[K]itten and [T]eddybear
Copyright© 2013 by PocketRocket
Chapter 2: Coffee Break
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2: Coffee Break - 2013 Clitorides Award winner--Best BDSM story. I was surprised, because I wrote this as a romance. After all "50 Shades of Grey" is a romance. If D/s and BDSM offend you, this story will not work. BDSM is an important part of some of the character's lives. That said, it is not their entire existence. For those of you still reading, I hope you learn to love Sheila and Sean as much as I do. Odd pairings can make the strongest bonds.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/Fa Fa/ft Consensual Romantic Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Spanking First Oral Sex Anal Sex Petting Double Penetration Slow Workplace
Interlude: 25th Anniversary
Cindy:
Dad never did become a paying client, though there were a few friendly sessions. Somehow, Aunt Francine got involved, though I was never clear on exactly how. Knowing Aunt Frannie, it was probably inappropriate advice about their love life. Mostly, Mom and Dad just hit it off. The first day, even before they had a date, Mom sent Dad a workout picture of herself. I think it must be pretty racy since Dad will not show it to me.
{4}
Sheila:
Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep
The alarm had gone off. I never sleep to the alarm. Sitting up in bed, I stretched like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett’s “Behold my hands, my dear.” Oh, my goodness. He said that just before not-entirely-consensual sex. But Scarlett loved it the morning after, and this was my morning.
There was a definite sated quality about me that morning. I ached, but there was a languor to my movements and a completion to my sensibilities. I had not felt this good in years, and it was all because of G. Sean Richards.
I rose and pulled on a robe. How far out of it had I been last night? I still had on my stockings but nothing else. I never slept in the raw and rarely without bathing. My thoughts went back to wanting a shower the night before, but I had to print my pictures.
Pictures. Leaving the shower running, I went to the entrance table, and there were the pictures. Years of editing pictures for clients made me something of an expert in certain types of photography. These were quite good.
If I say so myself, the full-length shot was arresting. The arms were bound back, of course. My head was down and slightly to one side, with the eyes hooded from the camera. My hair was pulled over the near shoulder, mostly covering one breast, which served to accent the other. My thatch was fully visible and due for a trim, but the arresting part was the dewing I had seen the night before. One leg was straight, while Sean Richards massaged the other. The expression on my face was one of near rapture.
I had to remind myself that the woman in the picture was me, though it was not the same me that looked out of my mirror every morning. I carefully packed the picture in an acid-free sleeve. Who knew what the future might bring? There was a chance I might show it to someone, eventually.
If anything, the other picture was better than the first, though, in a sense, they were the same. The second photo was a cropping of the first picture, enlarged to fit the paper.
This one was a simple torso shot, beginning just below the chin and extending past the cleft. In the closer frame, the dewing was much more apparent. But what made the shot was a curl of hair, my hair neatly framing my right nipple. That detail had gone unnoticed when I printed the picture the night before. The nipple was fully erect, stiff even. Merged with the taught musculature and the dewing, it all screamed sexual tension. Just looking at it brought hot flashes, and I am not usually affected by visual erotica.
Though the image was simple and anonymous, I could easily sell a dozen among my clients. Triple the price if they knew who was in the picture, though I doubted any of them would guess. None of them, for example, had ever seen the birthmark above my navel. The rights for internet reproduction would be worth thousands. On the sale of this one picture, I could go wild at the online auctions some Saturday night.
Smiling, I decided Mr. Richards would get a bonus with his disclosure documents.
Hours later, I had completed my first round of clients for the day. Fortunately, I was able to do my appointments almost on autopilot. I had gotten a few odd looks, but no one commented, and sessions proceeded as expected. At 11:00 AM, I could break for lunch and business. Today, business was G. Sean Richards.
The name caused problems because there was disagreement on his first initial. Charles had told me G. There were hits on that name in town, but the Chamber of Commerce listed him as C. Sean Richards, owner, CEO of Richards Enterprises. Their bio painted a picture of a local man who had taken a group of family businesses and turned it into a major corporation. The import division maintained offices on the far side of downtown. There was also a warehouse address not far from my studio. The consulting division’s website offered advice on customs issues, in addition to liaison, brokerage, and auctioneering services, with a list of accountants and lawyers was attached.
Going back to the biography, I could see I misjudged his age. I had thought him to be in his early 40s, but his listed high school graduation was much later. Then it hit me. Francine had to know him. They had graduated in the same class from Mt. Pleasant HS, which is not that big a school. Everyone knew everyone else, at least a little.
