Nandita To Nandini
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[K]itten And [T]eddybearChapter 6: Quiet Desperation free porn video
Interlude: 25th Anniversary
Cindy:
Things were not as good for Dad. It was one of those critical times in his business, and things were not going well. He claims Mom saved his bacon. Mom says she had zero experience and just made a lucky shot with the camera.
Whatever. Dad hired her for her first paying gig as an image artist. Mom says the real work only took half an hour, but getting the details right just about killed everyone. It would also be when she met Uncle Jason, the subject of the famous picture.
Sean:
Monday mornings are always interesting, in a twisted sort of way. I have seven day weeks, as a rule. Most business owners do. However, Monday is the day that three days of issues pile up and hit you at once. Most of my time and energy had been consumed by the upcoming auction, but my three other businesses each wanted a piece of me. There were lots of fiddly details to deal with and it never worked as well when my mind was somewhere else. That Monday, my mind was on the feel of her head against my shoulder. I was fixated on her, and I was convinced I did not even know her real name.
Among the other business, things in the Cynthia vein began to come in, albeit slowly. George started off, by informing me that Sheila Schwartz, doing business as S&S Properties, owned the entire block her studio was located in. He mentioned a bequest, which ticked my radar. Every person of importance in town knew Judge Henry Johnson.
Shortly after 9:00 AM Helen stepped in, between appointments, with her first tid-bit. She informed me that the Judge was a patron of Mistress Cynthia, in every meaning of the word "patron." Not long after, George provided details of the bequest. This confirmed my belief that Cynthia, Mistress of discipline, was in fact Sheila Schwartz, fitness trainer. More details filtered in, til I told both Helen and George to make out a report for the end of the day. I already had enough for an outline.
I also had a lunch appointment, with Sheila Schwartz, doing business as BDS&M. George drove me over. When he dropped me off, I told him to focus on real estate inquiries concerning the warehouse block. Unless I missed my guess, the biggest danger to her was an attempted blackmail. The target would be ownership of the building. With an anchor tenant like XTreme Fitness, the whole neighborhood was picking up. This raised a new possibility. I told George to expand his search, to cover the surrounding blocks and to include an eye to purchase possibilities. No reason not to make money when you can.
The car pulled up right on time. As I had come to expect, Sheila (that was an odd shift in the mind) was coming around the corner. I told George not to bother picking me up. His research was going to be interesting, and potentially important. I could use the walk after lunch in any event. As Sheila came up, I offered my arm. She took it and we went inside.
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley. We could barely get in the door. At a guess, there was a meeting or party taking up much of the diner. It could be worse. I could stand it, since I was arm in arm with my puzzling companion. The puzzle gave us something to talk about.
I said, "I am at a loss for what to call you. Obviously, I cannot use the name on your business card, but I have no other use name for you."
She looked thoughtful, "Good point. Most of the names I have used, I have also outgrown, or do not care to repeat. 'Call me Ishmael' seems a bit trite. How about ZZ?"
I said, "As in two Zs?"
"It stands for Zezolla."
"Ah, I understand, though your frock is a little too clean." Zezolla is one of the earliest names for Cinderella. "I think Belle would be better, as I can easily play the Beast." She ducked her head and blushed. "It's settled then. You are my Belle."
Naturally, nothing of the sort was settled, but all was not lost. I glanced up, just in time to see Chuck Blanding's jaw drop. He must have come through the door, just as Sheila was blushing. It could not have been staged any better.
I waved him over, saying, "Chuck, I want to thank you for introducing me to this lovely lady. We have so much in common: art, music, Italian food. I took her to the symphony Saturday night. It was one of the memorable nights of my life. She even blushes prettily." Blushing she was, though there was also a strong hint of warning in her glance.
She took her turn at the plate. "Charles, I am so glad you dropped by. You have a free session coming. I took the liberty of scheduling you last on Thursday. That means we can go long if things work that way. I have something special planned." Cynthia, for that was who was speaking, licked her lips as she said "special."
