Chapter 9: 'Tis Fitting...

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

It may be hard to believe now, but Aunt Jo was once into the punk/grunge/goth look. She still has a mismatched set of Army boots, which she claims to have worn through six years of grad school. Aunt Jo also claims Aunt Frannie tried to get her to leave them behind and go shopping barefoot. Knowing them both, I believe it.

There is also something about Aunt Francine telling a story...

Francine:

I had not been thrilled when Sheila told me that Sean's kid sister would be in the wedding party. I remembered a ten year old brat that did not want to learn dance and made sure everyone knew it. Such girls came and went. I would never have paid any attention had Ricky Richards not been picking her up after practice.

Truth be told, Jo Jo Richards had more reason to object than most brats. At ten, she was already five feet tall, which made her taller than me. Some of the growth must have been recent, because she was very uncoordinated. While not heavy, she was also not thin or athletic. For all its beauty, dance is intensely physical. For Siobhan Richards, dance was not a suitable choice. Fourteen years later I wondered about suitability all over again.

Jo Jo had not stopped growing til she reached at least 5'11". While she was not as catastrophically clumsy as I remembered her, there was no grace or balance to her movements. While potentially attractive, she made no effort to use her assets. Worse, Jo Jo saw herself as big, strong and ugly—and dressed accordingly.

Body image was central to the problem. There were raw materials, but no vision and hardly any time to build one. If Jo Jo was not sold on making the effort, there was no chance to make anything work. So, I waited til Sheila was busy and confronted Jo Jo with my worries. Her reaction was gratifyingly appropriate. Admitting ignorance is rarely easy, especially for college types. Jo Jo also showed some spark, which she would need.

I started her on posture. It was easily the worst of her issues and several others were built on it, such as balance. She needed all the help she could get, which meant wearing heels. I had jokingly told Jo Jo that I would train her with CC, however it was not a bad comparison. When we met, CC also had dreadful posture. One week had seen significant improvement. However, CC was the most biddable person I had ever met. Jo Jo was well toward the opposite extreme. It was a case of the psychoanalyst changing the light bulb.

As the saying goes, make it march. After our little tete a tete, I returned to CC. She was attempting some stretches, without much luck. The ones she was doing required an open floor. I showed her how to lock up a section, so that she could flex at the edges. It is much like yoga, without the fancy names. I wished we were doing the Kama Sutra. My little tiff with Jo Jo had gotten me started.

After a few minutes of doing pretzels, Jo Jo came back out and signaled for me. I told CC to show Jo Jo Second Position. That would have been good for a laugh, if it were not also the perfect starting place. I went off with Maggie the Brogue while Jo Jo struggled to sit on the floor. CC was already in Second Position and starting to zone out. There is something other-worldly about that submissive.

Maggie had me doff the top. Per the usual, I had nothing under it. Maggie took a couple of measurements and promised me the corset equivalent of a padded bra. One of these day I will have to get pregnant, just so I can have tits for a while. Funny, the thought of breast feeding was getting me hot. Hormones were in the air.

Back in the parlor, we had to I call CC back to this world. Only a submissive would associate a display position with deep meditation. Her form was impeccable. I would have to tell Schwartz. Jo Jo was another matter, but at least she was making the attempt. I had half figured that she would refuse and the other half that she would give up, so this surprised me.

The next step is always reaching for the feel. Either she picked it up, or we could quit here. Some people never do catch the sensation when everything is stacked properly. Miss Meditation was a natural. Jo Jo was more normal, but at least she was coachable. Once she had something close to the correct position, I copped a squat so we could talk.

I had to admit, "You get it. I didn't think you would—especially after seeing you—but you do. We should get to know each other. I'm Francine." Something intense went on in her face, but she simply said, "I'm Siobhan." Why did I feel we had just done a pinky swear?

Moving on, "I was not shitting you. This is going to be Hell Week. Your posture is awful, intentionally so I think. You have no balance, no sense of center, no symmetry. That is a lot to learn, especially since you need to forget what you have been practicing for a couple of decades.

