Kitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 04a

Soon after that, Mr. Richards arrived and a meeting began. Not long thereafter, a third man came up, holding a flash drive. He gave the drive to Peter, who plugged it into a different computer and downloaded images. These pictures were of old, handwritten pages. When Peter said "Marquis", I understood that this was a letter from the Marquis de Sade, of which I had heard so much the day before. Justin had shot the letter in natural candle light but still managed to make the script readable, if you could read French.

As the meeting progressed, it became clear that the two sets of pictures, i.e. those of Jason and of the Marquis' letter, were central to the project. Now that they had the images, things could move. Not long after that, I was seated at a computer, using the mouse to drag items into a template. In many ways, it was similar to what I had done with paper folders the day before. It got very quiet while everyone worked. In a lot of ways, this was a new thing to my life. It was the first time, I had ever been accepted as part of a good team, doing anything.

After a couple of hours, Cynthia pulled me aside and explained that I was to stay and work til at least 4:30 PM. I could stay longer, if I wished, with overtime pay after 4:30 PM. A driver would be on call so that I would not need to worry about catching a bus. Cynthia handed me a piece of paper with an address and explained that her friend Francine stayed at that address when she was in town. If I wished, I could go to the address after 7:00 PM. Francine would show me what to expect. Cynthia emphasized that this meeting was off the clock and voluntary. Then she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left.

After Mistress Cynthia left, I went back to the computer and returned to loading items into templates. After a while, Peter came over to check my work. I think I passed a minor test, because once he was satisfied, he pulled up a larger template, with more items to load. So, I worked on that. Around 5:30 there was a call from downstairs that the food had arrived. Everyone broke to eat Chinese. Peter asked how late I could stay. I showed him the note which said 7 o'clock. Peter looked at me oddly but let me get back to work.

At 7:00 PM, I went to the security desk and told them I needed to leave. They had me sign out and escorted me to the first desk, where they had an ID card ready for me. By the time I reached the parking lot, a driver was waiting. I handed him the note. He opened the door and helped me into the car. That made me feel funny. I knew that Mistress Cynthia was important, but they were treating me like I was important, too.

It was not far to the address, which was near downtown. The driver told me that a car would be waiting at 7:30 AM. This surprised me. I was a bit taken back by the idea that I would not be going home.

The address was a simple fourplex. I got out of the car. The driver stopped me before I had gotten more than a couple of steps. He opened the trunk and removed a small gym bad, then said that he would wait til I went inside. With that, I went up to the door and knocked. Had I been alone, I might not have knocked, but, with the driver waiting, I had little choice. The door opened. Standing in it was a tiny woman in her mid-30s.

She said, "So you're the fresh meat. Come on in, so I can tenderize you a bit."

It was an apartment, nothing more. I had been in many like it though most were not this clean. The room had a few things, a sofa, two chairs, a throw rug, but not much. There was, for example, no TV or computer. The closest thing to a stereo was a portable jam box and a wallet of disks. On the walls were framed posters of Broadway shows. Most of the posters had a mass of signatures, as if from the whole cast.

While I was absorbing all this, the woman was checking me out. From her expression, the assessment was not going to be a good one. I sighed, to myself. I never seem to make a good impression. I was not stupid, but a lot of my teachers treated me like I was. My looks were average at best. Whatever this woman wanted, she expected to be disappointed.

The woman seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "I don't see what Schwartz sees in you, but we will see what can be done. Give me the bag." I handed her the bag. The woman opened it and glanced inside. Then she dumped the contents out on the chair beside her.

I stared at the contents. There were exactly five things in the bag: two sets of leather cuffs, a black scarf, a pink ball gag and a short paddle. I think I flushed. The woman noticed.

She said, "Well, that is something at least. I suppose we can try giving you the very simple basics. What's your name, girl?"

"Christine Collins, ma'am."

"I am no fucking 'ma'am'. My name is Francine, but you will refer to me as Miss Martel. Here are the rules. You do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you and you do nothing except what I tell you. You do not speak unless asked a direct question."