Now to wrap it up, I said, "Chuck, please take our place. This lovely lady and I have business to discuss, and it is going to be too noisy in here."
Cynthia nodded. "Please Charles, allow us. I will see you 4:00 PM on Thursday. Do not be late." Chuck went from pale to deathly white. That would be my girl.
We squeezed past him and out the door. Holding in the laughter was not easy, but we made it around the corner before we both exploded. We must have laughed a full minute, til my sides, at least, were aching. It felt very good, especially after my last few weeks. Sheila's car was just around the corner, so we had transportation. She drove us to a Greek place, D's Grill, with which I was unfamiliar.
Sheila:
Getting Francine out of bed was a chore. After we finally got to bed, I spooned up behind her, and slept like a rock. 5:30 AM came and I rose to do my stretching and start the coffee. While the coffee brewed, I took a shower, being careful to clean my south end. After drying, I rubbed some lotion into my poor abused pussy. Francine had scratched my clitoral hood raw. Though it was hooded, I suspect the clitoris itself had a red welt on one side. The memory made me shiver.
After all the time working out, showering and doing my face, I came out to find Frannie still wrapped around my pillow. This would not do. I had appointments and she had a 30 minute drive. I loaded cream and sweetener into a cup of double strength coffee, then returned to the bed. In my line of work, you learn how to deliver a slap. Frannie got one of my best, right on her bare ass. She woke with a yelp and turned to do battle. I put a mug of coffee in her hands. She glared at me over the cup, but I knew her priorities. Within seconds, half the steaming mug was empty.
I said, "If Francine the slug-a-bed is finally up, she can help me get dressed. I am meeting Sean at lunch. I want to wear something special, and it takes two to put it on."
I opened the special drawer. Julian made me a corset once, but I hardly ever wore it, exactly because it requires a dresser. Frannie may be irresponsible, but Francine is theater to the bone. In theater, costuming is half the fun. She loved the idea. She also loved my collection of foundations and bustiers.
"My God Schwartz, where did you get all these."
"I had them made, for which I am fortunate. Julian is very exclusive. Do you want one?"
"Ye Gods yes, but I couldn't possibly..."
"You can and you will. Now, hold your arms over your head."
I lowered a lacy black bustier down her body. "Now hold it up while I fasten it. This is the first thing I bought from Julian. By his standards, it is very simple, almost off the rack. We could never get it fitted properly. He tried and tried, but eventually he gave up and offered to make one to measure." I pulled out another bustier. "This one. I have been a client ever since. There. Done. Look in the mirror."
It was quite effective on her. I had to struggle just to pull it on, even while fully opened out. On Francine's tiny body, it fit lightly, even when fully pulled in. The bottom rode over her hips, rather than above them as it would on me. The top was snug enough to force a hint of cleavage, and a hint is all Francine ever managed. For those that wear underwear as outerwear, it would fit right in. I could see Francine out clubbing in it and a flair skirt, possibly with only it and the flair skirt. She nodded at her reflection and turned to give me a strangling hug. Then she helped me with my more difficult piece, which is an outright corset. All too soon, she flew out the door, still wearing the bustier, one of her own skirts and one of my men's shirts. The tail of the shirt hung lower than her skirt.
My appointments that day went oddly. Tuesday and Thursday morning appointments are exclusively at the gym. At XTreme Fitness. everything is done in the open. That way, my clients and I can be seen together without arousing comment. Half the important people in town know me as Sheila Schwartz, the fitness trainer. When I am in the gym, conducting an exercise session, there is no touching or anything remotely sexual. Yet, many of my clients said that the workouts were as rewarding as being forced to multiple orgasms in my studio. It has given me an interesting insight into human nature.
That Tuesday was different. Perhaps it was the suit, which was tailored for a corset. It was only the third time I had worn it, and the first time I wore it for the Judge. It had special meaning for me and I was being very careful of it. It could have been the corset itself. Most of Julian's work is wonderfully free, but not the corset. Necessarily, my breaths were shallow, my movements controlled, and my posture stiffly erect. Perhaps, it was my expression. Whatever the reason, Cynthia was present, and everyone knew it. Even the other staff were very polite. Likely, it was for the best, since my clients managed three personal bests.
