Chapter 8. In which someone gets the wrong idea

Now Cindi was back home for the day, a driven slave determined to make me proud. But she was a bit surprised at how she found herself. She was in a great-dane-sized dog bed in her own bedroom. At first she had a warm feeling thinking that I had not sent her home after all, but then she realized that it was, in fact, her bedroom, not mine. Besides, this dog bed was a different color and a slightly different shape than the one at my house.

Looking up, she saw an envelope taped to the bedroom door, with Annette’s beautiful flowing script. But this note was at her standing eye level and labelled “Cynthia”. Inside she found ... an apology?

Dear Cynthia,

I’m terribly sorry for spacing out while going through your morning routine a few hours ago. In the tub this morning I was trying to shave your legs and I forgot to “pray down the shield” first. I’m afraid that I not only ruined your blade, but actually broke the razor too. I’ve never shaved my legs before so that might be an excuse, except that Master specifically had reminded me about the shield, and I forgot anyway.

But that’s not the worst part. Having made that stupid mistake, I then forgot to “pray down the shield” again when I started blow-drying your hair. Needless to say the brush broke off at the handle. I guess I just don’t know your own strength.

(°‿°)

So after breakfast I went out to replace your broken toiletries, stopping at the Bull’s Eye store just down the road. On the way back I noticed one of those big-box pet stores and decided that I would surprise you. Master said you really liked the doggy bed, that it gave you “good little subbie goose bumps” the first time you saw it. So I figured you might like one here at your home too.

In any case, welcome home! And sorry about the breakage. I’ll do better next time.

Your “little sister”,

Annette Dubois Wolfe

Cindi could not help but smile. This time she simply had to write something in return. But her regular crapola handwriting just wouldn’t do. She had to rummage around for her calligraphy pens and bond paper, and then she had to test the pens to see which ones still had ink since the first two she tried were dried out. But soon she was getting down to it.

Dearest Little Sister Annette,

Your apologies are entirely unnecessary. If you had any idea how many razors, brushes, pens, scissors, kitchen utensils, hammers I have accidentally broken over the years, you would have just shaken your head and laughed (At least, that’s what I do).

But thank you for replacing the items. And thank you ever so much for my new bed. It makes me feel so close to our Lord and Master, I get tingles just looking at it. It makes me wonder if I should go out now and get a doggy dish.

But most of all I want to thank you for taking such great care of my body while I am away, and for allowing me to use your amazingly sensitive, sexy, perfect body in the exchange. I will continue to follow your care instructions to the letter. I hope that by being a good steward, our Lord will continue to allow me to feel the submissive joy and the explosive thrills that I can only feel in your body.

Yours,

Cindi Cumdump

PS: I love Julia. She was so kind to me, and she is sooooo sexy. If you see her before I do, please tell her I said, “Rrrowr!”

Having posted her response envelope — addressed to “Annette“ — on the inside of the bedroom door, she now began to seriously consider how to best please me on her new mission. The first thing that occurred to her was that her old self was so utterly foreign to her new nature — her true nature — that in order to remember to properly impersonate Majesticu-, um, Majestic Woman, she would have to give herself constant reminders.

Inspiration struck her as she is putting away her calligraphy pens. She took the pen in her hand and looked into her desk for some yellow sticky notes. It was just a little acronym, a fairly cryptic one, but it would definitely keep her on her toes. It would be the ever-present mnemonic she needed to ensure that she would be the best imitation Majestic Woman that she could be. Everywhere she would look she would see them. Every time I might need her to wrap the shell of Majestic Woman around her true self she would be prepared to do it. All she had to do is keep this thought in the forefront of her head at all times. It was simplicity itself. She managed to run out of notes before her pen ran out of ink. Now she just needed to distribute them.

After this task her day now devolved down to waiting. Instead of her normal frantic multitasking in the media, I told her to relax a bit. I told her I would notify her if she were needed. I told her to spend her day immersing herself in the things that Majestic Woman would immerse herself in, if she only had time. She thought a bit, and then she had it, «It’s been a long time since I last read Sun Tzu!» The man had been born a contemporary of hers, but, of course, the vast gulf of miles between Greece and China made it impossible for them to have ever met or even to have heard of each other. Even so, there was something about knowing in an intimate, native way the times that were the backdrop for his writings that made Majestic Woman appreciate The Art of War in a deeper way. Her true self, Cindi Cumdump, couldn’t have cared less, except that this was part of the service I required of her.

And so, determined to make me proud, she read, treating it as if it were all still relevant to her life. Even at that, she still paused often in her reading to reflect on the nature of leadership, and how much she wished she could just leave behind the life of a leader and not have to deal with it anymore. She hoped I would end this masquerade soon; in only two more years it would be time for her fourth rotation as chair of the Legion of Heroes. Three terms were already the most that anyone had ever served, her burden in a way for being the last surviving founding member. It would be so much harder to keep up the masquerade if she had to be “on” all the time, which would be inevitable if she were in the big seat.

sigh «It’s all up to Him.» She felt again the peace in knowing that I was the one in control, that she only had to serve my will and make me proud.

She took a break for lunch and gave herself a little downtime from the impersonation. At that moment she remembered that I wanted her to learn how to dance. How to dance erotically. How to dance for my pleasure. She squeezed together her suddenly damp thighs at the thought. She was on her laptop now as she ate her salad, googling for local dance classes. To cut down on the pages and pages of listings she tried a number of limiting keywords until at last she saw this under the results for “dance class erotic”:

Erotic Belly Dancing

This class is designed to teach you how to dance in a way that will please anyone who is attracted to the female form. This is a class for beginners, but the latter sessions of the class will be quite challenging. You should be in good shape. We will be patient with shyness, but some nudity will be expected, especially in the last 3 weeks. Please leave your inhibitions and hangups at the door.