As soon as Miss Martel said her last name, my eyes went to a poster. The female lead's name was Francine Martel. Before I had time to react to the idea that this woman, Miss Martel, was a Broadway star, she rocked me back with a slap in the face. Damn, that was stupid. I may be new, but even I knew better than to ignore the boss when she was talking.

Miss Martel was glaring at me. "I did not tell you to look at my poster. I did tell you to do nothing except what you were told to do. Now, spread your legs to shoulder width, put your hands behind your neck, elbows back as far as possible, eyes straight ahead and do...not...fucking...move."

Having screwed up badly already, I did exactly what I was told. Miss Martel came up, close and personal. She made no contact, but I could feel her body heat. Then, Miss Martel moved behind me. She whispered one word, "Kneel." Not daring to move my hands, I dropped straight to the floor. It was good that we were standing on the throw rug, but even so, there would be bruising on my knees. However, it seemed to have been the right move, because Miss Martel did not comment on it. Instead, she leaned down, til her lips brushed against the tips of my ear.

In a quiet voice, she said, "This is what I am going to do. I am going to strip you naked, pose you like this in front of a window and go out for some things I need. When I get back, I will show you some other useful poses and correct your posture. After you have practiced them for a couple of hours, I will tie you up and spank you with that paddle. Then, if I feel generous, you will be allowed to lick me to an orgasm. Then you will sleep, tied up naked, on this rug. If any of this is a problem, say so now. You may speak."

I was terrified. I had seen the pictures of Jason, bound, gagged and hanging from the wall. I knew what Mistress Cynthia did. This, however, was much more personal. Even in my wickedest fantasies, it had never been anything like this. I was trembling with fear but there was no way I was going to miss what came next.

The silence stretched to a full minute.

Standing abruptly, Miss Martel said, "All right then. I am going to go to the corner store and buy some things I need. You are going to strip completely, go use the bathroom thoroughly, and return to this spot and this position before I return. While I think you understand that failure will get you a spanking, I will also tell you that failure tonight will impact your future with this employer. You may think of this as your job orientation. One other thing; that is now your personal gag. Wear it unless specifically told to remove it. Begin."

I hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do first, but only for a moment. Miss Martel had made a point of the gag, so I picked it up. It was Barbie pink, and much larger than it looked. I was very embarrassing, but she had told me to wear it, so I would. I was not easy, but I forced the ball into my mouth. While I was fumbling to fix the strap behind my head, Miss Martel gave a "Hmmph" and went to get her purse. As she left the apartment, she said, "Be seeing you." The hint of laughter was unmistakable. It was becoming clear that with Miss Martel, no comment was a good thing.

Left alone, I needed to figure out what to do next. It was clear that I had to strip, but what should I do with the clothes? Simply dropping them seemed wrong. On the other hand, I had been told to strip before I had been told to go use the bathroom. That seemed to mean I was supposed to strip here, and certainly, I would finish here. The best way to follow instructions seemed to be strip where I was, fold the clothes and place them on the chair, then go to the bathroom.

It felt deliciously wicked. I pulled my shirttails from the pants. Going slowly, as if Miss Martel was watching the show, I undid all the buttons, then peeled my shirt back and off. Carefully, I laid the shirt over the arm of the chair. Next I removed my bra, reveling in the feel of air on my bare tits. Next came the boots. I placing them beside the chair, then pulled off my socks and stuffed them into the boots. Still going slowly, I unbuckled my belt, opened the fly and pulled down my jeans.

This was the moment that required a decision. I had to stand to finish disrobing. Miss Martel told me to use the bathroom, so I was expected to move. I decided this allowed me to stand, so I did, stepping out of the jeans in the process. Finally, I pulled down my panties, and stepped out of them. Now the process did not seem wickedly thrilling. I was bare naked and there was an uncovered window to my left. I glanced over my shoulder, looking at the street outside. Anyone walking by could see me. Once again I flushed, which embarrassed me even more. As I folded my jeans, I noticed that my panties were damp. I put them on top of the boots.

