Interlude: Sean and Sheila Richards 25th Anniversary
Nanny CC is an interesting case. Mom calls her a gift from Dad. Dad says he just gave her a better job. Aunt Frannie says Mom asked her to show CC the ropes. Naturally, CC says nothing on the subject.
Chapter 1: Order Up
I am Christine Collins, commonly known as CC, and I did not want to do my job. I was a waitress for R&T's Coffee Shop, also known as the 7th Street Diner. It was a dead end job at a greasy spoon, but it almost paid the bills. I had already been through two other jobs, and was looking, quietly, for another. If Mr. Fredricks found out, he would fire me on the spot.
I was 19 years old, less than a year removed from high school. At 5'8" and only 110 pounds, I am a bit thin, but have the tits to fill out a uniform. It gets me interviews, but I have trouble when someone wants me to talk. It has always been like that.
I am neither pretty nor beautiful. In spite of my tits, I have had only a handful of boys show interest and could count the physical encounters on one hand. I suppose it was partly because I did not understand how to dress or use make up, but mostly it was because I was painfully shy. As dead end as this job was, it would not be easy to find another one, much less a better one.
That day was slow. I had already had a regular old geezer, getting his daily soup and sandwich. My next table was another guy that came in occasionally. He was not big, but came across as solid, dangerous and ex-military. With him was a shortish accounting type, who did not give a shit if anyone knew he was gay.
After I served the geezer his lunch, I picked up the plates for the other table. As I approached, I quit worrying about serving the food, getting a tip, or paying my bills. In fact, I did not want to do much of anything, except listen to the conversation at my last table:
Guy 1: "Save the last one for a moment. It is a female subject, and I want you to view it separately. What do you think about the others?"
Guy 2: "Hot. Really hot. There are things that could be better. For example the lighting is all passive. None of these used a flash. The camera is good, but not studio grade. That said, the composition is excellent. Every shot looks completely unstaged. That is odd too, since the kiss mark is central to each shot. Where did you get these?"
It was the reference to a female subject that caught my attention. It sounded like they were talking about pictures. The way Guy 2 said "Hot. Really hot." told me he was not talking about the weather. The lust was almost tangible.
Guy 1: "Not yet. Turn to the last shot, the one with the female subject. Tell me about it."
Guy 2: "This is fine work too, exceptional in fact. I have done thousands of female nudes in the last year. Dozens of them are in this vein. I would stack this torso shot with any of them. The framing is outstanding. In this case the face would distract from the interest. At the top, you get these fantastic shoulders, but it takes a moment to notice that the arms are bound. The hair forward is inspired. The line leads you down to a glistening pussy, with just the hood of the clitoris poking out. That is very difficult to stage. The pubic hair could be shorter, or removed, but here it looks very natural, as if this were a candid shot."
The part about "arms are bound" sent electricity through my body. The line about "glistening pussy" could refer just as well to me. He went on.
Guy 2:"But, there is still more. The asymmetry, caused by the hair, draws attention to the perfection of the breasts. The shape is very nice for breasts this heavy, almost as if they were never subject to gravity, yet the skin says a woman in her mid to late 20s. The cherry on the sundae is the little curl of hair framing the nipple of the covered breast. That kind of touch is often purely chance, again making the whole image look spontaneous.
"That last shot is an award winner if it ever gets entered. The others would have a dozen publishers pounding on the door. If you can get the photographer that shot these, why do you need me?"
Guy 1: "You clearly respect the artist. As you might guess, she is the owner of the lips. She staged each of the shots, save the last one. It happens, I staged that one. Is this woman someone you could work with? You would still be behind the camera, but she would have artistic control?"
What lips?, I thought. What the hell was he talking about?
Guy 2: "Holy Moses, Sean. You sure know how to drop a bomb. If you had asked me without showing me the pictures, I would have told you to fuck yourself. Better yet, I would have told you to lean over the table so I could do it without lubrication. But, as you clearly intended to point out, you have me over a barrel. I would do a lot to finish this project, and she clearly has the talent to help get that done. So yes, I can work for this woman, if she can work with me. Humph, she probably does half her work with closet gays as it is. I might let her stage me, or have you do it."
