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The story continues with what may be a little too much set-up and not enough sex. More (and hotter) to come. If you are offended by semi-consensual bondage and lesbian sex, go elsewhere.
Cynthia Ramsdale was concluding yet another tedious planning meeting in her capacity as Chair of yet another charitable benefit fete. The Ballet? Symphony? Opera? Sometimes she lost track. She scanned the table in a private dining room at the posh River City Club. Yet another array of waspy River City society matrons, a few younger wives sprinkled in, were arrayed before her, hoping to get added to the A List, or to assure a slot for their bratty daughters in debutante cotillions to come. So boring.
Just as the meeting turned to the subject of which deep pocketed business poobah to "honor" at an upcoming benefit dinner, Cynthia's silenced I-phone vibrated on the table next to the remnants of her lightly dressed Nicoise salad. She discretely scanned the screen.
It was from Jean, Julia Mulloy's "devoted" assistant:
"She's on the way, Mistress."
Smiling discretely, Cynthia gently patted her tastefully glossed lips with the starched linen napkin resting on her lap.
"Ladies, I hate to leave before dessert - the macaroons here are to die for - but I've got to run to another engagement . We've made good progress today. Please let me know who I should call to invite to be our honoree."
An obsequiously hovering waiter pulled back her chair. Cynthia rose to her full 5'8" stature, straightening her slightly above the knee and elegant designer dress over sheer near nude hose and strode from the room, her dark blue, polished leather heels tapping on the floor. Her driver, Elaine, in a black pants suit, was waiting at the door of a silver Mercedes sedan parked just outside the columned entrance of the River City Club. Cynthia slipped into the dark leather interior, responding to Jean's text as Elaine pulled into traffic.
"Excellent, Slave. You've done well."
The Mercedes headed east out of the city center, along Riverside Drive, before turning uphill to the town's most exclusive neighborhood. Cynthia crossed her slim, muscle toned legs, a shiver of delight coursing through her as she scanned the photos her rented "officer" had texted her . There she was, the delicious Julia Mulloy, delightfully helpless, first in the back seat of a van, sensuous panty hosed legs exposed, head wrapped in a black hood; then shown spread eagled upright, fixed to the St. Andrew's cross in Cynthia's very own "playroom".
"Oh, My," Cynthia murmured aloud, drawing her driver's attention.
'Everything OK, Mrs. Ramsdale?"
"Just fine, Elaine. Once you drop me off you can take some time. I won't need you until later this evening."
Soon the Mercedes pulled into the circular drive of a stately three story faux- Georgian mansion perched on a bluff overlooking the river. This was "Riverview", Cynthia's in town residence. She'd inherited it from Henry Ramsdale, her late husband and heir to a Fortune 500 consumer products empire. She'd married young - Henry's trophy wife. Now, at 50, Cynthia had fully leveraged the wealth and cache of the Ramsdale name to reign as Queen of River City society. She could single handedly decide which charities and arts organizations thrive - or die - in the dog-eat-dog world of local philanthropy. She could also make or break the social aspirations of all those sycophantic "ladies who lunch" - like those gathered around the table she'd just left.
That is, until Julia Mulloy arrived on the scene. As head of charitable giving for a giant local communications company, Mulloy had sadly chosen to spread her corporation's largesse to charities and community groups without co-ordinating with Cynthia. She'd cut donations to the Opera and Symphony, favoring smaller and (God forbid) "minority" arts groups.
DEI!