This was only the beginning of Miss Martel's instructions. I went to the bathroom and gratefully took a seat on the commode, just before my bladder exploded. It emptied readily, but the instructions were clear. I was to get everything out. So I sat still and tried to relax. After a while, my bowels cooperated. While I wiped myself, I considered the remainder of my instructions. Miss Martel wanted me to use the bathroom thoroughly. Still, using the shower seemed too much.

On the wall, next to the commode, was a towel bar, which contained a washcloth. I ran water in the sink and gave myself a sponge bath. I was told to be thorough, so I took my time, paying special attention to my wet pussy. Then, I checked the medicine cabinet. Other than makeup, I found only toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant. The deodorant I could use, and did. I did not think Miss Martel expected me to use me toothbrush. I applied some toothpaste, using my finger as a substitute.

This covered everything I could think of to freshen myself. Just to be on the safe side, I went back to the commode. I was grateful I did since more urine came easily. I suspected it would be my last chance for some time. Once again, I sponged myself with the washcloth, then I hung the cloth on the bar and went back to the living room.

My knees had left impressions in the rug, so I knew exactly where to kneel. That was a relief since I had not considered checking my position closely. I knelt and assumed the position, hands behind my neck. Once I did, I realized that the light in the bathroom was still on. That seemed wrong.

Miss Martel had given no instructions concerning the light, but she did have instructions to do nothing without instruction. Now that I was in position, it would be wrong to move out of it. Either way, I was likely in trouble. Getting up to turn off the light might go unnoticed, but I would know, and I am a terrible liar. It was a hard choice.

I thought about it hard and decided that it would be worse to do something wrong on purpose than to do something wrong by mistake. If I was to be punished for a job done poorly, it was no more than I deserved. Better that than to disobey instructions. That decided, I settled in to wait for Miss Martel's return.

Francine:

I was of two minds. Sheila Schwartz had once been my best friend. Over the last several days, the long dormant relationship had flowered, as if we had never been apart. That said something about life in the theater. When Sheila had asked me to take on a small project, I could not refuse. That aside, the project sounded like fun. Breaking in novices was something I loved to do.

In this case, showing her the ropes was literal since bondage was involved. On the other hand, Sheila had a decade of experience as a Dom, and I had only my theater experience to fall back on. Still, I was not worried. Being both a dancer and a stage performer, I knew a great deal about playing roles and directing them. I had handled dozens of stumbling, tongue-tied, frequently arrogant and always irritating young girls. This new meat should be no different, even if the subject matter was sexual theater and not the stage.

It was 7:10 PM when a car pulled into the drive. I ran silently through my pre-performance ritual and waited for a knock. It was a good thing that I was listening because the knock was almost inaudible. I opened the door and was not impressed with what I saw.

The girl standing there was almost the antithesis of the usual theater newbie. She was of normal size, but seemed much smaller due to her dreadful posture and timid expression. I said, "So you're the fresh meat. Come on in, so I can tenderize you a bit." Tenderizing would not be the problem. Reinforcement looked more difficult. Success cannot be rewarded until the first success is achieved. That might take a while.

The girl was obviously shy, but that did not stop her from looking at all the memorabilia covering the walls. Several of the theater posters would be worth thousands of dollars on the collectors market, not that I usually thought of it in those terms. These were my memories and I did not share them lightly. So, I slapped her face hard enough to make my hand numb. It got the girl's attention.

I said, "I don't see what Schwartz sees in you, but we will see what can be done. Give me the bag." The girl handed over a small gym bag, containing restraints, a scarf, a gag and a paddle. I dumped the contents out onto a chair. The girl's eyes got big. She said nothing, but her skin flushed. That was something, at least, so I said so. We could try a few things. I asked her name.

She said, "Christine Collins, ma'am."

I never cared for that term. "I am no fucking 'ma'am'. My name is Francine, but you will refer to me as Miss Martel. Here are the rules. You do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you and you do nothing except what I tell you. You do not speak unless asked a direct question." When that speech received no reply, I felt a bit better, but I needed to close.