Guy 1: "OK. Here is where things stand. I have a lunch meeting with her tomorrow. We are friendly, but I also know that her schedule is packed. Hopefully, Helen can help shift some of that load. One way or another, we will know by one o'clock tomorrow. So, go to Mass. See a movie. Take some time for yourself. Either I land her at the meeting, or I am well and truly fucked. If it makes you feel better, I consider her to be replacing me, not you."
Guy 2: "That's a point. If she has artistic control, we might get a coherent theme, finally. That is one area where you well and truly suck. As a sucker of no mean repute myself, that is my highest praise. But, there is something you have not told me. Give."
Guy 1: "What I did not tell you is that she did not shoot any of those pictures. They were taken out of video. It was really good quality video, but she never took a shot."
Guy 2: "Are you telling me she cut all these prints out of digital video recordings? That would explain the lighting and the spontaneity. And the kisses. It was bull's eye cropping. Holy Freaking Moses, she got professional grade prints out of video. Yes, Sean, I want to meet this woman. In fact I could line up twenty people that would want to meet this woman."
Guy 1: "Don't bother. I am already dating her."
Guy 2: "That is what the lipstick on the last picture was about. She loves your work. That was her in the last shot, and she loves your work, and gave you a prize winning picture as proof. Congratulations Sean, that is one hell of a woman. She makes me wish I was straight, and better looking than you."
He was not the only one that wanted to meet her. I was ready to throw myself at the woman's feet.
Guy 1: Now, where's my lunch? It should..."
Suddenly, my face felt like it was on fire. I was caught standing there, listening to a private conversation, long enough for their food to get cold. The owner had fired girls for less. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. Guy 1 motioned me over. Steeling what was left of my nerve, I took their plates to the table. Guy 1 took them from my hands. Then he took my wrist and pulled me closer.
He whispered, "Do you want to see it?"
I was unsure what "it" was, but it had to have something to do with what they were discussing. I found myself nodding. The other man opened a folder, showing a picture of a woman. It was just as they had described it: bound arms, great hair, glistening pussy, incredible tits. My face got warm, then hot, but I could not look away.
Guy 1 said, "Justin is a photographer. He could make a lot of money shooting pictures of you in situations like that. I am not going to ask him to do so. Here is why." He released my hand, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. He said, "Call the number on that card. Ask for Helen. My name is Sean. Tell Helen that Sean told you to call about the job. Do not tell anyone else. Just finish your shift, and call Helen in the morning. Got it?" I nodded.
Guy 1, Sean, went on, "Remember, do not tell anyone. I will leave you a nice tip when we go. Now shoo. I think your boss wants to know why you are still over here. Tell him that Justin is a famous photographer and you wanted an autograph. He did not give it to you, but he gave you a sneak peak. Now go."
Mr. Fredricks would be all over anyone famous, so I hurried to bus another table. With luck, no one would ask any questions. Not long after, I went to the bathroom and frigged off. I never had a boyfriend, at least in the sexual sense, though a couple had tried. Instead, I had a fantasy life. It was a rare day that did not bring at least one self managed explosion. Nothing I had ever done came close to the orgasm I had, while thinking about the picture.
Then, I came out and had another table to wait. A short time later, Sean and Justin paid their bill and left. I found $21, folded to look like $2, left as a tip. Whatever else, Sean Richards was not cheap. I wondered if he was the Richards in Richards Imports. From what I had seen, it was possible.
The next morning, I called the number on the card and asked for Helen. She went, "What?"
I said, "Sean Richards said to call and ask for you."
Helen said, "You're late. Go to Personnel." Then the phone was dead.
That meant I had to go to Personnel. That meant not going to work. There was one certain way of dealing with that. I called Mr. Fredricks and told him I had a job interview and would be late. He told her not to bother coming in at all. If this was not a job, then I was screwed.