Finding Francine was not difficult. Within five minutes, I had left a message with her service. Before I finished my lunch order, she called me back. After a minute of signing off the other call, I said hello.
She almost squealed back, “Sheila Schwartz. Oh my God. What have you been doing.”
I was flattered a star like Francine Martel remembered my name. “I have a training and fitness studio. It pays the bills. Not like you. I see your name all over the place and with stars.”
She wanted none of it, “Oh, get off Sheila. You were much better than I was. I just have the figure for it, and eventually, you didn’t. These days, I play mothers and girlfriends, generally off-Broadway. You would still be headlining. But something tells me you did not call to reminisce about Oskar Gruber’s Chamber of Horrors. What’s up?”
I had to laugh, “I actually own that studio, in fact the whole warehouse. You should see it now. XTreme Fitness leased the main floor, but the audition room is my private studio. It could still be called a “chamber of horrors.” However, I called about a guy you might have known in high school. His name is Sean Richards. Do you remember him?”
She thought, “Sean Richards. That does not ring a bell. Do you have anything else?
“Sean is his middle name. His first initial is C or G. No one seems to have his full name.”
“Oh, Jeez. You mean Ricky. His first initial is a C, for Clarence. He hates it. In high school, he went by Ricky Richards. Tallish guy, very controlled, knew all the sports and talked a good game, but never got involved with the jocks. Dated Marie and Monica Simmons on and off. Supposedly dated both at once, if you can believe it. I wonder what happened to them?”
“The twins married a couple of brothers from Newark. I have not seen or heard from them in years. What else can you tell me about Mr. Richards?”
“Oh, ‘Mister’ is it? I can tell you he is serious about his sense of how to do things. We dated a few times, but you know how it is with practice. He was not much better: Junior Achievement, drama, and yearbook, not to mention studying. He finished 2nd or 3rd, and our Valedictorian was that Special Ed girl Paula something. They changed the rules after we graduated, so it can’t happen again.
“As I recall, Ricky likes to call the shots, but he has some serious ham in his closet. He will slide into a role like it was his life. That is how you deal with him. Put him in a role that requires him to do what you want done. He will move the world before he drops a role. God, he sounds like my last leading man. No wonder we clashed.
“Tell me something, Sheila. Seriously, are you falling for this guy? Because he will be a lot of work, but he could be worth it.”
I thought for a moment, but before I could answer, she spouted, “Oh my God. I just got paged. Something is wrong. We’ll do lunch tomorrow. I’ll text you.” With that, she was gone. Knowing productions, she would be unavailable for hours, if not the rest of the day. Damn.
I skipped lunch to do some stretching. Even though I was in warm-ups, I got a tingle when I placed my ankle on the bar the first time. I stretched into what Mr. Richards called First Position and held it for ten measured breaths. Shifting my legs, I repeated and held for ten more. The stretch was well suited for stretching my hams and glutes while putting a nice tension on the small back muscles. I did another set, this time rotating from opposite hand on the bar to hand overhead, with back and neck arched, and back down to the bar. Twice through both legs gave me a nice glow. It was time for a shower before handling more clients.
I passed a mirror on the way to the shower and could faintly see the red markings from my favorite flogger. I love the piece. The grip is natural sharkskin, and the thongs are kangaroo hide, split except the last three inches, which serve to weigh and stiffen the striking point. While I appreciate the weight and the balance, I adore how it leaves vivid marks on the skin. Staring at the mirror, I fingered the marks it had left on my skin. The flogger was something else I might gift to Clarence Sean Richards, but this he would have to earn.
After redressing, I went to the office and pulled out the standard disclosure package and a messenger envelope. Then, I took the torso shot and considered it. One of my signature methods is to gloss my lips heavily and leave a strategically placed kiss somewhere on my clients’ person, generally somewhere red from a lashing. When they come to me for pictures of the session, the shots they choose frequently have my lipstick prominently placed. It was too late to put lipstick on myself, but I could kiss the photo. In permanent ink, I wrote, “Love Your Work” and signed it with my lips.
I blotted the excess lip gloss carefully, then placed the picture in an acid-free sleeve before putting it into the messenger envelope. I highlighted the usual sections on the legal documents and added them to the package. All that was left was a personal note. It was short:
4:00 PM, Tuesday May 26
Call or text me any time
256-9521
C
It was my personal and not my business number. Previously, I had only given to my doctor, lawyer, and accountant. I almost signed my real name, but he did not know it. Make that he did not know it, yet. I dropped the envelope in the pick-up slot and called it in.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.