"I would say that you walk like you were in Army boots, but that's literally true. You know the worst part? I don't think you're really lesbian. You play it well, but you also notice guys. That makes me think that you got slapped down pretty hard in the high school dating scene. Since Ricky was popular, that must have been a real bitch. Speaking of real bitches, I remember your mother. I would say you couldn't be more different if you tried, but you obviously did try—hard.

"But, you're a grown woman now. It's time to put growing-up shit behind. Pick a star and steer by it. Let me tell you a story. It's about a hot shit disco queen at seventeen." I told her the truth and damn near the whole truth. For someone that can talk like she can, Jo Jo, Siobhan was being very quiet.

"The story is not very surprising. I have seen and heard hundreds of variations on the basic theme. I had was almost seventeen, entering my second year of high school, dancing every weekend at the local clubs. I had spent a summer with a touring troupe, doing a musical comedy, earning great reviews. Then, Sheila Schwartz entered my life.

"Sheila was only twelve and she had very little formal dance instruction. Oskar Gruber was a skinflint who almost never gave away anything. To Sheila, he gave a full ride. Naturally, I was pissed. Who was this too tall neophyte grabbing all of my well deserved attention? It would be below my status to complain, but making life miserable for the newbie was perfectly acceptable. Even then, I had a reputation as someone not to cross. For two weeks, Sheila Schwartz could not tie her shoes without me commenting rudely.

"Then I saw it. The position is not important. The thing to understand is that it is hard as hell to hold steady. I had never managed it without twitching. Until that day, I was queen of the floor, because no one else had managed it at all. I came into the studio and there was Sheila, holding it steady as a rock. I distinctly remember thinking that it was impossible. I saw it and I knew it was impossible. I owe much of a rather successful career to that moment.

"Oskar Gruber taught many things. Most things he taught well enough that he regularly sent dancers on to college programs and occasionally the big time. He never taught critical self-observation. Sheila taught me that. First, I watched her doing what everyone was trying to do. Once I had noticed, it was clear how far she surpassed everyone else. Then, I watched me. Dance studios have mirrored walls for exactly that reason. It was a humbling experience.

"There is no easy way to describe what Sheila Schwartz brought to the dance floor. She was good, but not great, athletically. I was inches shorter, but could jump half again as far. I was probably better at sense of balance, though that may have been the years of experience. I knew the positions and how to move between them. With anything that could be taught, I had an edge. It was like owning the first inch of a yard stick.

"One thing that set Sheila apart was an unerring sense of place, size, proportion, angle, whatever. She always knew exactly where something went, at tempo and without looking. To say it, that does not seem like much. In practice it manifested in a fluid grace that I have only seen equaled, never exceeded. I came to think of it as processing speed. Sheila saw life in wide band, while the rest of us used dial up. Her ability to do the impossible reaches and maintain the unendurable holds tied in somewhere, though some of that was just physical strength.

"Whatever the source, I suddenly had a standard that I could not reach. I tried. Mary, Joseph and Jesus know I tried. Even Oskar Gruber recognized the effort. I spent an entire spring semester trying to copy Sheila's walk. I eventually came to understand it well enough to do a reasonable imitation—provided you had never seen the genuine article. God only knows how many millions of dollars it has made me through the years. From my first New York Times review, 'From the moment Miss Martel appears on stage, she commands attention. Simply watching her walk is an experience for a dance connoisseur.'

"For three years I focused on Sheila Schwartz and struggled to catch up, with the certain knowledge that I never would. Midway through the second year, auditions were held for small parts in a Lincoln Center production of The Nutcracker. Of those chosen, I was the oldest and Sheila was, by far, the tallest. The producer wanted dancing dolls that were tiny and petite. Sheila was neither, but there was no question if they would take her. The question was whether they could afford to use her as Clara. Her performance as the Sugar Plum Fairy stole the show. Every single review focused on it.