I took the bus across town. Helen had already said that I was late, so I was severely anxious by the time I found Human Resources. I went to the front desk and said, "Helen said to come here."
The girl behind the desk, her name plate said Barbara Johnson, stared at me. I was beginning to wonder why, when Miss Johnson asked, "Helen said?" I nodded. Miss Johnson went on, "You mean used actual words, as in more than one?" I nodded again, counting the words and holding up five fingers.
By this time, the other woman in the office was staring at me. Miss Johnson finally asked, "What, exactly, did she say?"
"'You're late. Go to Personnel.'"
The other woman, Barbara Kennedy, said, "There is a memo. Helen says put her on office staff, but does not give a name." Then she looked at me and asked, "Did you meet Mr. Richards this morning?"
"Yesterday." I held out the card.
On seeing the card, both Barbaras nodded. Barbara Johnson explained, "That is why Helen said you were late. Mr. Richards' cards are a bit famous. You are the fifth person this year." Barbara Kennedy interrupted, "Sixth." Barbara Johnson went on, "Most people around here know that they can bring the card straight here. What was your interview like?" Huh?
I said, "What interview?" I had served Mr. Richards lunch. He, and someone named Justin, were discussing pictures. I blushed as I remembered the picture, but I went on. "He gave me his card." There was the bit about not telling anyone, but that was probably not important here.
It did not seem to satisfy them. Barbara Johnson asked, "Where were you? Was there anyone else?" That was easier question to answer. "7th Street Diner. Justin."
The Barbaras looked at each other, then Barbara Kennedy shrugged. Barbara Johnson pulled a clipboard out of a slot and handed it to me. It contained the usual sort of employment forms. Miss Johnson said, "Fill these out. Then I will take you over to Auctions and introduce you to Mary. With one of Mr. Richards hires, you could wind up anywhere, but Justin is doing photography for the big auction, so we will start you there. Good luck. You will probably need it."
On that ominous note, I was led to a table, where I completed her forms. Then, Barbara Johnson took me down the hall, to a door marked Richards Auctions. Inside, she introduced me to the office manager, Mary Jones. Ms. Johnson told Ms. Jones that I was a "card hire" and that she was to be office staff. She went on to cover the short details of my resume: High school diploma, experience as a sales clerk and waitress.
After she was finished, Ms. Jones asked, "Has he missed yet this year?" Huh? I had no clue what the question meant. Ms. Johnson said, "Not unless you count Cox and Hart." Both women laughed, then Ms. Johnson left. New places are confusing.
I said nothing, but my expression must have showed my confusion. Ms. Jones explained, "Sean Richards is famous, in certain circles, for hiring people with either no experience or with major issues. For example, his personal secretary has a face that will curdle milk. She speaks about once a month; I think her total is about 30 this year. In spite of excellent training, no one would hire her, until Mr. Richards met her at Walmart. Now, she runs all the businesses. She may not talk, but she has no problem texting and emailing. What?"
I had not meant to raise the issue, but now that she was asked, I had to answer, "Helen said, 'You're late. Go to Personnel.'"
Ms. Jones eyes got large. "Wow. Helen said five words. Who the hell are you?"
I was confused. "I'm just a waitress." I had served him lunch. He and the photographer, Justin, were discussing pictures. Mr. Richards asked me if I wanted to see one. Then he handed me the card and told me to call Helen in the morning. As I thought back to the picture, the redness started to cover my face again.
Ms. Jones was staring at me, but also nodding. I wished I knew what was now making sense, since nothing seemed to make any sense at all. However, Ms. Jones began to explain the auction that the company was working on. As she explained, I started to blush, again.
The short version was that it was an auction of erotica. However, that would not convey the nature of the items offered for sale. Many were hundreds of years old, and fully authenticated. These items ranged from fertility symbols, to fetishes, to religious artifacts, to straight forward dildos. There was also a large selection of written or printed erotica, including a letter in the hand of the Marquis de Sade. More modern pieces included several famous movie props and a large collection of BDSM gear from a Hollywood brothel, dating to Prohibition. The auction was estimated well into eight figures.
