Kitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 02

Silence reigned for a full minute while she stared at me and thought. Francine is a star of the theater, a practiced flirt, a chattering magpie and blonde to boot. People know all that and miss that she is also one of the smartest people you are ever likely to meet. She was thinking hard. Finally she asked, "Are you up for a visit?"

"Sure. When?"

"It will be Sunday. We have shows here tonight, tomorrow and Saturday. We are moving a lot closer to you next week. I'll come over and spend the night, then drive to our new site. After set up on Mondays, we usually go to eat as a group. I am going to suggest driving 25 miles to hit Albert's. They know this is my home town, and that I keep an apartment for the off season. Beside, this will get them away from our manager and her spies. It will fly. Albert's is just around the corner from his office. I just need to find out what time to pick him up. By the way, do you mind if I seduce him?"

"Francine Martel, what exactly do you have in mind?" It came out a bit louder than I had planned, and Frannie's name is famous. All of a sudden, there was not a sound in the room, and we were getting a lot of stares. Francine, I swear, got up and bowed to the room.

She announced, "Show time is at 7 o'clock tonight, tomorrow and Saturday. I hope to see you there."

It worked. Soon everyone was back to their lunches. I was still shivering. Frannie pretended that nothing had happened.

She said, "Isn't it obvious? I will bring a bunch of the troupe down for dinner. I will time it so that I pick up Ricky, or Sean, on the way in. I plan to get myself invited to his place, and then whatever. I will sound him out and let you know what I find. Gods, this is going to be fun. I am so glad you invited me into this."

Did I mention that Frannie is not entirely of this world?

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

They played phone tag for a week.

Chapter 3

Sean:

Wednesday morning was a trial and a penance. Somewhat on a whim, I had taken an appointment to, as it turned out, bondage and domination dungeon. Being the cocky SOB that I am, I tried to turn the invitation back on my hostess. Unfortunately, she called my bluff. For almost 20 minutes she had put herself completely in my hands, and now I could not get her out of my head.

That morning, I had cut myself shaving, which is a bit of an achievement in these days of 5 - blade razors. Then I burnt the bacon, overcooked the eggs and completely forgot to make toast. If the coffee had not been set on a timer, I would have forgotten that. As it was, I burned the roof of my mouth before I let the cup go cold. It is probably a good thing I employ a driver.

Once at the office, things started to settle down. As usual, there were a dozen messages requiring immediate attention, of which three actually did need some work. I sorted those out, spent an hour speaking French, not my best language, to a cultural attaché that would not deign to speak English. After that brought my temper to a nice slow boil, I had the privilege of cutting a severance check to a big name studio, which had managed to shoot nothing usable in three weeks of work. Talking to my lawyer actually improved my mood. Frightening.

The icing on the cake was that Helen ordered lunch in. It was soup and sandwich from Cianfrani's. Three hours of wrangling with lawyers, agents and photographers had at least managed to drive Cynthia from my mind. As soon as I saw the Cianfrani logo, our lunch meeting, and everything else, came rushing back. I snarfed the sandwich, gave Helen the soup, and sent for the latest proofs from my new photographer. That gave me another hour of new joy. I almost bit Helen's head off when she brought me the messenger packet. She paused at the door, looking troubled. One look at the return address on the package closed my mouth with a click.

Helen left, and I opened the package. It was a standard flat document package, like millions of others. However, this one had come from Cynthia. Vaguely, I recalled something about disclosure documents, and that is what these were. I had a moment of amusement when I realized that all the documents referred to things that might happen to me, by Cynthia, and none of the reverse. As I had suspected, this was not a usual thing for her. I initialed and signed as indicated, reaching finally a photography page. Paper clipped to it was a thin folder. Curiosity got the better of my normal practice, and I removed the folder before reading the attached sheet. One look inside made up for the whole morning.

I recognized the scene immediately. It was a photograph of Cynthia, though no identifying features were visible. I had just let her hair down and was massaging her foot. The composition of the shot was very simple, but exquisitely done. Often simple work is the hardest to get right, and this was well up in the ranks of professional quality. The framing was perfect, in spite of the standard 8" x 10" size. Her muscle tension was clearly apparent, but the eye was drawn instantly to a curl of hair circling her rigid right nipple. It was one of those, I-saw-it-but-could-not-get-the-camera-fast-enough shots.

