tagLesbian SexCatering Mrs. Fine

Catering Mrs. Fine


Meg called unexpectedly and said she had a special job, lucrative and short, but challenging - would I partner up?

"Sure," I said.

"We worked well together."

"Yes, we did, in the day. I was hoping you'd call sooner."

"It's an evening buffet," she said. "A private party at the client's home, north of Fairfax, a cinch."

"On the mountain?"

"With a view. There'll be a dozen guests. A four, four and a half hour day, including prep, if we push it."

"Where's the challenge?" I said.

"I was told the client can be a bitch."

"Anyone I know?"

"A newbie, by referral. I did a small business luncheon for her husband."

"Who told you she could be a bitch?"

"He did."

Meg's delivery - I had to laugh.

"That's a good sound," she said. "I like hearing it."

"I was going to wait another week before calling you again."

"And I've been meaning all along to get back to you, Dee, but working my own business takes every drop of time and energy. I keep thinking to call, but by the end of the day ..."

"Meg, I get it, no problem."

"I should be calling for a date."

"You have. A work date."

"A date-date."

"Then you're on," I said. "Sign me up for both."

We talked for another half hour or so. I had to restrain my elation - Meg had legit concerns about taking our friendship toward intimacy.

"You've been out less that a year, Dee. You're only getting to know the life ... Are you sure it's what you want?"

"Meg, I couldn't be more sure."

"I like our friendship," she said.

"We've known each other nine months? I feel like we've been friends all our lives. I felt that way after the first two weeks."

"There are sides of me that I haven't talked about."

"Same with me."

"I mean my sexuality, my preferences, needs."

"I have a sense," I said.

"Trust me, you don't."

"B-d-s and m, right?"

"That means a lot of things."

"I'm not entirely naive."

"Not naive, inexperienced."

"You belong to a club."

"An association of people. Private residences, couples, singles too, sometimes bigger groups. Rented space for big parties."

"Tell me about it on our date."

"You haven't expressed a personal interest like this before."

"I've had fantasies."

"Then do tell."

"On our date."

Meg paused, then said, "I should tell you that I've met her, the bitch we're catering."

"At the luncheon?"

"At a gathering."

"Oh." It took a moment. "Club members are also clients?"

"It's how I've been able to break out on my own."

"And do you cater gatherings?"

"I haven't. I'm not sure I'd feel right about that."

"This isn't a gathering?"

"It's not."

"It won't turn into an orgy."

"It won't. It's a business thing, a pitch meeting, unrelated."

"That was a joke."

"It's a bad idea to mix business and play. That's why I didn't hit on to you when we worked together. If you fuck one up, you fuck 'em both up."

"This has turned into a doozy of a phone call, Meg."

We said goodnight soon after. I went to bed feeling dizzily aroused. Meg, I thought, Meg oh Meg. Amuse buche. The promise of sex with her brought a peppery heat between my legs and I rubbed briefly without needing to come.

Halfway to sleep and drifting into a dream, I tasted her - a lobster bisque - and the vividness of sensation on my tongue woke me up just long enough to remember and re-feel the excitement I felt as a girl, flush with first stirrings and discovering my fantastic, secret, dirty pleasures under the sheets.

Over coffee in her kitchen late the next afternoon, Meg laid out the specified bill of fare. We had hugged at the door, twice, and it was filling enough just to be near her. We strategized and got to preparations, sorting and washing, peeling, chopping and grinding. She put Cuban dance music on the player and shuffled to a rumba, while onions caramelized with tarragon and butter. The pork rub gave the air a tang of toasted cumin. Outside on the deck rail, a cat stretched in the sun, then settled, folded its paws and furled its tail, ready to nap. The time passed effortlessly.

After the food had been wrapped and the kitchen straightened up, we went through our checklist and began packing the van. Once, while passing opposite ways in the hall, she grazed my hand without breaking stride or looking back and said, "I like working with you."

"We're a natural team."

That was the extent of our flirting.

After we had run through our second check and closed up, Meg held out the keys and asked me to drive. I took them.

As we climbed in, she said, "This'll make it a whole lot easier to feast my eyes on you."

We drove over the big bridge and passed the headlands. I glanced at Meg and saw that she was watching my hands on the wheel.

"What do you see?" I said.

"They're strong," Meg said, "I'd call them honest hands."

"Do you read palms?"

"I read faces."

