K&T, LLC Ch. 06

I was out the door before I realized how smoothly Siobhan had paved my way. Damn she's good.

Sean:

An evening of frustration ended when I received word that Sheila was inbound—alone. That said interesting things about what Jo and Francine had planned, but I had thoughts only for my Kitten. I retired to the kitchen off the garage. If I knew Sheila—I ought to by now—she would want a cup of tea when she arrived. I had a big styrofoam cup of Earl Grey waiting for her when she pulled in. It was one of my better decisions that year.

To say Sheila was conflicted belittles the point. She ran to me like I was a life preserver, then grabbed the tea and drained half of it before taking a breath. She said nothing, but "It's good to be home." might as well been stamped on her forehead. It took me hours to realize that Sheila already considered my house as her home. I can be a bit slow with the obvious sometimes.

Oddly, for Sheila, she was not particularly well turned out. Nor was she wearing her foundation, which I had hooked up that morning. I am no shrink, but that told me that the day had been eventful. Even though the back of the car was packed to the ceiling with clothing boxes, I had to assume none were for her. It did not matter in any event. Sheila needed a relaxing massage and a hot shower. I intended to get it for her.

Part of my sense of deja vu was from the two times I had carried Sheila to her apartment. We were nowhere near her apartment, but Sheila was showing the same sort of overload that she had shown then. I flipped open my phone. Gerald was not on duty. None-the-less I ordered a full sweep of Sheila's apartment, including recovering her wardrobe. No time like the present. I sent Gerald an email, but it would not catch him off balance.

With that chore out of the way, I could take my Kitten to get her some stroking. As a masseur, I loved working on defined muscle. Sheila was pure joy in that regard. I stretched her on the table and did my best to put her to sleep. I may have managed it, though she woke for the walk down to the bedroom. I had carried her once, which was my limit. Fortunately, Sheila was ambulatory til she met the bed. Lights out.

When I checked my messages, Jo had sent one. I am keeping Francine out of your hair. You owe me for this.

Chapter 15 -- Ripples

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

I have mentioned that no one talks about the wedding preparations much. In contrast, everyone talks about the press. Three things coincided for a press firestorm—the catalog/sale; the wedding itself; and the new real estate group. Everything had two words in common: Sheila Schwartz. From being very low key and little noticed, Mom was a celebrity overnight. Naturally, she hated it.

But, it did not start with Mom. It started with Aunt Francine.

Tuesday, 9:17 PM ET--broadway.com/divawatch/martel

Where is Francine Martel?

Normally one of the most accessible and quotable members of the Broadway scene, Miss Martel abruptly resigned the last stop of a ten city tour, citing personal reasons. Rumor has it that she is planning to attend a major wedding—but whose? She was spotted at her restaurant in Brooklyn on Tuesday night, in the company of three women.

It was rumored to be a bachelorette party, but the bride was named Sheila Schwartz. According to Google, the only possibly relevant Sheila Schwartz reference is for a performance of the Nutcracker some twelve years ago. Both Schwartz and Martel danced—but Schwartz received the major accolades.

I ask you, who is Sheila Schwartz? Why is Francine Martel throwing her a bachelorette party, with all the trimmings?

Tuesday 10:03 PM ET--http://www.xanga.com/groups/group.aspx?id=XXXXX

Davidspet: Oh my God. I have just seen the scene of a decade. The evening started so disappointingly. Then THEY showed up. There were four. One was obviously submissive, even more than me, but three real power types. One was almost six feet tall and clearly not used to power attire. That said, she had definite presence. One was not even five feet. I recognized her. She was one of the owners—Francine Martel, the Broadway diva. She can whip my pussy anytime.

All that pales beside the third of their group. Remember this name—Cynthia. You may not have seen the catalog yet, but you will. Mistress Cynthia did the cover shot. Oh. My. God. I am so jealous. This guy Jason does not know how lucky he was. Cynthia was wearing a mask and lying back, letting the other two take the lead. The submissive was clearly Hers, even though she spent most of her time with the tall one. There was a sorry scene in progress. Some wannbe had hired a hooker to play submissive. It was just sad.