However exciting the pieces were, or at least could be, there was a great deal of boring paperwork that had to be correlated, indexed and filed. I spent the rest of the day verifying the contents of folders against a list, and notifying Ms. Jones of any discrepancies. At 5:00 PM, Ms. Jones showed me the time clock and punched me out. I was on the bus home before I realized I did not know my salary.
At 8:00 AM the next morning, I was back at it. At 10:00 AM, Ms. Jones came up and said, "It was nice having you. Go to Helen's desk. Mr. Richards is asking for you." I went down the hall to the big offices, and stopped at a name plate saying "Helen Norwood." Helen motioned me to a seat. Shortly thereafter, the door opened and Mr. Richards came out, motioning me up to Helen's desk.
He said, "Helen, I am loaning Christine to Ms. Schwartz, for the foreseeable future. Russell will be bringing Ms. Schwartz at 11:30, so Christine should be ready to leave then. Have her get lunch and put her to work here til then. I am going over to the warehouse, so I can handle any questions they have."
Once Mr. Richards had gone, Helen got up and led me to a basket of snail mail documents. Shortly, I was marking sender names with a yellow highlighter, and sorting them alphabetically. At 10:55 AM Helen stood up and motioned for me to follow. In short order, we were getting stuffed bell peppers in the office cafeteria. By 11:30 AM, Helen was back at her desk and I was back to highlighting and sorting.
At 11:45 AM, a man and woman walked up. The man was dressed as a driver. He took a seat, and settled in. The woman went up to Helen, and received a clipboard with some paperwork. I had a sense of deja vu, to my time in Personnel the day before. While the woman filled out her documents, I checked her out.
She was a looker. She seemed very casual, even though she was dressed to stop traffic. Her dark hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She wore tight black pants, tucked into calf length black boots. The sleeveless top was dark red. Her makeup was heavily black around the eyes, and very red lipstick. I gasped. The lipstick gave her away.
This confident, intimidating woman was the same one I had seen, stripped almost naked, in the picture. It was not obvious, but D cups breasts are still D cups when held by a bra. The trim athleticism was there, though she looked even thinner in the waist fully dressed. The white shoulders were the same. From what Justin had said, back in the diner, this was a "hell of a woman." Looking at her, standing at Helen's desk, reading a note, I had no reason to doubt Justin's assessment.
Then the woman handed me the note, with the comment, "I'm Cynthia. I guess you will be coming with me." The note read:
This is Christine. She is on my staff, but I am loaning her to you for the duration. Ask her to do anything you need done. Her training is weak, but I have noticed you have a talent for correcting errors. She is willing to learn everything there is to know.
As they walked back to the car, I felt I was being weighed and measured. As the car drove across town, Cynthia pulled out what little there was of my work history, my school failings, my worse failings in the area of boyfriends, even my family's lack of religious preferences. I could not refuse anything Cynthia asked, and I had trouble even trying.
As they pulled into a warehouse lot, Cynthia asked, "Sean showed you the picture, didn't he?" I must have turned completely pink, but I nodded. Cynthia said, "We are going to see some pictures, of a boy your age, in a similar situation." Pink would not describe my color at that point.
Interlude: Sean and Sheila Richards 25th Anniversary
Nanny CC's devotion to Mom is the stuff of legend, but she always referred to Aunt Frannie as her teacher. Perhaps rabbi or guru would be closer. With CC, you always have to fill in gaps.
Chapter 2: Duties and Expectations
It may have been a warehouse, but there were more security people than I had ever seen. Cynthia was obviously known and expected. They took my picture, for an ID card, and we were allowed in. We went to a locked staircase, with more security guards, where Cynthia signed a book. Then, we went up the stairs and eventually came to a work area. There were tables covered with pictures of many things, many of which looked like dildos or something similar. At a computer, two men, one a bit older and the other my age, were introduced as Peter and Jason. They were looking at shots of a gagged man, who was standing on tip toe.