Our eyes met briefly and I felt the thrill of certainty that later this evening, within hours, we were going to kiss.

Meg said, "That look. What are you keeping to yourself?"

I'll be tasting your mouth and you'll be tasting mine and we'll be touching tongues. "A silly thought," I said. "Nothing."

Meg pointed. "There's the exit. Left at the light."

I said, "Are you ever allowed to bring guests to your gatherings?"

She laughed and said, "Not on a first date."

Am image of leather and rope flashed in my imagination, then an image of Meg yanking my pantyhose down to expose my bottom.

We drove in silence until Meg said, "That's a pretty strong vibe you call nothing."

We were above Fairfax and near the top of the foothills. At the next fork the grades became steep and the roads switchbacked continuously. In the network of intersections that followed, the names of the roads changed in confusing ways.

"GPS is for crap," I said.

Meg was smiling. "We're fine," she said, "we've got a map."

We reached a T-section that I didn't recognize.

"Right or left?"

"Look right," Meg said.

I eased the van forward to see that the road was heavily shaded and that it ran level and straight and that it was lined on both sides by a row of live oak trees. Their long, arcing branches crossed overhead, densely enough to suggest a living tunnel. Up and down, moss hung from the branches in long tresses, like tattered filigree. In moonlight it could have been the setting of a folk tale.

"Take us under it," Meg said. "We have a few minutes and the Fines asked a favor."

I made the turn and drove about half of the length of the road before pulling to the side and turning off the engine.

In the quiet we leaned from the windows and listened to the chatter of leaves and the creaks and groans of rubbing branches. The wind smelled of dust and bark, sweetened by ocean air.

"This was all planned," I said, looking up with admiration. "Somebody envisioned this and planted these trees so that they would grow this way."

"With the mother of views. Look."

Through a narrow break in the oaks, half of the southern end of the peninsular lay visible, paling in the distance to a haze.

The isolation of the grove was piquing my desire for Meg. "We can't stay," I said. "It's too tempting."

"I'll only need a minute," Meg said. She reached under her seat to grab something, opened her door and jumped out of the van, unfolding a paper bag.

"What're you doing?"

"The moss, it's in bunches all over the ground," Meg said, ready to gather. "They asked me to bring some."

"They, the clients? It's a life form," I said. "It's protected."

"Just a few - what do you call them? Trusses."

"I'm pretty sure this is park land," I said.

Maybe the sounds of the arbor absorbed my voice. Meg kept bent to the ground as she gathered bunches of moss, sorting out the longer strands and shaking each clean of debris before placing it in the bag.

When Meg returned I said, "It'll die anywhere else but here."

"We'll return it," she said.

"It's illegal. Why would you -?"

"We'll return it, Dee. We'll bring it back on the way home. It's the perfect excuse to come back." She touched a fingertip gently to the corner of my mouth and said, "As if we'll need one."

I checked the impulse to love-bite her hand.

She lifted a grey blue-green strand from the bag and held it to the light.

"The shapes and the color, it's fantastic stuff."

"Like fractals," I said, "those curls, the branching. We'll kill it, Meg."

"Isn't it already dying on the ground?"

"I don't know. What do the Fines want with it?"

"Display, they said."

"As a garnish?"

Meg draped the strand around her neck.

I turned the ignition.

"Straight ahead or one-eighty, Meg?"

"One-eighty," she said, placing the strand in the bag. "We're not far."

The arbor was narrow enough that I had to k-turn. I was watching the side mirror when Meg said, "Has your year out been satisfying, Dee?"

"It's been a relief."

"What's been missing?"


I'd meant to say it wistfully, but Meg sat up and turned her face to the window and said, "That's a better answer than I hoped for."

Heading west, past the T-section, the view on my side dropped to show a redwood valley gathering mist. It was dusk down there already, with the sun blocked by the wooded ridge on the far side.

The view closed abruptly and we climbed right and then left and then right again and I thought we must be getting near to the end of the paved road. Everything above was state park. The van crested a big hump just before we turned a sharp left and coasted down a steep drive, which ended at a level in front of a two-car garage, adjacent to the side entrance of the house, both roofed with Spanish tile.

"Olá, la casa Fine," Meg said.

A note labeled "Caterer" was taped to the door.

Key under statue. Set up in dining rm.

Park on road. 7:30 start.