"All right then. I am going to go to the corner store and buy some things I need. You are going to strip completely, go use the bathroom, thoroughly, and return to this spot and this position before I return. While I think you understand that failure will get you a spanking, I will also tell you that failure tonight will impact your future with this employer. You may think of this as your job orientation. One other thing, that is now your personal gag. Wear it unless specifically told to remove it. Begin." If that did not spook her, nothing would.

As exits go, I had managed better. For one thing, I needed to grab some money, which meant carrying my purse. For another, I was unsure where I was going, so I dithered a bit. Eventually, I was outside looking in. I could see the girl through the window. The first thing she did was put on the gag, which was interesting. It took a minute, but then she started to pull off her clothes. My spot of voyeurism lasted until she undid her bra. She had really nice tits.

I had to admit to being jealous of large breasts. Even though Sheila Schwartz' development had ruined her dancing career, I was still envious of the attention that her DD rack brought from the men. The girl, CC, had about a C cup. They were round and firm, with almost no sag. In my case, a little sag would have been an improvement, but flat stays flat. In any event, it gave me something to focus on. Tittie torture is an old pastime

My apartment was in a low-rent neighborhood. It is one reason that the only things of value are posters and heavy furniture. Also, I own the building, so I can get someone to live in it and watch my place. I needed clothes pins, and Richard might have some. If not, I could drive to the Walgreen's on 5^th Street. I figured about 15 minutes alone would give CC enough time to use the pot and get back to her pose. What was the line about best-laid plans?

Richard was not home, so, if I wanted clothespins, I would have to buy a package. First I went by Panda Express for some take out. Then, I swung by Walgreen's. Once I was there, I took five minutes to shop for some personal things. I was about to check out when I remembered I needed clothespins. So, I stepped out of line, right into a fan. I am a famous performer. Sue me.

Soon, I had a small crowd of autograph seekers. My first fan, "Call me Joe" Hendrickson, wanted to rehash every show I had done for the last decade. As I said, I am a performer. Praise is the butter on my bread. I did not realize how much time had gone on, til I noticed it had gotten dark outside.

I left them standing there. As an explanation, I said that I had left something cooking, which was not too far from the truth. I rushed back to my apartment, noticing in passing that a light was on and that Richard was now home. Naturally, I found CC exactly where I had left her, though not as I had left her.

I had to tip my figurative hat to her. CC was working hard to get it right. The posture was not overly stressful, but she had been in it for almost an hour. The accumulated tension, from fatigue and poor posture, was really wearing on her.

The posture I could fix.

CC:

After a while, I began to wonder how long Miss Martel would be gone.

Some time later, my side started to itch. I had to fight and urge to scratch it.

After a while longer, I noticed that I could now see the light from the bathroom. It must be getting dark outside. That made me think about the window to my left. I was glad that the living room lights were off.

Watching the light dim gave me something to do for a while. It helped keep my mind off the pain in my knees, the ache in my back and the weight of my arms. Fortunately, when Miss Martel first put me in the posture, I had interlocked my fingers behind my neck. That now helped carry the weight of my arms, though my fingers had tingled for a while and then gone numb.

It became fully dark except for the light in the bathroom. I began to wonder if Miss Martel had forgotten about me but pushed the idea aside. A long phone conversation, followed by a decision to eat out, would explain her failure to return. The thought of food made me grateful that I had eaten at the warehouse. I would not have guessed it, but kneeling was hard work.

There was a noise. It was only a dog, but I had to fight the urge to look out the window to my left. Miss Martel wanted me facing this direction, and she was clear that I was not to vary from her instructions. However, thinking of the window caused me to realize that I was silhouetted by the light from the bathroom. Anyone could see me from the street. Once again, a flush went through me, but I steeled myself against movement. Soon, there were two voices. A couple of boys were playing with a dog. The voices were from down the street and stayed at a distance. Perhaps they were playing in their yard.

I found myself straining to hear sounds. It gave me something to do, now that the light was gone. I did not want to think about my mounting body aches. Cars went by, far up on the freeway. Closer, though not close, an occasional car went by on the main road. The closed window was muffling most of the sounds, because this time of year, there would be crickets. I could hear none.