Chapter 8: An Eventful Week

With her call, Sheila accomplished three significant things. She introduced me to two other women—Francine Martel and Christine Collingsworth, the "submissive". If you know Christine, the irony is deep. Sheila also invited me to run a social event. I did not know it yet, but it would become the most important social event of the year. When I went into politics, it was a reference no one missed. Most important, Sheila gave me the sister I never had. Talent like that is too good to waste.

I rerecorded the call to make it easy to play through my phone. All the girls I called, and two of the guys, had the same reactions I did. By the fourth call, I was running behind rumor. I never did call Elspeth; she called me. Before it was done, I had to cut the list of names down to twelve, nine of which were keepers.

The next day was crazy. I had to finish grading papers, pack, arrange to get Shadow delivered to the House, and arrange details like having mail forwarded. Sean took care of plane tickets, but I had to get to Manchester to use them. The garage helped with that. I dropped off the clunker. They would deliver Shadow to New Jersey. In the meantime, one of their guys drove me to the airport. I was on the flight before I considered what meeting Sheila would be like.

It was too late to change how I was dressed. I switched a few of the showier rings for simple posts I had in the carry-on. My hair was a mess, so I tied on a bandanna. It was the most thought I had given to my appearance in at least a year. If I only knew then, what I know now.

My plans for meeting Sheila went down in flames. First, she would not react to my critique. I first deconstructed Elspeth, after Waiting for Godot. Since that night, I practiced the technique continuously, often with devastating effect. Sheila was the first subject to shrug it off. When her turn came, Sheila put me in my place with five short sentences, using single syllable words. Damn, she was good. Fortunately, I had family history on my side. In Newark, that meant paella.

Dinner at Casa de Espana was a tradition and a rare privilege. Once we were seated I could tell I was not the only one Sheila had burned verbally. Sean also wanted some payback. Sheila talked of having sex with Sean up against the wall after a meeting. I expressed disbelief. Sean affirmed by saying Sheila was very limber. Sweet Jesus that woman can blush.

Using this as a pretext, Sheila invited me, literally, to powder my nose. Shaking my head in disbelief, I followed. In the women's room, I received another education. Sheila opened herself like a flower. In five minutes, I knew things about her that a shrink might discover after a year. It was a gesture of trust and respect. To this day, I am glad I started our relationship with an offer of marriage. Sheila deserved one.

After dinner, we had to pick up my dozen workers. One thing after another went wrong. When we made it back to town, I was short six of my people. Three either never showed up, or they took a cab home. Worse, I was going out of town the next day. Sheila, naturally, had the solution. She turned them over to Gerald in one of the most amazing conversations I have ever witnessed. Sean told me that Sheila got on with Gerald, but that is nothing like watching it happen. Surreal does not cover it. In hindsight, my surprise circuits were starting to fry.

I asked what Sheila did for a living though she had already told me she was a dominatrix. Hearing it was not seeing it. We went to her studio. Sheila started with an impromptu homage to Sean, which revved my sociology gene overdrive. Next, Sheila and I had a bonding moment. They say shared suffering pulls you closer, but shared insecurities work well too. My surprise circuit must have blown by then, because I took watching videos of Mistress Cynthia in stride. At least, I think I did. One thing was certain. Sheila might play Mistress Cynthia, but it was an act.

After her revelation, Sheila led us to the XTreme Gyms part of her building. She called it the rabbit hole, which fit perfectly. More for the surreal file. On that side, we met Sharon, a yoga instructor who seemed nice. In this context, "nice" was not a compliment. I did a double take when Sheila asked Sharon to cover her fitness clients during the honeymoon—and would not take no for an answer. Both sides impressed. Sharon raised some damn good objections. Sheila had even better answers. I decided Sharon might be nice, but she was no doormat.

After the stop on the mundane side of Sheila's workspace, we went back to the car. In one of my better moments, I gave Sheila a big hug and welcomed her to the family. That done, we headed out. Fortunately for my overloaded sensibilities, Sheila had a verbiage problem concerning the wedding invitation. Proper communication forms were my bread and butter. While we drove to their printer, I wrote out suitable invitation prose.

In yet another shock, Sheila asked me to cover her bondage clients during the honeymoon. The first client I would meet is the printer we were about to see. As I said, burned out surprise circuit. As we talked to the printer/client, Sheila deftly put my name in the rumor mill. On the side, she tipped me to some things to watch for during sessions.

Eventually, we made it home and to bed. If I had known what Tuesday would bring, I might have gone back to Hanover.

It started innocently. I dressed as presentably as my wardrobe would allow, which was not much. I had variety, but it was all in the same vein. For the first time in forever, I wanted to dress up a little, but all I had were tattered jeans and torn T-shirts. As it turned out, it was just as well. I still have a mismatched pair of Army boots as a reminder.

