tagNovels and NovellasKitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 02

Kitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 02

bypocketrocket©

Author's note:This is a longer passage than the teaser that came out first. Romance lovers will like that there is an actual date. All in all, it is an upbeat portion. In the next chapter, 8 to 5 life intrudes, and drama ensues.

Special thanks to clairegerm for editing.

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 have been pretty racy, since Dad will not show it to me.

Chapter 2 -- Coffee Break

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 after.

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. It was all because of him, 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 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 had made me something of an expert on 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 and the eyes were 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 clearly due for a trim, but the arresting part was the dewing I had seen the night before. One leg was straight, while the other was bent to allow Sean Richards to massage it. The expression on my face was one of near rapture.

I had to remind myself that the woman in the picture was me. This was not the me that looked out of my mirror in the 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 to just past the cleft. In the closer frame, the dewing was much more apparent. But what really 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. This, merged with with the taught musculature and the dewing, screamed sexual tension. Just looking at it brought hot flashes, and I am not normally much taken by visual erotica.

As simple and anonymous as this picture was, I could easily sell a dozen among my clients. Triple the price if they knew who was in the picture, though I doubt any 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 this one picture, I could go wild at the online auctions some Saturday night. Smiling to myself, 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 made any comments, 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, but it was only 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, founder and proprietor of Richards Imports and Richards Consulting. Their bio painted a picture of a local man, who had taken a small family import store and turned it into a group of successful businesses. The import business maintained offices on the far side of downtown. There was also a warehouse address not far from my studio. The website of his consulting firm offered advice on customs issues, liaison, brokerage and auctioneering services. A list of accountants and lawyers were provided as well.

Going back to the biography, I could see I misjudged his age. I had thought early 40s, but his listed high school graduation was much later. Then it hit me; Frannie knew him. She had to, since they 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. By the time I finished calling in my lunch order, she had 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 choked back a laugh, "I actually own that studio. I own the whole warehouse. You should see it now. The main floor is leased to XTreme Gym, 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 things are done. We dated a couple times, but, you know how it is with practice. He was not much better: Junior Achievement, drama and yearbook, not to mention actually 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 couldn'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 well be worth it."

I thought for a moment, but before I could answer, she spouted, "Oh my God. I just got paged. Some thing 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 out into what Mr. Richards called First Position and held it for ten measured breaths. Shifting legs, I held for ten more. The effect was wonderful. It was perfectly suited for stretching my hams and glutes, plus it put 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 and I had a nice glow. It was time for a shower before handling more clients.

As I passed the mirror, on the way to the shower, I could faintly see the red markings from my favorite flogger. I love the piece. The grip is natural sharkskin, and the thongs are split kangaroo hide, except the last three inches, which serves to weight and stiffen the striking point. I love the weight and the balance, but mostly I love how it leaves vivid marks on the skin. I fingered the marks it had left on my skin, as I stared at the mirror. This was something else I might gift to Clarence Sean Richards, but this he would have to earn.

After redressing, I went to the office, 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 chose 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 number, which 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.

After that I had appointments all afternoon. Like those in the morning, they were uneventful. When I finally got Randy on his way, it was almost 6:00 PM. The late appointment made up for the two hour lunch break. As promised, Frannie had text me, "Show tomorrow night, so free for lunch. Can you make it to the Coffee Corner in Easton at 11:30?" Thursday's are usually light. I could move things around. I text back, "CU SnS". What in heaven's name had I gotten myself into?

Thursday lunch found me downtown Easton, such as it is. It also found me completely wired. I walked into the diner, when I wanted to be walking up to my exercise bar. My variation of First Position was becoming my favorite means of calming down. In purely physical terms, it was a fine stretch. Stretching is always a great way to release tension. But the associations of practice and the Maestro were comforting and familiar. As I opened the door, I reflected for the hundredth time how much having a dance master had been missing from my life.

Francine had beaten me there, though clearly not by much. Her coffee cup was still empty. Francine Martel was one of the first persons I knew to invest in Starbucks. That much caffeine I could live without. She did not see me, because she was holding her empty cup for the wait staff to see. I came up behind her and grabbed the hand with the cup, saying, "That stuff will stunt your growth." Frannie maybe is 5'3", but only in 4 inch heels. That might be an exaggeration, but not much.

"Can you believe this?", she announced to the room, "She is making fun of my vertically challenged stature and a completely legal stimulant addiction." There were actually a couple of nasty looks directed toward me, until she bounced out of her chair and locked me in a hug. Seriously, I had no idea she felt this kindly toward me. In the studio, we had always been rivals.

After a minute in her death grip, and some honest to goodness blubbering by both of us, we settled into the seats. Coffee and Earl Grey tea arrived, and the buzz of the diner went back to normal.

Frannie started off with, "Ye Gods Sheila, it is so good to see someone from home. You have no idea how vicious the road is getting. When I was younger, I had talent and a future. Now I have what is left of a name, and a dwindling selection of parts. I simply cannot do half the parts I used to laugh off, much less the lead. I never thought of 35 as old, but it is getting very hard to keep this up any longer. I even started looking for Prince Rainier to come and sweep me off to someplace hot and dusty.