Only after dwelling on that rich detail, did I notice the perfect balance of the left beast, the lightly trimmed bush, and the dew drops of moisture on the cleft. I literally slapped my forehead at that point. I had visual proof that I had gotten a woman aroused, but left her unrequited. Ye Gods, forgive my ignorance. Then (seriously, only then) I noticed the bright red lipstick and the hand written note, "Love Your Work." The lipstick lips were in the position of the signature. That could not be accidental. I suddenly wondered how many other photos had the image of those lips.

The document explained the photograph. Cynthia had a digital camera set up to record all her work. This made excellent security sense, but I also saw the commercial possibilities. If this was an example of her work from fixed cameras, my admiration of her skill went up another notch. I was beginning to think I should have written that five figure check to a BDSM studio and not the photographic studio that received it.

I sat back and reviewed all that I had just seen. The broad outlines were crystal clear. She wanted me to continue coming to her studio, and sent the usual paperwork to encourage the same. She had had a positive reaction to our little session, and had given me a valuable keepsake of the moment, suitably personalized. It made a nice statement, but it seemed incomplete. Sure enough, there was a short hand written note still lying in the messenger envelope: "Call me." That seemed clear enough. Then I checked the numbers in the legal documents. This one was different. OK. Call me on my private line. I began to think that Mistress Cynthia wanted a relationship. For myself, I was not sure I remembered what a relationship was.

I keyed the intercom, "Helen, do me a favor. Ask around about pictures, probably very personal pictures, featuring red lipstick smile. I am sure some of your contacts have at least heard of them."

There was an awkward silence. Helen does not flinch at much, but this was not a daily sort of thing.
Finally, "I have heard. Very personal. Very, very personal. Is there a problem? Marco and Simon."

She thought I was being blackmailed, hence the very long (for Helen) speech. Given the subject matter, that made a degree of sense. I chose my words carefully, because this conversation could have legal consequences. I said, "No. In fact this package contains some standard legal disclosures for me to sign. Come in and I will give you the signed forms to return. Tomorrow is soon enough."

Helen came in with alacrity. I handed her the sheaf of papers, and she looked visibly relieved, until she spotted the folder that remained on my desk. I trust Helen with hundreds of thousands of my money, this was merely personal. I looked her in the eye, "Helen, I will give you one look, in strict confidence. Do you understand?" She looked at me, then slowly nodded. I opened the folder and watched her face. Her eyes widened perceptibly, then she looked back at me and nodded again.

Helen looked for a moment at the closed folder, then nodded sharply. On the way out, she paused at the door. Without turning back, she said, "I will make inquiries." There are reasons why I value my battleaxe of a personal secretary.

The rest of the day was a grind, but I never leave before 5:30, unless there is an appointment. By rights, I should have taken a cold shower. Suffice to say that I stuck things out. That does not mean that I lingered.

The next morning, I had reached a decision. Cynthia had left the ball in my court. So be it. When Helen came in, I asked after the entertainment possibilities. Her reply was brief, as it usually was in our city. I had two tickets to the symphony in Newark on Saturday. They were doing several Russian composers, headlined by Sophia Weingarten performing Prokofiev's 2^nd piano concerto. There were some other items, including an off -- Broadway road show coming to Elizabeth. Another show was at Trenton, but I had seen it. After that we were looking at City. By that point, I had made up my mind. I called Cynthia's private number. Not surprisingly, I got voice mail. I asked her to call when she got free. Eddie Money ran through my head, "I've got two tickets to Prokofiev. Call the car; we leave Saturday night."

I would never make a living writing songs.

Sheila:

The drive back from my memorable lunch with Francine was pure torture. Halfway down the express, my phone rang. It had to be Sean, since I had told everyone else I was out of town for a few hours. But, my phone was set to voice mail, and I would not get off the freeway just to return the call. I had to play a little hard to get.