"From that point on, everyone recognized Sheila as the star of the studio. It would not last. Sheila was still fourteen when she played Lincoln Center. Six months later she was in the depths of puberty. You had to be knowledgeable and attentive to see the difference, but Oskar Gruber and I both fit that description. For a while it was treated as a phase. Sheila would grow to her adult height and bust, then she could relearn her body. There were dance and theater companies waiting—with blue faces.

"All dancers grow breasts at some point, even if they are half filled A cups like mine. Month after month, Sheila's just kept growing. As a B cup they were manageable. As a C cup they were problematic, but endurable. Once they reached a D cup, things became grim. The only avenues still open smelled of sleaze. Sheila was a scholarship student and Grubber Gruber was the benefactor. He cut the string.

"I held Sheila long into the night. I have seen people loose close family or dear friends and endure less grief. Lincoln Center had shown Sheila heaven, but her own body had barred the way. I suppose I should not have blamed Gruber for the disaster, but I did. To a degree I still do. He should have done more to prepare her for the possibility that things would not work out. He had plenty of notice.

"After Sheila left the school, I became serious about auditions. I was good, and I knew it, but I had seen the best, so I knew my talent could not be my only ticket. From my first small part, I was camped at the directors elbow, looking for anything that would make me useful. Certainly I was called a brown noser, but that is not the reputation that stuck. My early reputation was as a dedicated trouper—with talent. I succeeded because Sheila Schwartz showed me what it would take."

Once I finished my story, I waited a moment, then said, "Now it's time to think about yourself. Become aware of where you are and how you feel. I know there is joint pain, but feel past that. Understand how an erect spine feels. Slowly release and lower your arms. Good. Now roll forward on hands and knees. You should be able to get up.

"That was quite good. You spent about twenty minutes in that position. Given your physical conditioning, I expected less. Did I tell you I have studied hypnosis? I have studied a bit of everything. Now it's time to get you a proper outfit, even if it has to be off the rack. Sheila's back."

Sheila and CC were both back. Maggie was holding out a package. My guess was a posture trainer. That was a good idea, but something with medical origins would be better. Jo could keep the brace in case some kink was ever called for.

I asked, "Lunch?" Everyone winced.

Sheila:

I was not sure which was the bigger source of anxiety—seeing Julian for a fitting, or leaving Francine and Siobhan alone. I had hoped they would hit it off, but I knew that they would have to try each other. Julian's lair was certainly the place for that. Francine would be in her element, but Siobhan would be outside of hers, so I expected Francine to fire both barrels. Siobhan was willing to try, but there was always the question of where she drew her lines and how far she was willing to move them.

My other question was more selfish. I knew that both Francine and Siobhan were working together on something, but I did not know what. It likely had something to do with the wedding, but that was just the issue of the moment. They were both strong willed, adult women. At best, I might make suggestions, such as Siobhan's makeover. Actually, I expected that would be one of the things Francine raised while I was with Julian. In any event, Christine would tell me everything.

Julian's workroom was the same millinery disaster I remembered. Julian himself looks like an unmade bed. His workspace is even worse. Bolts of fabric are stacked like books at a barn sale. There were ranks of unused sewing machines, some of which predated the World Wars. Most of the light came from various bare bulbs. Some of the unused bulbs rivaled the sewing machines for longevity. I shudder to consider the wiring.

In the center of this was a simple table, lighted with a pair of florescent desk lamps. It was covered with green silk taffeta, cream colored damask and a dozen, or more, spools of thread. Next to the table was Julian, holding one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It had to be my wedding dress. That was wrong. My dress was not scheduled til Friday.

Julian moved, as if to embrace me, then shied. He held out the dress to Millie. As we embraced and Julian kissed both my cheeks, he sighed. "Cheri, you are beautiful as always, with the grace of a sculpture by Déga. This is a bittersweet time. Weddings are so joyous, but then you will wish a child. For such events, I am no use to you. But come. There is much to do. Remove that covering and let me see my proudest creation. Then we shall see if my humble efforts can approach it."

