in front of Jack and William.
“Simmy, darling?  Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve just found the album with all your old baby photos in.  Would you like to see?”
“I would!” shouted Jack.
“Me too!  Can we…Simmy?” laughed William.
And so his fun evening with his friends was punctuated by half an hour of sheer humiliation, all courtesy of the evil Sinead.

It was undeniable that his friends had a little fun at his expense, but they were true friends, and the episode – and the pet name – got no farther than the house.
“Simmy?” William had said.  “Why did she call you that?  Imagine if I were called “Willy”, or Jack “Jackie”!  I wouldn’t put up with it if I were you.  I mean, you’re not six any more.”
“I know.  I hate her!”
“But don’t worry…Simmy…it won’t go no further than here,” reassured Jack.  “Your secret’s safe with us.”
“It’s no big deal, I suppose…but thanks, lads.”

And so things went on as before.  Simon at school, but Simmy at home.  And he had resigned himself to the minor domestic embarrassment.  Then…it was the month before his thirteenth birthday when his mother announced she had to go abroad for a month for her work.  She was a freelance translator and she had been offered an important job in Paris which she couldn’t turn down.  So the children would have to go and stay with her sister until she returned.
“Don’t worry, Simmy.  I’ll be back for your birthday, I promise.  And you like your aunt Rosie, don’t you?  She such a good cook, for one thing – be careful you don’t get so fat I don’t recognise you when I get back!”
Well, she was a good cook, that was true… thought Simon.  But…how could he put it?  There was something about her…  That time when she had taken his sister’s word against his, and blamed him for spilling the paint, when it was that liar Sinead all the time…   And once last year when they were staying there for a couple of days while mum was away, she had threatened to send him to school in a skirt, just cos he’d punched Sinead for teasing him…  No, he wasn’t entirely sure of her…  And she lived out of town, too.
“How am I going to get to school, mum?  It’s too far to walk and it’s off my bus route.”
“Aunt Rosie has kindly offered to drive you, and pick you up every day.”
“It’ll be better for me,” said Sinead.  Sinead attended a special girls school – St. Agatha’s – having won some sort of scholarship.  She was clever.  Too clever for her brother most of the time.  There was a bus direct from Aunt Rosie’s to the school, and the stop was right across the road from the house.  Moreover several of her friends lived in that area, so she’d be able to get the bus with them. 
“It’ll be fun for me, instead of always travelling by myself.”
“Not for me, though.  I’ll miss my mates.  And I don’t much like the way Aunt Rosie drives.”
“Nonsense, Simmy!  She a very good driver.  Very careful.”
“Too careful.  She hardly gets out of first gear.  And I know her - I bet she’ll insist on kissing me when she drops me off, like I’m a little kid!”
“Well, well, if she does, so what?” said his mother, impatiently.  “She is your aunt, after all.  Just be a good boy and be nice to her, Simmy.  I’ve told her she will be in complete charge of you.  I won’t have time to sort out your problems.  But I’ll call and speak to both of you every day.”
Simon frowned.  He had an unpleasant foreboding about the whole thing…

[babycakes]

Oh the possibilities!

[Andlat]

I too have a bad feeling about this, but mine is based on all the sissy stories I've read. No clue where Simmy's sense of foreboding is coming from!

[Sandra B]