The first major event of the day was meeting Francine Martel—again. Sean had mentioned her, so I had time to process the memories. It was not a fun part of growing up. When I was ten or eleven, Mother dragged me to dance classes for several weeks. Sheila and Francine were both there, though Sheila did not remember me. Francine and Sheila moved on a higher plane than most of the students, while I was on a still lower plane. I remembered Francine but did not expect the reverse. Francine surprised me by immediately calling me by name. It was a hated old nickname, Jo Jo, but that paled beside what she told me.

In essence, Francine gave me two choices. I could work to the point I was not an embarrassment at the wedding or she would find a way to hide me. I never said a thing, but she took that as an agreement to make an effort. Francine immediately started telling me what to do. The short version was that I needed to unlearn 25 years of sitting, standing and walking. Francine started me on a posture exercise that doubles as a slave position. Humorous as that seems, it worked.

In my expert opinion, Francine was an exceptionally good teacher. She explained what I was doing, down to which bones went where and what muscles pulled which tendons. Sheila, Francine and Christine all had formal educations that stopped at high school, yet any of them can make me feel slow in the head. As Sean says, uneducated does not mean stupid.

All this was in a corset makers waiting room. As soon as Sheila rejoined us, she threw her weight behind Francine's. Our next stop was a shoe store, where Sheila picked out some tall pumps and managed to get me standing in front of a mirror. When my posture was correct—no small adjustment—I looked presentable. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Not even attractive. Presentable was quite sufficient, thank you. I wore heels the rest of the day.

Next came a warehouse clothing store. Francine and Sheila picked out a power suit for me, with some separates in the same vein. Once again the mirror was a shock. This was not just presentable—I looked damned good. With tears on my face, I asked Sheila how I had missed so much, for so long. She made me think it through. Two things jumped out. First, I had been dressing ugly on purpose. It deflected people from my face and body, but at a cost. Second, only grown woman fashions showed me well at all. I would never be beautiful or pretty, but I flat owned boardroom suits. Thank God I had the money for the clothes.

That would have been enough for a normal month, but the day was only half over. We went to Brooklyn, where I met one of the legends of New York society, Angela Molinari. She and Francine were close friends. Unknown to me, but much more impressive in his area of influence was Angela's husband Pedro. Francine, Sheila and Christine stopped schooling after 12th grade. Pedro stopped after 4th. This did not prevent him from becoming the best-kept secret on and off Broadway. He had come to meet Sheila, but he offered me a few observations. It took me a while to unravel them all, but I have rarely been so deeply complimented.

We were in Brooklyn to see a costume storage. Sheila picked out a cute dress for the bridesmaids. I balked. Everyone understood, but matching dresses are traditional. In desperation, I offered to wear a man's suit and stand with Sean. It was one of those moments when time stops, so everyone had time to think it through. It only took a moment, then people were running for the pieces we needed. You have seen the pictures. That was my idea.

I have referred at length to Francine and Sheila. Both of them were accomplished and acknowledged in their own areas. Christine was a nineteen-year-old greasy spoon waitress, recently hired as a personal assistant. She rarely spoke. When she did, it is usually a sentence fragment or a name. It should tell you something that Christine dominated the most memorable part of the day.

It started in the restaurant. Francine took us to The Crows Nest, a place she owns. Appetizers were oysters in half shell. I fed them to Christine with hot sauce, starting with Texas Pete, moving to Tabasco, then Melinda's. That is where pepper heads get serious. Christine wanted more heat, so Francine's people brought out the big guns. The hottest was Mad Dog 44 Magnum. I asked for gloves because I was scared about what that stuff might do to my hands. Regardless of my reasons, it added to the theater of the moment, which made the nightly news. Christine kept it down, but showed me blisters later. The whole restaurant cheered. As of the day I left New Jersey, no one had duplicated the feat.

Next came a bondage club Francine also owned, Le Chat Noir. Knowing Francine, there is no doubt the club was named for Sheila, who wanted no part of it. Francine prevailed while Christine acted like a kid on Christmas morning. We stripped to undergarments and donned masks. Francine pushed Sheila to get involved, which she finally did. Using her professional dominatrix persona, Sheila staged a race. She whipped a guy while Christine ate a girl's pussy. It was no contest. The whip won in a time under ten seconds. On the side, I met my husband, Lars.

That would have been a great cherry on the sundae, but Christine wanted more. Sheila offered her a reward, which Christine pushed onto center stage. The details were fairly well recorded, so I will not go into details. It is sufficient to say that New York's bondage culture had never seen the like. It was so impressive that Francine stood by gaping. I had to step in and direct traffic. Lars, bless him, just gave me his card and kept out of my way.