Anyway, Miss Martel pushed Mistress Cynthia forward. It was like some kind of test. It took a couple of prods, but the scene was so sad. Mistress Cynthia probably could not stand it. The moment she took charge everything changed. She had everyone, even David, running to set things up. The hooker was released, but Cynthia had the tall one immobilize her. I could get off on that. She held the hookers wrists in her hands, while she spread the legs with brand new Boutique 9 pumps. The submissive just dropped into a hands behind her back posture, like she lived in it. She was ready to eat the hooker up.

The john was tied up. Everyone, even David, rushed to help with that. Mistress Cynthia inspected everything, tweaking a bit, here and there, but I think it was all about timing. By the time she got around to the lash, the john squirted on three strokes. Normally, I would be embarrassed for him, but with Mistress Cynthia I totally understood. Over on the other side, her submissive had the hooker about ready to pop. Mistress Cynthia did one quick lash on the tits, not enough to even raise a welt, and the hooker came buckets.

That would have been enough, but things were just getting started. Mistress Cynthia had the box of lashes brought to her submissive. I could see that. If the john had not been a quick fire, the submissive would have gotten the hooker to blow. Anyway, the submissive did not have permission to break posture, so she did not poke around in the box. It took a moment before one of us subs pointed out that the girl could not use her hands. Sometimes Doms can be dense.

Anyway, there was a parade of off the shelf floggers and lashes. The submissive looked at each, but shook it off, until they pulled out a Cat. It was like the whole room went in the freezer. Mistress Cynthia was NOT pleased. The submissive expected it—I could tell. Cynthia just pointed to a horse—one of those orange and white ones they use on roads. Skinny as hell.

Like before, everyone rushed to set up the scene. The rope work was rather artful. They suspended her upside down, with her hair brushing the floor. The ankles and hands were tied to the uprights so that all her weight was born by the midriff, but her legs, thighs and pussy were fully exposed. Mistress Cynthia had nothing to do with that. First she worked in a #4 ass plug, dry, but slow. Once that was done, Cynthia just added touches—mostly weights on the pussy lips, clit and tits.

Just seeing the girl hung there had my pussy running. If David had not forbidden me, I would have had my fingers in my cunt. Like with the first scene, Mistress Cynthia took it very slow. She checked everything twice, using the occasion to tweak the weights and brush the sensitive spots. Check this. They never gagged the submissive, but she never uttered a sound.

When it was time to get real, Mistress Cynthia coiled the whip and walked back to a position opposite us. Everything was set up so we could watch. A Cat is a serious thing, even though this looked like a light one. Mistress Cynthia gave it the respect it deserved. When she used it, there were four strokes, one right after the other. Then she paused. Some of the Doms were commenting on her technique. The strokes were fairly light and spread all the way from one ankle to the other. Someone, it might have been David, said "Foreplay."

Almost at the same moment, the Cat went out two more times. These were not foreplay. They were real shots and they targeted the inner knee area. All the Doms were voicing appreciation of the strikes, but I was noticing where Cynthia had not struck. I was not alone. Before long, everyone was thinking about that exposed pussy. Just before it had gone on too long, Mistress Cynthia gave her submissive permission to cum. Then the Cat bit.

Gods. I don't know how she did it, but Mistress Cynthia placed a full stroke—right down middle—and did not draw blood. The welts on the ass cheeks were livid red—two on one side and three on the other. That left four full on the pussy. The submissive came so hard the barricade jerked. I had never touched myself, but I came in sympathy and I was not alone.

I have never seen anything like it. Mistress Cynthia looked almost as done out as her submissive, who could barely walk. As soon as they were close, Cynthia and her submissive hugged like long separated lovers. Then the Big One and Miss Martel started to clear the room. It was still early, but nothing was going to top that.

Who the hell is Mistress Cynthia and what has she got to do with Francine Martel?