II  Aunt Rosie

Rosie was the elder of the sisters, now in her early forties, and strong-willed enough that her junior Margaret had always let her take the lead.  She had had one daughter, Stephanie, who was now away at university, and she had lived alone during term time for the past couple of years.  She was tall, with an intelligent, open face and blue eyes, and wore her dark hair in a short, neat, youthful style.  She looked fit and flexible – she may have been a nervous driver, but she was a fearless horsewoman, and had been something of a gymnast in her youth – and was not the sort of person to engineer a disagreement with, either physical or cerebral.  She was, in short, undeniably attractive.  Margaret was inclined put down her solitary state to two causes: a distrust of men generally, arising from the unfaithfulness of her husband, who had left her for some scatty blonde five years before; and the difficulty of finding one to equal her own spirit and energy.  In any case, Margaret was not concerned; her sister seemed very happy, and she had noted with pleasant surprise that she had a couple of close friends of her own sex, to whom she seemed very attached.
So she was quite relaxed about letting her sister take the kids for the month.  It had been Rosie’s suggestion, in fact, when she heard Margaret had been offered a short contract abroad.  She was very fond of Sinead, whom her daughter had taken under her wing at school – they were both at St. Agatha’s together – and she was interested in Simon, whom she had seen less often, but about whom her sister frequently talked.  She had the impression that, as he was growing up, he was becoming more of a handful.  And she flattered herself that her superior strength of will may be able to guide him back to the straight and narrow path. 
Margaret dropped the children off on a sunny Saturday morning at the beginning of June, on her way to Paris.  She had decided to drive, as she would be likely to need to use a car to get to and from her place of work, and she didn’t want to rely on taxis.  So along with her own suitcase, there was one for each of the kids and a present for Rosie.  The luggage unloaded, the farewells said, she kissed all three of them goodbye, exhorting Sinead and Simon to be well-behaved and obedient to their aunt.  Then she was gone.
“Welcome to my home, guys,” smiled Rosie.  “Come on in and I’ll show you your rooms.  Sinead, you know your way about, don’t you?  But Simon, it’s a long while since you visited.  I’ll give you a guided tour when you’ve got unpacked.”
The house was set back from the road, and the front garden was raised on a bank, with a big hedge all along the front.  She led them in through the front door and up the stairs.  At the back of the house, overlooking the lawn, were two adjacent bedrooms with the doors open.  The one on the left was furnished in plain greens and greys, the one on the right a riot of different shades of pink.  Naturally, Simon headed left.
“Oh, no, Simon.  This one is yours.”  Rosie indicated the pink room.
“That one?”  He looked startled.
“Yes…well, you see, that is my daughter’s room, and when Sinead used to stay, of course she always had the one next door.  So I thought she should keep the room she’s used to.  I hope you don’t mind.”
“Too bad if you do,” piped up Sinead, with a laugh.  “You’ve got the girl’s room, Sim, with all those lovely pink furnishings.  I think they’ll suit you perfectly.  Match your cheeks when you blush.”
Simon glared at her, and was about to say something rude, but thought better of it.  He wheeled his case into the pink room in a huff.
“Come down when you’re ready, Simon,” said Rosie, “and I’ll show you round.  Here, Sinead, let me help you.”  Sinead had her case and a separate bag.  Rosie took her case and let the way into her room.  She closed the door.
“Do you think he minds?  I didn’t mean to embarrass him.  It’s just a room, after all.”
“No, auntie, he doesn’t mind.  He likes girly stuff anyway.”
“He does?”  Rosie raised her eyebrows.
“Oh yeah.  I used to put makeup on him when he was younger.  And put him in a dress.  He liked it…at least, I think he did.  Now he’s bigger he pretends to be so macho.  Shows off to his little friends, all that - you know what they're like.”
Rosie wasn’t sure she did, but thought she could imagine.
“Oh, yes…I suppose all boys go through that phase.  It’s not very healthy though, I don’t think.  They lose sight of their feminine side.”
Sinead was delighted she was buying into it.  “Yeah, that’s it.  Mum would be so grateful if you could influence him, I’m sure.  I think she has a tough time.  When he swears at her and stuff.”
“He swears at her?”  Rosie was horrified.
“Oh, yeah.  And he’s cheeky, and won’t do what he’s told.  He’s not bad, really.  Just a bit…misguided.  You could help, though.  I think mum’s a bit soft on him, really.”
“Is she?  Well, I’m not soft, Sinead.  In view of what you’ve told me, I’m going to keep a close eye on that little brother of yours.”
“Oh, will you, auntie?”  Sinead’s blue eyes widened with innocent gratitude.  “That’s so nice of you.”
“Right, well, I’m going down to prepare dinner for tonight.  You both like shepherd’s pie, I believe?”
“Yum!  Your shepherd’s pie, auntie, is my favourite.”
“Good.  See you in a while, then.”
“Oh, auntie?”
“Yes?”
“One thing.  At home we always call him “Simmy”.  He says he doesn’t like it, but he does.  Makes him feel little and protected.  He just doesn’t like his friends hearing, that’s all.”
“Oh, right.  Thank you Sinead.”
As she closed the door, Rosie made a silent resolution.  That Simon...Simmy...was going to learn some proper manners while his mother was away.  Whatever it took.  Behind the door, Sinead, eyes dancing, covered her mouth, suppressing a malicious snigger.

[Andlat]

Well! Seems like Sinead is quite the mastermind here.