The pieces fell quietly into place. These were the pictures Cynthia referred to, of a young man my own age. He was not just on tip toe, he was tied up that way. There was a big wooden stick holding him up by his armpits. He was wearing a jock strap. His penis was making a tall enough tent that you could see a gap between the fabric and his leg. The subject of the picture was Jason, seated in front of me, looking at the image of himself. I felt many things, but the oddest was jealousy.
I watched in fascination as Peter zoomed in on the torso. Without the face or the feet in the shot, attention focused on the stick, from which Jason was hanging, and his erection. The shot scrolled up to a portrait, showing an expression full of conflicting issues: pain, desire, frustration, and oddly, acceptance. Would I be so calm under the circumstances?
Cynthia stepped up and took the controls. She quickly cropped off several smaller images. Two were much like the face and torso shots we had just seen, and others focusing on the armpits, the gagged mouth, the cuffed hands and the sweat on his forehead and chest. The older of the two young men, Peter, whispered, "Day-amn."
I was no student of photography, but even I could see that Cynthia was making striking small images, from the complex large one, and she was doing it almost as fast as she could move the pointer. Remind me not to bullshit this woman. In fact, try really hard never to disappoint her.
Soon after that, Mr. Richards arrived and a meeting began. Not long thereafter, a third man came up, holding a flash drive. He gave the drive to Peter, who plugged it into a different computer and downloaded images. These pictures were of old, handwritten pages. When Peter said "Marquis", I understood that this was a letter from the Marquis de Sade, of which I had heard so much the day before. Justin had shot the letter in natural candle light, but still managed to make the script readable, if you understood French.
As the meeting progressed, it became clear that the two sets of pictures, i.e. of Jason and of the Marquis' letter, were central to the project. Now that they had the images, things could move. Not long after that, I was seated at a computer, using the mouse to drag items into a template. In many ways it was similar to what I had done with paper folders the day before. It got very quiet, everyone worked. In a lot of ways, this was a new thing to my life. It was the first time, I had ever been accepted as part of a good team, doing anything.
After a couple of hours, Cynthia pulled me aside and explained that I was to stay and work til at least 4:30 PM. I could stay longer, if I wished, with overtime pay after 4:30 PM. A driver would be on call, so that I would not need to worry about catching a bus. Then Cynthia handed me a piece of paper, with an address. Cynthia explained that her friend Francine stayed at that address when she was in town. If I wished, I could go to the address, but only after 7:00 PM. Francine would show me what to expect. Cynthia emphasized that this meeting was off the clock and voluntary. Then she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left.
After Cynthia left, I went back to the computer and returned to loading items into templates. After a while, Peter came over to check my work. I think I passed a minor test, because once he was satisfied, he pulled up a larger template, with more items to load. So, I worked on that. Around 5:30 there was a call from downstairs that the food had arrived. Everyone broke to eat Chinese. Peter asked how late I could stay. I showed him the note, and said 7 o'clock. Peter looked at me oddly, but let me get back to work.
At 7:00 PM, I went to the security desk and told them I needed to leave. They had me sign out and escorted me to the first desk, where they had an ID card ready for me. By the time I reached the parking lot, a driver was waiting. I handed him the note. He opened the door and helped me into the car. That made me feel funny. I knew that Mistress Cynthia was important, but they were treating me like I was important, too.
It was not far to the address, which was near downtown. The driver told me that a car would be waiting at 7:30 AM. This surprised me. I was a bit taken back by the idea that I would not be going home.
The address was a simple fourplex. I got out of the car. The driver stopped me before I had gotten more than a couple of steps. He opened the trunk and removed a small gym bad, then said that he would wait til I went inside. With that, I went up to the door and knocked. Had I been alone, I might not have knocked, but, with the driver waiting, I had little choice. The door opened. Standing in it was a tiny woman in her mid 30s.
She said, "So you're the fresh meat. Come on in, so I can tenderize you a bit."