Tuesday 11:28 PM ET—Channel 56 Nightly News

We are at the Crow's Nest, a long time Brooklyn restaurant. Something very unusual occurred tonight. One of the owners, Francine Martel of Broadway fame, was hosting a bachelorette party. One of the party members requested hot sauce for her oysters. Nothing unusual yet. But, she kept asking for hotter sauces until they reached this. [displays a bottle]

This is Mad Dog 44 Magnum Pepper Extract. There is a warning label that says that it is not a hot sauce. It is too potent to be used directly on food. Police inform me that the extract is almost as strong as the pepper spray they are issued. Another person at the table requested gloves just to handle the bottle. She applied it to one oyster using a toothpick.

Miss Martel's guest ate the oyster, chewing it well before swallowing. She did not request water or ice cream. After one stopwatch timed minute, Miss Martel offered steak and lobster—for four—to anyone that could duplicate the feat. Restrictions apply—including a medical waiver.

So, Joan, if you want to impress your boss and have free surf and turf, go to the Crow's Nest. But be warned. There have been three failed attempts already.

Marky Maxwell reporting

Wednesday 9:17 AM ET—collinsn@newyorktimes.net

Bob,

I think I have something for you. There is a wedding planned for this weekend. It's in the boonies of New Jersey. The groom is a serious player in the local business community: Sean Richards of Richards Enterprises. No one has ever heard of the bride: Sheila Schwartz.

Here is the part you will like. The invitations are specifying 1910 attire.

Wednesday 9:23 AM ET—david.wilson@coxandhart.com

Janice,

I just saw the finished catalog from that auction we bailed on. It is a freaking masterpiece. Last I heard, Richards hired a small timer from Philadelphia, Justin Immons, who was running into the same problems that sank us. I thought the project was going down for the count, then Richards turns up this. What the hell is going on? Who the fuck is Sheila Schwartz?

Wednesday 10:07 AM ET—smithrobert@uniquebride.com

Rhonda,

I got a tip from Nancy Collins at the Times. There is a wedding in New Jersey where 1910 attire is requested. I called the local paper—the Beacon. They said the whole town is buzzing. The groom is a 30+ local business hard case: C. Sean Richards, not very affectionately referred to as the Bear. The family goes back to colonial times. Richards has never married. Never even dated seriously. Out of the blue he is engaged to a fitness trainer named Sheila Schwartz.

There is more, but I can't sort it out from here. Schwartz is evidently more important than she appears, but no one will say why. A lot of temp labor is going out to the Richards estate, so the wedding should be worth covering for its own sake. Send someone out with a camera crew.

Wednesday 10:11 AM ET—detweilerr.centraljerseybeacon@clearwire.net

Frank,

I just got off the phone with the events editor of a bridal magazine. He was wanting to know about the Richards/Schwartz wedding. I know it seems to have blown up out of nothing, but evidently there is wider awareness.

I have seen the invitation. It is a piece of work, very classy, completely custom. Johnstead Printing did the work. If this woman is who I think she is, class just flows out of her. The only lead I have is to that renovated warehouse gym by the old rail depot: XTreme Fitness. There are rumors about that whole neighborhood, but I don't know if they are related.

Richards, of course, is the head of Richards Enterprises and all that entails. He is a bit of a shark and very hard to talk to. His secretary, Helen, no last name, says he is unavailable, but did refer me to the company PR department. Evidently, they just released a catalog for a major auction. Run that down too.

Wednesday 10:51 AM ET—smithrobert@uniquebride.com

Nancy,

Thanks for the tip on the central Jersey wedding. I am sending someone out to poke around. This one looks Unique. I'll give you first dibs on the pics.

Wednesday 2:37 PM ET—aldermanna@columbiapictures.net

Ivan,

I just received a catalog. You have got to see it. The cover shot is incredible. The photographer is Justin Immons. He has a solid reputation, but not this good.

There is an art director named Sheila Schwartz. Nothing at all on her.

The catalog is for an erotica auction hosted by a New Jersey company called Richards Auctions. Get this. That 1920s collection of leather from the Candy Box is in this auction. Minimum bid is $200,000.

Wednesday 3:18 PM ET—nevskii@columbiapictures.net

Aaron,

Funny you should mention someone named Schwartz. Dave Zimmer at Paramount mentioned a call from New York. It was about a photo editor, also named Schwartz.