I forced myself to wait til I got back to the office. As expected, it was Sean. Unexpectedly, he was hinting about a date. His message asked if I liked Prokofiev. Do wolves like red meat? I disciplined myself to work through both my afternoon appointments before replying. It gave me time to come up with a good method. I took the bill from the dry cleaners and added a post -- it note, "What time and where?" Once I messaged that to him, I dove into the internet to find out what he had in mind. It appeared that I had a date for Saturday night.

Sean:

Getting no reply from my voice message drove me up a wall. Hours came and went. Nothing. I descended into snapping and snarling when Helen brought in another messaged letter package. Inside was nothing but a receipt for dry cleaning a silk shirt and a post-it note asking where and when. Point to her. I picked up the phone and dialed her number again. This time she picked up, "Hello?"

"I, um, 5:30 Saturday. I can pick you up. Its a bit of a drive."

She seemed unsurprised, "5:30 then. Full formal or just business wear?"

That was a good question. "Business wear. I can bring food or we can eat after if you prefer."

She replied, "Villa Bartoli is open late."

Ouch. Tagged me again. It was time to end this before I was too bloody. "Bartoli's is fine. What address should I pick you up?" The address she gave me was not her business, so her apartment was only blocks from mine. At least I got one thing out of the exchange. I do not often lose verbal exchanges, and that was downright embarrassing.

Damn, she was one fine woman.

Sheila:

He called again almost to the minute I expected. That was good and bad. It was good that I had read the situation correctly. It was bad that he was so predictable. Our short conversation had had a confrontational flavor, and my research acquitted itself well. I allowed myself a smile. Perhaps things would not be as one sided as our first day. My smile widened. The hunt was underway, but who was chasing whom?

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

The first date was dinner and a concert. Funny, they always say concert and dinner. Every year, for the 21 years I have known them, they go out for Italian food that night.

Chapter 4 -- Romantic Composers

Sean:

I had a date. I had not had a date in a decade. All my events involved business or politics. I could have left everything to George and Helen, and eventually I forced myself to do just that, but this was not the usual state of things. I wanted exacting control of every detail.

Helen's discrete inquiries had turned up something a bit surprising. Cynthia did indeed sign things with her lips, but they were not photographs. She signed beaten flesh with a kiss, and sold pictures if the kiss in situ. It had to be a sweet set-up. The security cameras did all the work. All she needed to do was choose the shot and crop it properly. From what I could see, her eye was flawless.

Everything pointed to a devoted audience, considerable discretion, and the lash being in her hand. I had to admire the business acumen. The national chain fitness center provided excellent cover. Her client book could be completely open, since her clients that employed her as a fitness coach as well as disciplinarian. In the gym, she got to crack a different sort of whip, but the control was the same.

Yet, here we stood. The kiss was on my work. The lash was in my hand. I had made the date to the symphony. It was my car and my driver. Why did I feel so out of control?

Then I thought, how long has it been since she dated?

Sheila:

Friday's were always busy. It gave me something to keep my mind off The Date. It was dawning on me that this was my cherry. I had never had a date before, unless you count group events. In school I had been too busy preparing to be the next Broadway star. Afterward I was working two jobs, and taking clients on the side. Then I owned my own business, and I had no time to sleep, much less date.

So I worked my morning clients on their exercise machines and free weights. I worked out myself over the lunch hour. All afternoon it was Little Miss Perfectionist, and the flogger rose and fell til the arm holding it was close to falling off. I had plenty of red skin to kiss, and I had a secret smile as I applied the lipstick.

Friday is also picture day. I had hours of video sorted and cropped, but the clients still needed to make selections. Over and over I expanded and centered the imprint of my lips on various pieces of blushing pink flesh. The laser printer chugged through stacks of Kodak's best paper. Boxes of acid free liners and rigid folders filtered out the door as the money came in. Who knew my lips would become so famous?

By 6:00 I was exhausted. I locked the door and changed into my workouts. Then I thought of Sean, and peeled off even those. Stepping to the mirror, I slowly pulled the pins and comb out of my hair. Sean had noticed those. I was sure of it. He had also gotten too good a look at the bushes. I would be trimming those shortly. For music, I chose Tchaikovsky's 5^th, the Andante 2^nd movement. You have to love Russians. Even the purely orchestral music has ballet in its heart.