Eventually, it was time to meet Sean. Arriving at exactly the same time was getting to be a ritual. We met in front of the diner. Sean offered his arm, and we went inside. In spite of the company, I wanted to go right back out. Cianfrani's was packed. In spite of the noise, Sean made conversation.
He said, "I am at a loss for what to call you. Obviously, I cannot use the name on your business card, but I have no other use name for you."
He was right. "Good point. Most of the names I have used, I have also outgrown, or do not care to repeat. 'Call me Ishmael' seems a bit trite. How about ZZ?"
He said, "As in two Zs?"
"It stands for Zezolla." I love fairy tales. I also love running them down in the original form, even if it happens to be in middle French. Sean understood the reference right off.
"Ah, I understand, though your frock is a little too clean. I think Belle would be better, as I can easily play the Beast." My stars, he could not be serious. My face got so red my ears were burning. He ignored it. "It's settled then. You are my Belle."
I heard a gasp. Looking over, I saw Charles Blanding with his mouth hanging open. He must have seen me blush. That would be the last thing Mistress Cynthia would do in his world. I was dressed as Mistress Cynthia, though Sean had not seemed to notice. Time to bring her to the party.
Sean bought me the time I needed. He waved Charles over saying, "Chuck, I want to thank you for introducing me to this lovely lady. We have so much in common: art, music, Italian food. I took her to the symphony Saturday night. It was one of the most memorable nights of my life. She even blushes prettily." I flushed again. Blast him for making me break character.
I needed to repair my image. "Charles, I am so glad you dropped by. You have a free session coming. I took the liberty of scheduling you last on Thursday. That means we can go long if things work that way. I have something special planned." I used my Cynthia smile, which scares some people spitless, and leaned on the "special." Sean tied the bow on it. "Chuck, please take our place. This lovely lady and I have business to discuss, and it is going to be too noisy in here." Perfect. I added, "Please Charles, allow us. I will see you 4:00 PM on Thursday. Do not be late."
Charles was already pale and sweaty. That turned him positively stricken. Thursday, I planned to give him a lot of time alone with his thoughts, with just occasional punctuation. I grinned as we pushed out of the building and ran to the corner. Then we both burst out laughing. I, at least, laughed til it hurt.
We had stopped almost in front of my Volvo. I pulled out my keys and unlocked the doors. Sean got in. George must be busy elsewhere, which was something to think about. George reeked of security. Since Sean did not offer an opinion, I drove us to D's Grill near my studio. I was in the mood for gyros and tabouli. It was a new place for Sean, which was all good. We ordered at the counter, received our styrofoam cups and found a seat in the corner to sip our drinks.
Sean broke the silence. "That is a spectacular outfit you are wearing. I doubt many could pull it off." What a left handed compliment. He could be thinking so many things.
I gave him the truth. "I had it made a few years ago for a special client."
He shocked me by nodding and saying, "Judge Johnson." Before I could sputter out something, he went on. "I hope you don't mind. I asked Helen and George to do some discrete inquiries. Considering the nature of your business, I told them to be very discrete." That was a mouthful to chew. I was spared an immediate reply by the arrival of our food. We focused on gyro and tabouli, spanakopita, grape leaves and cucumber salad.
After I finished what I was willing to eat, I said, "Something tells me that George would have been digging without any instruction. What was he, Secret Service?"
"No, but close. Same song, different verse. He was a Marine on protection detail. The knees are no longer military grade."
"Tell him that if he needs therapy, I can do a mean routine. Ask anyone."
He smiled, then got very serious, "There is more. Some of your clients are also my clients. It's a small city. A couple were willing to lend me some of your lipstick pictures, ones with no faces showing. I insisted on that last point. I showed them to a professional photographer from the City. He was enough impressed that I want to hire you for some photographic work. It is very urgent, has a short deadline and must be highly discrete. For that list of qualifications, you are the only name on my list. Please, at least consider it."