Any chance it is the same person? We have a mess to clean up on the Will Smith project. A fresh eye might help us salvage something.

Chapter 16--Signing Off

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

There was a brief pause before the storm hit. So many things conspired to create that weekend, but there was a lull before they came together. For one night and the next day, there was relative peace.

Of course, in the evening the excrement encountered the rotary ventilator.

Siobhan:

We caught up with Sheila at her studio. Sheila was in the wardrobe, plainly trying to choose an outfit. Francine was looking at the inventory with unconcealed envy. Of course, nothing would remotely fit her. With a start, I realized that Francine had to shop in the Girl's department.

Sheila told Francine to pick an outfit to have made. It was a perfect metaphor for the whole day. This excursion was supposed to be about Sheila and her wedding. Instead, she and Francine had shown me a new me. Francine had taken her to a restaurant and a bondage club. In both places, the star of the event was Sheila's submissive. Now, in her own domain, Sheila was offering us gifts. It was perfect. We all teared up.

Sheila did choose an outfit. She made sure that Christine had the keys, then went home to Sean. There was a bit of an awkward moment when I asked Francine where she was staying. I had not realized that she kept an apartment. Then I noticed Christine grinning. What? She mimed a keyboard. Doh!

Naturally Christine knew the facilities. We went to an office and she started a computer, then opened Hotmail. Francine had a smartphone, but my tablet was in the car. Before I could say anything, Christine gave up her seat and pulled out a laptop. How typically helpful. Shortly we had all exchanged addresses and were chatting in silence. Christine may be quiet as a mouse, but her texting was better than some of my grad students.

We had been going for about ten minutes when Christine mentioned a reporter at the restaurant. I felt as if I had been doused in ice water. I immediately did a news search on "Sheila Schwartz". Sure enough, there were hits. Biting my lip, I tried "Mistress Cynthia". More hits. By this time Christine and Francine had taken notice. We all took a deep breath when "Sheila Schwartz" + "Mistress Cynthia" turned up empty, but that did not figure to last. Francine summed it up, "Well shit. The rest of the week just got fucked."

That broke up our texting session, so it was time to think about getting home. Still, it seemed a shame to be here and not use the facilities. So I asked, "Were you serious about doing it ballerina style?" For once Motormouth Martel was at a loss for words, but I bet her panties just got wet.

I grinned my best shark in the minnow pool grin. "We have time for a quickie." Francine stopped and considered. She bit her lip and looked at me closely. It was more thought than my flip comment was worth. Finally, Francine shook her head. "Not tonight. For the first time I want to take my time. For a quickie, let's see what Suction Lips has learned this week." Christine was already kneeling on the floor.

Francine did not exactly do a strip tease, but there was something very sensual about the way she disrobed. The panties came first, then the skirt. She could have left the top on, but chose to look me straight in the eye while she did the buttons. This was all about challenge for when it was the two of us, but there was something else.

As usual my mouth ran away with me. "You want a baby, too."

Francine:

I hate being upstaged. As short as I am, I need to be in front. It makes for a forceful personality. Yet, the quietest person I have met in years upstaged me three times in one day. Once in the morning at the diner, once in my own restaurant and shortly after in my club. Then, we all put her in the car with Sheila, so she could freaking kneel at her Mistress' feet all the way home. Why was I not totally pissed?

It was just one question rattling around in my head as we left Brooklyn, heading west. If it was in my head, it probably came out, because I was talking 90 miles an hour. That was a clue. I talk when I am scared or nervous. What CC and Sheila had done scared me spitless.

I know that most people say shitless, but that is only because they do not understand the general concept. Fear makes your mouth dry. If you can spit, the fear is not consuming you. There was no way I could spit. Blessed Baby Jesus that was close. As I rode down the street, the only thing I could see were those angry red stripes on Christine's ass—with the sure knowledge that there were more stripes that did not show.

We did not go far. Just a couple of miles into Staten Island, we stopped for ice cream. I left the others to bury my nerves in food. There is nothing like a couple of double meat quarter pound burgers, large fries and a strawberry shake to settle me down. It also gave Sheila a chance to get over her reaction.