It was an apartment, nothing more. I had been in many like it, though most were not this clean. The room had a few things, a sofa, two chairs, a throw rug, but not much. There was, for example, no TV or computer. The closest thing to a stereo was a portable jam box and a wallet of disks. On the walls were framed posters of Broadway shows. Most of the posters had a mass of signatures, as if from the whole cast.
While I was absorbing all this, the woman was checking me out. From her expression, her assessment was not going to be a good one. I sighed, to myself. I never seem to make a good impression. I was not stupid, but a lot of my teachers treated me like I was. My looks were average at best. Whatever this woman wanted, she expected to be disappointed.
The woman seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "I don't see what Schwartz sees in you, but we will see what can be done. Give me the bag." I handed her the bag. The woman opened it and glanced inside. Then she dumped the contents out on the chair beside her.
I stared at the contents. There were exactly five things in the bag: two sets of leather cuffs, a black scarf, a pink ball gag and a short paddle. I think I flushed. The woman noticed.
She said, "Well, that is something at least. I suppose we can try giving you the very simple basics. What's your name, girl?"
"Christine Collins, ma'am."
"I am no fucking 'ma'am'. My name is Francine, but you will refer to me as Miss Martel. Here are the rules. You do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you and you do nothing except what I tell you. You do not speak unless asked a direct question."
As soon as Miss Martel said her last name, my eyes went to a poster. The female lead's name was Francine Martel. Before I had time to react to the idea that this woman, Miss Martel, was a Broadway star, she rocked me back with a slap in the face. Damn, that was stupid. I may be new, but even I knew better than to ignore the boss when she was talking.
Miss Martel was glaring at me. "I did not tell you to look at my poster. I did tell you to do nothing except what you were told to do. Now, spread your legs to shoulder width, put your hands behind your neck, elbows back as far as possible, eyes straight ahead and do ... not ... fucking ... move."
Having screwed up badly already, I did exactly what I was told. Miss Martel came up, close and personal. She made no contact, but I could feel her body heat. Then, Miss Martel moved behind me. She whispered one word, "Kneel." Not daring to move my hands, I dropped straight to the floor. It was good that we were standing on the throw rug, but even so, there would be bruising on my knees. However, it seemed to have been the right move, because Miss Martel did not comment on it. Instead, she leaned down, til her lips brushed against the tips of my ear.
In a quiet voice, she said, "This is what I am going to do. I am going to strip you naked, pose you like this in front of a window and go out for some things I need. When I get back, I will show you some other useful poses and correct your posture. After you have practiced them for a couple of hours, I will tie you up and spank you with that paddle. Then, if I feel generous, you will be allowed to lick me to an orgasm. Then you will sleep, tied up naked, on this rug. If any of this is a problem, say so now. You may speak."
I was terrified. I had seen the pictures of Jason, bound, gagged and hanging from the wall. I knew what Mistress Cynthia did. This, however, was much more personal. Even in my wickedest fantasies, it had never been anything like this. I was trembling with fear, but there was no way I was going to miss what came next.
The silence stretched to a full minute.
Standing abruptly, Miss Martel said, "All right then. I am going to go to the corner store and buy some things I need. You are going to strip completely, go use the bathroom thoroughly, and return to this spot and this position before I return. While I think you understand that failure will get you a spanking, I will also tell you that failure tonight will impact your future with this employer. You may think of this as your job orientation. One other thing; that is now your personal gag. Wear it unless specifically told to remove it. Begin."
I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do first, but only for a moment. Miss Martel had made a point of the gag, so I picked it up. It was Barbie pink, and much larger than it looked. It was very embarrassing, but she told me to wear it, so I would. It was not easy, but I forced the ball into my mouth. While I was fumbling to fix the strap behind my head, Miss Martel gave a "Hmmph" and went to get her purse. As she left the apartment, she said, "Be seeing you." The hint of laughter was unmistakable. It was becoming clear that, with Miss Martel, no comment was a good thing.