I must have looked like Charles had, back at the other diner. My head reeled with all the information packed into those few sentences. I ticked through several: he knew who some of my clients were; he had contacted them; they trusted him enough to loan some highly personal pictures; he had shown the pictures to a third party; the third party was a professional photographer; the professional had liked my work; Sean wanted my help; Sean was desperate; Sean had a picture of his own; that was Sean's picture, he could do with it as he wanted. Give him his due, Sean was not rushing me.
Trembling a bit, I asked, "Did you show him the other picture, your picture?"
Sean licked his lips and said, "I did. His term was 'prize winner.'"
Oh my stars. That meant that the photographer knew a very great deal about me. I made a leap, but just a little one, "You want me to work with the photographer." Sean nodded. "You want me to oversee the photographer." He nodded again. "The photographer is willing to do that, based on the pictures he saw." Another nod. He would have to be good. Sean would not hire anyone without a reputation. Still, "Is he any good?"
Sean shrugged. "He has a good reputation and he has worked the type of material in your pictures. That is important for this job. He has made a big pile of money in the last year. He did not need to eat giving up creative control. He was in a position to walk away. In fact, he said that he would have walked if he had not seen your pictures, and known where they came from."
This just kept getting deeper and deeper. "Creative Control" are words for conjuring. People have literally died over them. The offer was both seductive and terrifying, but I knew my decision had already been made. It would not hurt to meet the guy, but already my fingers were itching to get started.
One other thing bothered me. Sean was the type of person that people, even my prickly self, trusted almost on sight. Unspoken in all of this, was the fact that several professionals, including myself, were extending him a lot of trust on nothing more than his word. I knew in my bones that Sean took such things seriously. It all boiled down to one thing. Sean was not desperate. He had passed that point a while ago. Sean had his back against the wall and was battling for something more important than his life. All I could say was, "Damn Sean, remind me not to back you into a corner."
This was gambling everything on a really long, longshot, namely me. I was an untried, inexperienced person working out of her field for the first time. How could I refuse? To seal the deal, I needed some form of payment. Mario was a Tuesday regular, and my biggest pain slut. I literally could not hit him hard enough. Sean might do better and Mario was certain to agree. Mario agreed to everything.
I said, "One other thing. I will bring another person to session tomorrow. You will conduct, and I will observe. I may also participate. If so, do not let him know that it is me. This is even if I do not take your job. This is for doing the interview. Agreed?"
I have not seen so much relief, in a single person, ever.
Sean:
D's Grill did not look like much, and the neighborhood could be much better. Still the interior was clean, which is always the most important thing. Belle ordered a sandwich and salad. I went with the sampler plate. I know Italian food from my time in the service. Greek, not so much. We filled our disposable cups and settled in the corner.
I had to say something about the outfit Sheila was wearing. It was a dove gray suit, for lack of a better term. The skirt was a modest ¾ length, but came to well above the waist. The top was another of her small buttoned Victorian blouses, in a pale ivory. This one looked genuine, as in 120 years old, and made in England. If it was not antique, it was a very good copy. Over the top was a long sleeveless jacket, which likely could be worn as a cape and looked reversible. The top was the same dove gray, but the inside was a blood maroon. The flashes of color against the sober ensemble were intriguing, at the least.
Everything was extremely fitted. In fact, given her penchant for foundations, I would bet an outright corset. As usual, her lovely hair was up, this time in a bun. Her heels were practical. In short, she looked like a school marm, from a BDSM wet dream. Almost without trying, I could envision a cane in her hand and a boy leaning over a desk.
I said, "That is a spectacular outfit you are wearing. I doubt many could pull it off." Many? Read that, no one else I knew.
She replied, "I had it made a few years ago for a special client."
That made perfect sense, "Judge Johnson." She looked shocked, so before she could say anything, I continued, "I hope you don't mind. I asked Helen and George to do some discrete inquiries. Considering the nature of your business, I told them to be very discrete."