As the first low notes poured out, I presented to the bar. In time with the slow beat I stretched out my leg, then reached forward and grasped the bar firmly with both hands. I waited for the trill of the flute, head pressed to knee. As the music expanded, I opened from the closed posture. Turning to the right I extended up and back, reaching full extension when the tympani first echoed. Closing down again, I shifted legs on the bar while the woodwinds chatted. Opening again, this time to the right, I reached full extension as the drums boomed and the brass thundered. Then closing again. And twice more through the cycle. The second movement is only 6 minutes 28 seconds, but I was drenched when the last oboe finally faded away.

Grabbing a towel, I started toward the showers. My eye fell on the handcuffs I had worn three days earlier. Handcuffs are a very bad thing to have on during orgasm. Jerking is involuntary, and bruising is inevitable. I had some from these cuffs, and Sean had not even pushed matters. Still, it made me think of taking them to bed, or rope. All too easily came a vision of being spread out, hands and feet tied to the corners, blindfolded and waiting for that first touch. I shivered in spite of my workout. Perhaps a cold shower.

An hour later, sitting in comfortable baggy clothes, I watched my tapes for the third time. He had played me. Of this there was no doubt. But I knew this business. Once I had gotten past the shock of the event, I could read my signs, just as he had. I could see the near frantic eagerness, the need to release. I could also see the glint of moisture in my pubic hair. That much I could fix. Grabbing some rubbing oil, I went back to the showers. First, I shaved off all but a thin strip of my curly hair. Then, using the coconut oil, I frigged myself to three explosive orgasms.

It was after10:00 when I got home to my computer:

Biofeedback vibrator

Programmable dildo

Time released locks

Self bondage safety

I was up late.

Sean:

It was ironic that Cynthia coached discipline, because my discipline was strained to the breaking point. Saturday is usually my day to catch up at the office, since the phone does not ring. I forced myself to do it again. It worked, badly. Four hours made a visible dent in the stack of paper in my box, and produced a smaller pile in Helen's box.

In a mood of penance, I visited the vault. Everything was exactly as it needed to be, except the part about telling people it was here. Gah. I checked the log at the door. As I expected, several items were checked out this morning, so I was not the only one trying to work through frustration. Maybe we would get lucky. Maybe someone would read my mind and tell me what I wanted.

Maybe I could hire Cynthia to do it. After that my day went much better.

One of the advantages to living near good colleges is that they have good performance venues, into which you get good visiting orchestras. I had never heard the one playing tonight, but it had good reviews. Considering my escort, I could not have chosen a better program. It was a sampler of Russian composers. I did not know Cynthia well, but I knew she had dance in her blood. Shostakovitch, Glinka, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov all cut their teeth on dance music, particularly Shostakovitch. Headlining was a Prokofiev piano concerto There was a last minute change from the stately first movement of the 2^nd concerto, to the bouncy and rushing 3^rd. I might have to scrape her out of her chair.

George, as usual, had the car in pristine condition. I was using the Mercedes, since we had a long drive. The Deusenberg was impressive and the BMW was flashy, but the Mercedes was both reliable and comfortable. I wanted no chance of mechanical failure and I would have to drive the 503 myself. Wait a month, when we could put the top down. I chuckled as I got into the car. German cars, Russian composers, the promise of Italian food, and sure enough, George had stocked French wine. The evening was a tour of Europe.

We pulled in front of her apartment exactly on time. Sure enough I saw her wave as she emerged from the building. Punctuality was going be a thing. I wondered who would slip first. As I already expected, Cynthia was a vision

Her full length outfit was cream and forest green. Her hair was down, but held back by a simple butterfly clip. Her makeup was minimal, with just a hint of color on her lips and black at the eyelashes. I was pleased to see she had chosen a practical cotton frock over a high necked blouse. This was not a ride for crushable fabrics. Her jewelry was also simple. Emerald ear studs and a green backed cameo broach at the throat. With tiny pearl buttons, done all the way up, the blouse, indeed the ensemble, was almost Victorian. I wondered if she had gone the extra mile and worn a foundation again. Glancing down, her legs were clad in stockings. Her shoes were decidedly modern, though they complimented the long outfit. I was glad I had chosen the navy suit. Our colors blended well, without being imitative.