Statues ... There were several in the little planted area around the door. Meg tipped the nearest, a painted gnome. Beneath it was a flat square of damp earth zigzagged with earthworm tunnels. Down to our left were a concrete owl and a nude Venus. I tipped the Venus and found the key and we let ourselves in.

The house was surprisingly musty and dark. All along I had imagined a lavish and elegant home, something all concrete, wires and glass. The place had low ceilings and felt crowded, with absolutely nothing business-like about it.

Nor was it clean. Clothes, magazines, newspapers, drinking glasses, dishes, strewn all over. Used knives and forks on the stairs. The rugs looked like roadkill.

"This isn't a home," I said, "it's a lair."

Meg threw the drapes open, filling the room with strong, horizontal light.

"Let's set up a serving area and not waste time," she said.

I found a broom and swept. We decided to re-situate the dining table, a dark monster made of oak, to where it could be used as the main serving area while opening floorspace. It was so heavy that we could shift it only a few inches at a time. We were halfway to the mark when a cleaning crew arrived, a trio of Latinas who nodded hello and then ignored us entirely as they set to work like bees. Two of them attacked the kitchen. Once the table was in place, Meg and I began to unload the van.

The Latinas worked in drill. In a little less than an hour, they were packing up, leaving the immediate area of the house polished and tidy. The buffet needed only the last touches and we offered to make them each a plate. They were waving us off and heading out just as we heard Mrs. Fine arrive. She addressed the women in rapid Spanish, without friendliness or gratitude, and closed the door at once behind them.

"Who's that?" she called from around the corner.

On first sight, I thought of a troll. Curly orange hair, pale eyes in a doughy white face. Jowly and sour, with too bright a color lipstick. Bent. She stared at me - briefcase in one hand and a Burberry draped over the other. She even growled.

"Who're you?"

"Dee, one of the caterers," I said.

"Where's what's-her - Margaret?"

"I'm here," Meg said. She walked up to Mrs. Fine with her hand extended. Mrs. Fine shook it unenthusiastically.

I felt bewildered that Meg knew this creature through a sex club. She looked past the both of us, at the buffet, and said, "I want that table back where it belongs."

"The serving table?"

"That table, my dining table, I want it back where it was."

"Everything's ready, Mrs. Fine. Your guests will be here in under fifteen minutes. That is the right location for tonight."

"I mean afterward."

"Of course."

The troll grabbed the mail that had been stacked on a table at the base of the stairs and carried it up with her briefcase and coat.

Meg looked nonplussed. I was in shock. All I could manage was a strangled whisper.

"She's not just a bitch, she's deadly."

"Mr. Fine spoke true."

"Why are you having anything to do with her?"

"Income, Dee."

"What's she into?" I said. "If it's being whipped, I'd like to help."

A few minutes later, Mrs. Fine came downstairs half-dressed, wearing a bra so translucent that her nipples showed, scrunched by the fabric. The band of the pantyhose bit into her waist above the navel. She went straight to the food.

"Would you like to sample, Mrs. Fine?"

"No, I want to look."

She inspected the salads and the warming trays, bending her face to the steam when she lifted each lid. It took self-restraint not to shove her into the pork.

Then she eyed the moss. Meg had arranged it artfully in four areas to unify the spread. Mrs. Fine picked up a strand and sniffed it, then looked at Meg and said, "Well?"

"Why not get dressed?" Meg said to her.

Mrs. Fine took a last survey from where she stood and said, "Okay. It's good. It's satisfactory."

Once she was gone I turned to Meg and said, "What was that look she gave you?"

Meg checked her watch and said, "Would you mind reparking the van, Dee?"

The guests arrived all at once, like a motorcade. Mrs. Fine's husband swept in with them. He was a surprisingly congenial man who greeted his wife, then Meg, then me, warmly and with humor. The guests ate and drank. They all laughed a great deal. A mix of men and women. Nothing particularly distinguishing about them, except a business mien and shared middle age. The food went over very well.

Mrs. Fine appeared and circulated the room, chatting it up. She looked unexpectedly relaxed, engaged, even pleasant, well dressed in business slacks and a ruffled blouse, not quite the troll of before.

The time buzzed by. For the last half hour or so, the Fines and their guests gathered in the sitting area and settled into a business pitch of sorts. As we served coffee and offered dessert, Mr. Fine addressed the group with a Kraph-tiks presentation of sequentially changing coastlines, projections of land that will be lost to a growing Pacific. He talked about shifting demographics and opportunities for real estate investment now, knowing how the market will be redefined. Both he and Mrs. Fine fielded questions. Meg and I were cleaning up.