She was quiet for a moment, then surprised me. "Something tells me that George would have been digging without any instruction. What was he, Secret Service?"
"No. Same song, different verse. He was a Marine on protection detail. The knees are no longer military grade."
"Tell him that, if he needs therapy, I can do a mean routine. Ask anyone." I had to smile at that, despite the weight of what I was about to drop on her.
"There is more. Some of your clients are also my clients. It's a small city. A couple were willing to lend me some of your lipstick pictures, ones with no faces showing. I insisted on that last point. I showed them to a professional photographer from the City. He was enough impressed that I want to hire you for some photographic work. It is very urgent, has a short deadline and must be highly discrete. For that list of qualifications, you are the only name on my list. Please, at least consider it."
She took that whole. I could see her processing through the various levels of meaning, and the consequences if something went wrong. My neck was way out, and I knew it.
She justified my leap of faith. "Did you show him the other picture, your picture?"
Delicately put. I tried to be as even toned as possible, when I said, "I did. His term was 'prize winner.'" Of all the things I just said, that was the one that shocked her. She was rocked for a moment, then her mind went back in gear. Indeed, her performance was virtuoso. One by one, she went through the steps I took, when I approached Justin. I could only nod where appropriate.
"You want me to work with the photographer." Nod.
"You want me to oversee the photographer." Nod.
"The photographer is willing to do that, based on the pictures he saw." Nod.
Finally, she asked a question, "Is he any good?"
In fact, it was a damn good question, because I truly did not know. I could only repeat what I had heard. "He has a good reputation and he has worked the type of material in your pictures. That is important for this job. He made a big pile of money over the last year. He did not need to eat giving up creative control. He was in a position to walk away. In fact, he said that he would have walked if he had not seen your pictures."
Her expression was too complex for me to read. There was the eagerness to reach for the bait, and I could tell she wanted it. But, there was also caution. She had already walked through a lot of very deep shit, but I could not tell if she was willing to swim or drown in it.
Her next question was not a question, "Damn Sean, remind me not to back you into a corner." She got it. In fact, she seemed to understand better than I could have explained to her. Damn, I loved this woman. Wait, what?
She was not finished. Oh shit. "One other thing, I will bring another person to session tomorrow. You will conduct, and I will observe. If you choose, I may also participate. If so, do not let him know that it is me. This is even if I do not take your job. This is for doing the interview. Agreed?"
Alexander wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer. I did not trust my voice, so I nodded. Then I stood and offered my arm. If she could dress Victorian, I could show some manners. The bench seating cramped my style, but I am adaptable.
We said very little on the drive to the warehouse. Sheila made a call to reschedule an appointment. I offered to pick up the fee, so her client could have a free session in compensation. She accepted with a smile. Once we arrived at the warehouse, I took her to Justin's work room. Her eyes widened a little when she saw the subject matter, but I had given her enough hints that I do not think she was surprised. First she went through picture after picture, then it was page of proofs after page of proofs. Long before I expected, she looked up.
Her look was speculative as she asked, "When can I meet them?"
I checked my watch, "About 15 minutes. Do you want Justin, or did you mean all of them?"
"No time like the present, and this is a team event. They will work with me or they will not. I need to know right away. There is good news, though. I can work with all of this. What we need is a binder, not individual pages." She stopped and thought for a moment. Then she picked up her bag and pulled out her keys. "I am going to go get some reinforcements. If there is some kind of a lounge or break room, collect them there. I will be back as soon as I can." As she left, she gave me a quick peck on the cheek.
I could have thought about the kiss, but I also had things to do. I called Helen and told her that I had hired Sheila as a consultant, with creative control. I needed to know how much to pay her, because it was already obvious Sheila would not ask. Oddly, this would prove to be a very effective negotiating tactic. I also told Helen that we would be meeting with Justin's group, and after that we would play it by ear. Then, I called George and told him to get a car shuttled over. He wanted to drive me himself, but there was no telling how late this would go, and he had research to do. He let it go at that, which told me volumes about what he was uncovering.
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