WHAT THIS CLASS IS NOT:

• This class is not an aerobic dance class, although it is quite a workout.

• This class does not teach the “westernized” form of the dance frequently featured at Middle-Eastern- or Mediterranean-themed clubs or restaurants, although many of the moves and rhythms are the same.

• This class is not a striptease dancing class, although most dances involve at least some removal of clothing.

• This class is not a stepping stone to dancing or stripping jobs, although you might be well-qualified for either at the end.

WHAT THIS CLASS IS:

The purpose of this class is to help you learn to express your sexual desire through the medium of dance. If this appeals to you, we would love the opportunity to teach you.

“YOU MUST BE TALLER THAN THIS LINE TO ENTER”:

• This is a ladies-only class; sorry, fellas.

• This is an adults-only class; dancers younger than 18 may not attend.

Cindi called the number and was rewarded with a pleasant female voice on the other end.

“Yes, I’d like to sign up for course number DA-526, it looks like the next section begins in two weeks, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, but we need to set up your interview with Yasmin first.”

“Interview?” asked Cindi, somewhat warily.

“Yes, ma’am. She likes to screen the student base, you know, since the class is kinda provocative.”

Cindi was relieved. “Sure, that makes sense. Do I meet her somewhere? Phone her?”

“She prefers in-face meeting and will meet you anywhere public in the Portal City metro area, but she will do phone if you absolutely cannot make the times work.”

“Um, okay, can you schedule for her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“OH! Great! How about, um, now ... seriously, say, 30 minutes?”

By now I’m inside the staffer’s head. «Wow. Isn’t she the eager beaver!» “Let me text Yasmin and see if she has time now.”

“Sure.” Cindi waits impatiently, until...

“Yes, ma’am, that works fine if you can meet her where she is. She is at Teddy Bear Skull Coffee Shop, near our offices on University. Would that work for you?”

“Absolutely. Tell her I’ll be there in, say, 20 minutes. My name is, ah, Cynthia.”

“Great ... She says she’ll be easy to find. She’s the one in red.”

Dishes rapidly done Cindi grabbed her keys and got in the car, where she suddenly realized she was still naked. Growling at herself in disgust, she literally flew to her bedroom and threw on underwear, jeans, t-shirt. As she drove off she thought about her mundane, functional bra and panties.

«Maybe I should go shopping afterwards.» Then a warm alternative occurred to her, «Noooooo. Maybe I should ask Annette to do it for me.»

Daydreaming about how her more experienced “little sister” might surprise her, she almost ran a red light. It sucked her back to reality. Majestic Woman was fanatical about traffic safety. It was not just a matter of being law-abiding. She dreaded the prospect of trying to explain how she had emerged from a wrecked car without a scratch.

«Maybe I should move one or two of those sticky notes to the car.» she thought.

As she entered the shop she looked around at the few customers she saw and mused silently about how time had made the Grateful Dead “mainstream”. Almost everyone was in suits or other business attire, while the walls, windows, and tables were adorned with Deadhead memorabilia.

«Um, no one in red though.»

Then behind the counter she saw the cashier, a small curvy woman whose olive skin closely matched Cynthia’s own. She was wearing a bright red t-shirt with pastel teddy bears marching across the chest. “Hi,” she said, smiling, “From the look on your face I’m guessing you must be Cynthia.” Then she yelled to the back, “Karl, take the register. I’m on break.”

Cindi was not very impressed until she saw the woman move. Taking off her apron, walking around the counter, pulling out a chair at an empty table, sitting. Every movement flowing, sensuous, inviting.

«Yes. I think I came to the right place.»

“So, ah, Cynthia, why do you want to take my class?”

The question clearly made Cindi nervous. She couldn’t exactly say “My magic Lord/Master/God who recently came to own me has commanded me to learn how to please him by dancing.” So she hesitated a bit before answering.

“My, um, boyfriend would like me to learn how to dance. Erotically.”

A pained look crossed Yasmin’s face. Suddenly she seemed to find new significance in the steel collar locked around Cindi’s throat. “Cynthia, when any ... conscientious ... person teaches ‘sexy’ classes for women, they look for certain ... signs. You just threw up the reddest of the red flags I look for. Look, I won’t tell you how to live your life, but I think you need a better boyfriend, not a dance class.”

As Yasmin rose sinuously from her seat, Cindi grabbed her arm, “Wait, Yasmin, it’s not like that!” «Yes, it is! But... » “He just asked me if I could dance. He didn’t, like, force anything on me. I had to tell him ‘no’; I’ve always been more athletic than artistic. But the thought of dancing for him made me feel so... hot!”

Taking her seat again, Yasmin replied, “Well, then. Let’s try this one more time. Cynthia, why do you want to take my class?”

Falling all over herself to answer, she blurted, “The first time I dance for him I want to make him cream his shorts!”

Yasmin chewed her lip as she thought over Cindi’s answer. Then she looked up and smiled. “Welcome to the class, Cynthia. Please be on time. For the first class, any comfortable workout clothes will do, but most students favor yoga pants and tank tops. Don’t wear a sports bra, athletic girl. You’re gonna want things to, uh, move,” Yasmin said, making her tits bounce without seeming to do anything at all.

“And we’ll be taking measurements that first class. We want to get them right.” she said, looking unabashedly at Cindi’s chest.

“Don’t forget to pay the costume fee, or I swear I’ll make you dance naked.” With a grin the dancing woman departed, back to her day job.