At 9:30 the meeting terminated and the entire party left abruptly.

Everyone but Mrs. Fine.

The guests gathered their coats and things, chatting just as casually as when they arrived, and together they all walked out the door. Mr. and Mrs. Fine exchanged a kiss of pursed lips that never quite met. As he turned from her she gave him a parting look so full of feeling that I had to avert my eyes.

Mr. Fine left with the party as if he were not a host, but one of the guests.

The motorcade made its way up the steep drive, turned, and faded into the night. Meg and I had just about finished our clean up. Meg carefully bagged the moss but oddly left it in the middle of the floor. We shifted the monster oak back to its prior location. I placed the bag out of the way, under the table, and we were soon ready to pack the van.

I went outside, jingling the keys, and saw Mrs. Fine standing in the driveway. She was lit by shadows and moonlight while smoking a thin cigar. A breeze stirred the eucalyptus trees and set their leaves clacking.

"What a lovely night," I said, remembering the look she had given her husband. I was upwind of her and the air carried the heady scent of jasmine.

"Are you two ready to leave?" Mrs. Fine said.

"I'm getting the van," I told her.

"Did Margaret talk to you?"

"About what?"

"You don't seem like you're in a hurry."

"The jasmine," I said. "Smell it?"

Mrs. Fine flicked her thin cigar to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "Of course I smell it," she said, "it's my jasmine."

She stormed inside as if I had ruined her evening.

Bite me, I thought, climbing the driveway. Bite me, bite me, bite me, bite me. "Troll."

In the van I remembered that within fifteen or twenty minutes, tops, I would be heading home with Meg, ditching this cave and the awful thing that lived in it. We will be driving to that beckoning arbor of oaks, toward that first kiss, that embrace, that heart jolting rush of lust and love.

So, that insignificant wreck can just bite me.

Mrs. Fine had kicked off her shoes and was sipping from a half glass of wine. She stationed herself beside the door while we loaded the van.

"That went well, girls," she said.

She talked as we passed back and forth.

"What do you all do with all the leftovers?"

"They belong to you," Meg said.

"Normally, what? You put them in the fridge, throw them out?"

"We can leave them or take them. Whichever you'd like."

"What happens if you take them? I mean, you can't use them again."

"We donate clean leftovers to a food shelter."

"That could be credited as a charitable contribution, if it's donated?"

As Meg returned, she said, "Not by us."

"You think by me?"

"Check with the IRS, Mrs. Fine."

At the very end I took the bag of moss from under the table.

Mrs. Fine said to Meg, "Didn't you talk to her?"

"It's no longer open to discussion, Mrs. Fine."

"I had the impression that you had finally talked to her about it."

"No. Please, don't try to force the issue. We should say goodnight."

"My husband said you were willing."

"No, I made it clear from the beginning."

"But the bag, the ... you put it under the table."

I was baffled.

Mrs. Fine said to me. "You can put that down. You leave that here."

"It goes back where it belongs," I said. "Meg, tell me what's going on."

She said to Mrs. Fine, "We're leaving."

Meg walked past her and I followed.

"I paid for that," said Mrs. Fine.

"It's going back where it belongs," I said.

"I'll never hire you again."

"Good night, Mrs. Fine."

I felt a sharp tug on the bag from behind, heard the paper rip and felt the moss tumble out of it. As I turned, Mrs. Fine rushed past me toward Meg, following her out the door.

I was kneeling and piling the moss back into the torn bag, when I heard the scuffle. Meg had reentered the house. Mrs. Fine was outside.

"You come back out here!"

Meg shut the door on her.

"We only have a moment," Meg said. "She's such a jackass."

"She's insane."

"Would you like to put her in her place, Dee?"

"You mean like kick her ass?"

"Yeah. With her consent too."

"How the hell does that happen?"

Mrs. Fine pounded on the door.

"Come out!" she said. "Come out of my house!"

"I'm torn, Dee."

"I'm not." I hugged the bag and stood up. "Let's go."

"I'll have you arrested!" the woman said. "You're trespassers now!"

"Dee -"

A realization hit and I stared at Meg. "Did you - Was this planned?"

"No," Meg said, "yes and no."

"Fuck," I said.

"They approached me before I was hired for this gig. I've always said no."

"'They?'" I said. "Is he part of this?"

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