[babycakes]

For an intelligent and self-reliant woman, Rosie seems to be easily led.  Guess it's due to her inherent distrust of men.  Looks like Simon is in for a bumpy ride.

[Sandra B]

III  Soft Deceitful Wiles

So when Simon appeared in the kitchen half an hour later, himself slightly wary of the mystery that was his aunt, Rosie was a little curt with him.  He didn’t notice, because he didn’t know quite what to expect of her, and because her curtness was of the mildest possible kind.  She hadn’t made up her mind about him by any means.  She had so little knowledge of young boys – her daughter’s boyfriends - (she had met only two) – were older, of course, and astonishingly mature and confident.  Perhaps she expected early manifestations of the same brashness in Simon, but it soon became apparent that the seeds hadn’t even been planted yet.  On the other hand, she trusted Sinead implicitly, she having been so close to Stephanie – almost like a sister.  So she trod warily.
“Simon…Simmy…I hope you didn’t mind going in Stephanie’s room.  I know it’s horrifyingly pink, but…”
“I don’t mind.  It smells nice.”  He looked at her suspiciously.  “Why did you call me Simmy?”
“Why?  I..er...I thought that’s what you preferred now…I mean, I think your mum usually calls you Simmy.”
Simon sighed.  “Yeah…she does.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I’m nearly thirteen.”
“Oh, of course…yes, you are, aren’t you.  All right.  It’s Simon, then.”
“Or Sim.  My friends usually call me Sim.”
“Oh…Sim…yes.” 
He was looking around the kitchen.  Rosie took the opportunity to have a good stare at him.  He seemed perfectly fine.  Bright.  Outgoing.  Well-adjusted.  Yes, quite mature in fact.
“This is an amazing kitchen.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose it is.  It’s not very old.”
“So many cupboards!  Are they all full of food?”  He looked at her hopefully.
She laughed.  “Well, not all of them.  But there is lots of ice-cream in the freezer.  If you like ice-cream, Sim.”
“You bet.”
“Well you can help yourselves after the shepherd’s pie.  Now, why don’t we talk about the things we could do this month.  I’ve got some ideas…”
She sat Simon at the kitchen table and gave him a drink, while she busied herself preparing the shepherd’s pie for the evening, and making a salad for lunch.  They chatted away happily.  He seemed a delightful kid.  She would have to speak to Sinead again when she had the chance.

A few minutes later Sinead herself stuck her head into the kitchen.  She could hear how well the two of them were getting on, and she didn’t like it.
“Simmy?  Wanna come and play a game?  There’s like a million board games in the living room cupboard.
“Not right now, Sinead.  I’m just talking to aunt Rosie.  We’re planning some pretty cool trips too.”
“Oh, come on.  We can all discuss that together at lunch.  I really want to play this Dungeons and Dragons game now.”
“Oh, okay.  I’ll be with you in a moment.”
When he went into the living room, Sinead already had the board on the table, and was organising the counters.  He sat down opposite her.  She looked up mischievously.
“So, how’s your pretty girl’s room?”
He refused to take the bait.
“It’s fine.  I like it.  The bed’s so comfy.”
“Uhuh.  You’d better not mess it up, that’s all.”
“I’m not going to mess it up…stupid.”
“Or start looking in Stephanie’s cupboards.”
“Looking in her cupboards?  Why would I do that?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.  “All those pretty clothes…dresses…shoes…”  She paused.  “Panties…”
“Shut up.”
“If you want to know – I bet you do – the top drawer is her panty drawer.  She’s quite slim…I bet some of them would fit you…you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Shut up.”  A little louder now.
“Do you remember when I made you wear my panties…?  Of course you do.  I know you like them.  Your little thing went all…”
“Shut up!”  He shouted.  “fuc-k off!  fuc-k off you fuc-king bitch!”
“Simon!”
Aunt Rosie had appeared at the door.  “What is going on?”
Sinead feigned tears.  “He swore at me again.  He’s always swearing at me…and mum.”
“It’s her fault.  She was saying…”  His voice trailed off.
“What was she saying?”
“...Nothing…”
“So that was why you called her…what you did, Simon?”  She put her hands on her hips.  “I think you’d better go up to your room until you’ve cooled down.  And then you can come down an apologise to your sister.”
Simon thrust back his chair and ran out and up the stairs, his eyes filling with tears.  Real tears.  Not the crocodile ones Sinead was wiping from her cheeks.
“Round one to me,” she thought.