Left alone, I needed to figure out what to do next. It was clear that I had to strip, but what should I do with the clothes? Simply dropping them seemed wrong. On the other hand, I had been told to strip before I had been told to go use the bathroom. That seemed to mean I was supposed to strip here, and certainly, I would finish here. The best way to follow instructions seemed to be strip where I was, fold the clothes and place them on the chair, then go to the bathroom.
It felt deliriously wicked. I pulled my shirttails from the pants. Going slowly, as if Miss Martel was watching the show, I undid all the buttons, then peeled my shirt back and off. Carefully, I laid the shirt over the arm of the chair. Next I removed my bra, reveling in the feel of air on my bare tits. Next came the boots. I placing them beside the chair, then pulled off my socks and stuffed them into the boots. Then, still going slowly, I unbuckled my belt, opened the fly and pulled down my jeans.
This was the moment that required a decision. I had to stand to finish disrobing. Miss Martel told me to use the bathroom, so I was expected to move. I decided this allowed me to stand, so I did, stepping out of the jeans in the process. Finally, I pulled down my panties, and stepped out of them. Now the process did not seem wickedly thrilling. I was bare naked and there was an uncovered window to my left. I glanced over my shoulder, looking at the street outside. Anyone walking by could see me. Once again I flushed, which embarrassed me even more. As I folded my jeans, I noticed that my panties were damp. I put them on top of the boots.
This was only the beginning of Miss Martel's instructions. I went to the bathroom and gratefully took a seat on the commode, before my bladder exploded. It emptied readily, but the instructions were clear. I was to get everything out. So I sat still and tried to relax. After a while, my bowels cooperated. While I wiped myself, I considered the remainder of my instructions. Miss Martel wanted me to use the bathroom thoroughly. Still, using the shower seemed too much.
On the wall, next to the commode, was a towel bar, which contained a washcloth. I ran water in the sink and gave myself a sponge bath. I was told to be thorough, so I took my time, paying special attention to my wet pussy. Then, I checked the medicine cabinet. Other than make up, I found only toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant. The deodorant I could use, and did. I did not think Miss Martel expected me to use her toothbrush. I applied some toothpaste, using my finger as a substitute.
This covered everything I could think of to freshen myself. Just to be on the safe side, I went back to the commode. I was grateful I did, since more urine came easily. I suspected it would be my last chance for some time. Once again, I sponged myself with the washcloth, then I hung the cloth on the bar and went back to the living room.
My knees had left impressions in the rug, so I knew exactly where to kneel. That was a relief, since I had not considered checking my position closely. I knelt and assumed the position, hands behind my neck. Once I did, I realized that the light in the bathroom was still on. That seemed wrong.
Miss Martel had given no instructions concerning the light, but she did have instructions to do nothing without instruction. Now that I was in position, it would be wrong to move out of it. Either way, I was likely in trouble. Getting up to turn off the light might go unnoticed, but I would know, and I am a terrible liar. It was a hard choice.
I thought about it hard and decided that it would be worse to do something wrong on purpose, than to do something wrong by mistake. If I was to be punished for a job done poorly, it was no more than I deserved. Better that than to disobey instructions. That decided, I settled in to wait for Miss Martel's return.
I was of two minds. Sheila Schwartz had once been my best friend. Over the last several days, the long dormant relationship had flowered, as if we had never been apart. That said something about life in the theater. When Sheila had asked me to take on a small project, I could not refuse. That aside, the project sounded like fun. Breaking in novices was something I loved to do.
In this case, showing her the ropes was literal, since bondage was involved. On the other hand, Sheila had a decade of experience as a Dom, and I had only my theater experience to fall back on. Still, I was not worried. Being both a dancer and a stage performer, I knew a great deal about playing roles and directing them. I had handled dozens of stumbling, tongue tied, frequently arrogant and always irritating young girls. This new meat should be no different, even if the subject matter was sexual theater and not the stage.
It was 7:10 PM when a car pulled into the drive. I ran silently through my pre-performance ritual, and waited for a knock. It was a good thing that I was listening, because the knock was almost inaudible. I opened the door, and was not impressed with what I saw.