Julian calling his work humble was a many layered irony. First, Julian makes only a show of modesty. His pride in his craftmanship is solid as bedrock. Second, the bustier is an amazing piece, which took a month to make and cost me three weeks profits. Sean can throw such amounts around, but I have to scrape and save. Finally, it was my most prized possession. Now that Sean had the flogger, it was not very close.

Removing the outfit was simple. Expecting to do some shopping, I had worn a costume top. The skirt was naturally simple to remove. That left only the bustier above the waist. I turned around while Julian deftly undid the hooks. As he held the piece to the light, I could not help but compare this disrobing to the times Sean had done it. My skin burned a bit in memory of the lash. I needed to do something about that.

Julian completed his examination. He clucked at a couple of things, then tossed the bustier on a pile and told me it would be ready next week. I had expected this and brought a bra in my purse. The first time Julian had seized his old work, I had to wear a cotton blouse, with nothing under it, til I could buy a bra. That had been at a dollar store, where I had a choice of too large in the strap, or too small in the cup. I put up with too small for the rest of the afternoon.

While I had been reminiscing, Julian had raised my new piece. At first glance, it was a simple short corset, in ecru silk. There was extra space for my oversized tits, of course. The busk in front and the strings in the back looked completely normal. However, there appeared to be a row of extra busks around the bottom. That puzzle would have to wait, because Julian was holding it open.

I turned and raised my arms. Julian thrust the open corset around me. I knew, from experience, not to fasten the busks. I simply held it up while Julian fussed with the back. Millie, who is old enough to be my grandmother, eyed my exposed breasts. This too was familiar. Presently, Julian came around to close the front.

There is something sensual about having a man stand very close. Julian is about as monosexual as his staff—not very—but when he works, there is nothing but the work. His pushing and pulling of each tit, in succession, was purely business. That did not mean that I did not notice, or that Millie did not appreciate it. It was all part of Julian's performance. For Millie, at her advanced age, it might be the only thrill she could still have. I would have to do something for her.

Julian finished fussing and stuffing, and started closing the busks. As always, in a properly fitted corset, it was already snug. Rather than motion me to the iron pipes that serve as a tightening brace, Julian pulled out a strip, which looked like a wide belt, with busks along the top. It was an extender for the corset. Again, I held it in place while Julian fussed with the back side.

This time he pushed my panties down low enough to show the top of my trimmed bush. Millie was absently licking her lips. Damn that woman. I would fix her tail, or perish trying. Given her obvious proclivities, it should not be difficult. Julian finished in the back and came to the front. When he stepped between me and Millie, her disappointment was comically obvious. Wait til she saw what I had to show.

It was time to tighten the laces. I went to a large pipe, which ran floor to ceiling, and grasped it with both arms. The extended corset had three strings—two in the corset proper and one in the extension—so this would take some time. I spent it thinking of my times with Sean. The first day had been on my mind. Bound as they were, my breasts remembered the pressure of Sean's hands and the feel of the lash.

My mind quickly moved past that. Instead I focused on the feel of his fingers, on my back as he gave me a massage, or when he shampooed my hair. The thought of his dandruff shampoo made me smile. Then, I thought of the feel of his cock slamming into my cervix and warmth rushed through me. It was enough for even Julian to take notice.

He said, "I would have said that he was a lucky man, which he is. But, it appears that you are a lucky woman. Now cease your squirming." He slapped my ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, which caused another orgasm. Naturally, I blushed from embarrassment. When I snuck a peek at Millie, she was breathing so hard her mouth hung open. I said, "Flies, Millie." and winked. Then it was her turn to blush.

Once the tying was complete, moderately tight, Julian had me walk for him. Julian had often said that he could watch me walk all day. This was high praise, since Julian was an avid ballet enthusiast. This caused me to mention Francine. Julian nodded and said, "Ah, yes. The one that copied your walk." Say what?