"But you, you look fantastic. There is a glow that I would die or kill for. Is this about Ricky Richards?" I flushed. Frannie seized on it, "Oh my God, it is. Oh my... How long have you known him?"

I flushed again, but stammered out, "We met Monday at..."

Frannie jumped in, "You met this week, and he had this impact on you? Ye Gods, who would have thought that quiet little Sheila would be a high priced dominatrix and fall for One Date Ricky. Oh. My. God."

My mouth fell open. She winked and said, "I have known for years. Do you have any idea how many theater people are into that kind of role playing? Seriously, in certain circles you are famous. I think I first heard seven or eight years ago. How did it happen?"

That did it. Starting with the day that Herr Gruber threw me out, I spilled the whole story. I had just turned seventeen and had no life outside the studio. Three months later, I graduated, and a couple of my classmates asked if I wanted to share a flat. Some of the old warehouse district had been flooded the year before, and many of the old buildings were converting to lofts. It was quite the deal to move out on your own, and be within walking distance of the local night life.

It was hard at first. Even with five girls splitting rent, it was a lot of money. Worse, there was always an empty room, someone who was late with the rent, or who moved out without notice. By Christmas, none of the original set of girls were left. In their place were two models, and college student (who was probably turning tricks) and a legal secretary. I acquired jobs working as a physical trainer during the days and as a dance instructor on weekends. It kept me busy and it paid the rent. It was almost as an aside that I branched from dance and fitness into discipline and bondage.

My first client was Judge Johnson, Henry not Harrison. The Judge, and his wife Mildred, signed up for my ballroom dance class at the Senior Center. I recognized him immediately from the gym, where I had several aerobics classes and a couple of private clients. I had noticed him watching me as I pushed clients through that one extra repetition, but we never spoke.

Neither the Judge nor Mildred had much experience on the dance floor. Mildred explained that this was a serious handicap in their social life, since they were constantly asked to various galas. The Judge's eyes expressed a different opinion as she spoke. It did not bode well for the class, and soon it was clear Mildred would not be completing the course. Since women are always more available than men, at least on the dance floor, I worked out for him to have a new partner, acceptable to his wife. The Judge often complimented me on both my business sense and discretion. The first session after his wife left our class, he approached me for private tutoring. I made sure he completed the class, with his chosen partner, and that he learned at least as many ballroom skills as the next man in the class.

After hours was another matter. The Judge had access to a very exclusive gym. It was not the bondage studio I would later build, but it had a selection of chairs, ideally suited for tying someone up, and he maintained a locker full of cuffs, chains, floggers and gags. I was soon working him eight times a week. Four times a week, I was openly his private trainer. I took great pleasure in forcing him through a rigorous fitness program. His performances in those public sessions earned him choices in our after hours sessions. Twice a week I would pound on him til my arms ached. The Judge was very attached to a school pointer stick for this type of thing. Twice a week, he and a succession of partners, including occasionally his wife, studied tango, salsa and waltz.

I seriously missed him when he died. Mildred thought I attended his funeral as a comfort for her. By then, my book of clients had grown considerably and I was thinking about buying my own place. I did not have to. The Judge had purchased the warehouse where Herr Gruber had held his classes, supposedly as an investment. He left it to me in his will, along with $25,000 for renovations. I built an office, and converted the main area to the gym everyone expected. XTreme Gyms promptly took most of that off my hands. Mildred came to the grand opening, though it was the last time I saw her. I still believe she suspected, but preferred not to know.

Abruptly, my narrative ended. Opening the big gym, and converting my studio in the back, brought me almost up to date. The last renovations were completed less than six months before. In a sense, I have trouble believing it only took 8 years, or 11, depending on how you count it. In another, it took my whole lifetime. I was reborn the day the Judge first asked me to expand the base of services I offered. For years, between clients and construction, I had needed to work sixty to eighty hour weeks, but that was finished For the first time since the Judge's passing, I had nothing to do but service clients, and visit old friends for lunch.

Francine was uncharacteristically quiet. Something else she had said bothered me. So I asked, "What do you mean 'One Date Ricky?'"

"Oh." She was hunting for words, which was close to a first. "That was his nickname in high school, at least among the girls. It meant either that he had his way the first date, or that he never dated anyone twice. I think it may have been some of both. I only had a couple of dates with him, and they were months apart. We didn't do anything physical, but he had a reputation for being skilled. You do not acquire skills without practice, and he never had a steady girl. I will say this, he had a way of looking at you, like he was looking into your head. It could be very disconcerting. I don't doubt that when he said 'Spread.', half the girls at Mt. Pleasant would do exactly that. He could also be pretty forceful."

I pondered this in light of my own experience. He had not asked for any sexual acts, not really, but I have no reason to believe I would have hesitated. Quite the contrary.

Frannie said, "My God, your face. What are you thinking right now?"

I blushed, "We had a session."

Frannie blew that off, "Lots of guys get into being tied up and whipped. Like I said, you have a reputation, even in my troupe. He probably..."

I cut in, "I was not conducting the session."

That managed to strike her speechless, again. Her mouth stayed rounded into an "O", but no sound came out. Finally, she shook her head, looked at me and said, "Damn girlfriend, you do make things interesting." I could only nod.

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