The girl standing there was almost the antithesis of the usual theater newbie. She was of normal size, but seemed much smaller, due to her dreadful posture and timid expression. I said, "So you're the fresh meat. Come on in, so I can tenderize you a bit." Tenderizing would not be the problem. Reinforcement looked more difficult. Success cannot be rewarded until the first success is achieved. That might take a while.
The girl was obviously shy, but that did not stop her from looking at all the memorabilia covering the walls. Several of the theater posters would be worth thousands of dollars on the collectors market, not that I usually thought of it in those terms. These were my memories and I did not share them lightly. So, I slapped her face hard enough to make my hand numb. It got the girl's attention.
I said, "I don't see what Schwartz sees in you, but we will see what can be done. Give me the bag." The girl handed over a small gym bag, containing restraints, a scarf, a gag and a paddle. I dumped the contents out onto a chair. The girl's eyes got big. She said nothing, but her skin flushed. That was something at least, so I said so. We could try a few things anyway. I asked her name.
She said, "Christine Collins, ma'am."
I never cared for that term. "I am no fucking 'ma'am'. My name is Francine, but you will refer to me as Miss Martel. Here are the rules. You do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you and you do nothing except what I tell you. You do not speak unless asked a direct question." When that speech received no reply, I felt a bit better, but I needed to close.
"All right then. I am going to go to the corner store and buy some things I need. You are going to strip completely, go use the bathroom, thoroughly, and return to this spot and this position before I return. While I think you understand that failure will get you a spanking, I will also tell you that failure tonight will impact your future with this employer. You may think of this as your job orientation. One other thing, that is now your personal gag. Wear it unless specifically told to remove it. Begin." If that did not spook her, nothing would.
As exits go, I had managed better. For one thing, I needed to grab some money, which meant carrying my purse. For another, I was unsure where I was going, so I dithered a bit. Eventually, I was outside looking in. I could see the girl through the window. The first thing she did was put on the gag, which was interesting. It took a minute, but then she started to pull off her clothes. My spot of voyeurism lasted until she undid her bra. She had really nice tits.
I had to admit to being jealous of large breasts. Even though Sheila Schwartz' development had ruined her dancing career, I was still envious of the attention that her DD rack brought from the men. The girl, CC, had about a C cup. They were round and firm, with almost no sag. In my case a little sag would have been an improvement, but flat stays flat. In any event, it gave me something to focus on. Tittie torture is an old pastime
My apartment was in a low rent neighborhood. It is one reason that the only things of value are posters and heavy furniture. Also, I own the building, so I can get someone to live in it and watch my place. I needed clothes pins, and Richard might have some. If not, I could drive to the Walgreen's on 5th Street. I figured about 15 minutes alone would give CC enough time to use the pot and get back to her pose. What was the line about best laid plans?
Richard was not home, so, if I wanted clothespins, I would have to buy a package. First I went by Panda Express for some take out. Then, I swung by Walgreen's. Once I was there, I took five minutes to shop for some personal things. I was about to check out, when I remembered I needed clothespins. So, I stepped out of line, right into a fan. I am a famous performer. Sue me.
Soon, I had a small crowd of autograph seekers. My first fan, "Call me Joe" Hendrickson, wanted to rehash every show I had done for the last decade. As I said, I am a performer. Praise is the butter on my bread. I did not realize how much time had gone on, til I noticed it had gotten dark outside.
I left them standing there. As an explanation, I said that I had left something cooking, which was not too far from the truth. I rushed back to my apartment, noticing in passing that a light was on, and that Richard was now home. Naturally, I found CC exactly where I had left her, though not as I had left her.
I had to tip my figurative hat to her. CC was working hard to get it right. The posture was not overly stressful, but she had been in it for almost an hour. The accumulated tension, from fatigue and poor posture, was really wearing on her.
The posture I could do something about.
After a while, I began to wonder how long Miss Martel would be gone.
Some time later, my side started to itch. I had to fight an urge to scratch it.