[][t] and Family

/* */

Chapter 13—

Still More Fitting

Interlude:

25

th

Anniversary

Cindy:

After the rehearsal and dinner, things quieted down. This was mostly because Dad is a difficult interview and everyone else was out of town. Friday was sort of the dress rehearsal for the party on the lawn. Once everything was set up, a lot of the booths were opened for the Amish to use. There was a dance in the evening. Aunt Jo says the Amish are like everyone else. They like to have fun.

In the City, Mom, my aunts and Nanny CC did final fittings for the dresses.

Sheila:

Thursday night I held a small dance class for some neophytes. Afterward I did a demonstration with a competent amateur, who happened to work for Sean—meaning me. It was difficult to restrain myself, even with that thought firmly in mind. Meeting with Sean was going to be no release. He had already told me to save myself for the honeymoon. I had even sent Christine to be with Siobhan. In short, I had reason to be a bit off. However, self honesty forced me to acknowledge that it was something else.

After the dancing, I had a talk with Christine. She informed me, and Siobhan confirmed, that Francine was interested in motherhood. So was I, but somehow this made my own desires more insistent. It was times like this that I envied Christine. Her world was simpler than mine. I had insisted that she retain some autonomy, but Christine would always look to me sor standards. If I said jump, Christine would be in the air before she asked how high. That level of trust is daunting, but I could trust her loyalty to the grave. It did not escape me that Christine was devoutly religious.

For her part, Siobhan was turning into the sister I always wished for. She gave great hugs. She, as a knowledgeable member of the family, told me the contents of the house were available for my personal use. If I understood her, Sean was Master and I was Chatelaine. That made me the trustee of the personal property of the demesne, meaning specifically all the vintage and antique things that I loved. It was almost as weighty as Christine's devotion.

With such thoughts on my mind, I found my Teddybear asleep in front of the TV. I kissed him on the neck to wake him up—a scene which repeated hundreds of times through the years. It was so very Sean. He reached back, pulled me into his lap and kissed me soundly.

That might have led to other things, but I was abstaining. I could have serviced Sean, but he did not ask it, which warmed my heart a little. We simply prepared for bed. Christine had loaned me the chemise, so I changed into it. With her breasts, it was a tight fit. Mine had it staining. Sean showed just a trace of surprise, but made no comment. I went to sleep with his hand inside, fingers around a nipple.

Friday morning came too soon. It occurred to me that I had not been sleeping well. This was in contrast to my previous week, when I slept soundly only when Sean brought (carried) me home. I mused the implications as I shaved Sean for the day. We were already domestic in the shower. It was one week to the day since I had first seen Sean naked.

After showering and dressing, we went to the small kitchen for another ritual. I had my egg and oatmeal while Sean had his open egg sandwich. We barely spoke, but there was a tension in the air. Today we would finalize many of the preparations—Sean in the office and myself with the costumers. Understanding the importance, I raised my glass of juice. Sean responded in kind. We touched plastic rims. Once he had gone, I realized how few words we had spoken. Was that good or bad?

My schedule did not allow for any pondering. I grabbed a bare ten minutes of stretching, then went to meet everyone at the garage. Since we were going into the bowels of Manhattan, we had two cars and two drivers. Sean had driven himself to work in his prize muscle car. George and the Mercedes were driving Siobhan and Francine. Russell was driving Christine and I in my Volvo. I apologized to Siobhan before we left. That was the last I saw of them for four hours.

Julian has a standard procedure for all his business. For my session, he chose to throw it out. As soon as Christine and I arrived, the two ladies locked the shop and escorted us down into Julian's workspace. Without asking, Christine started removing clothing. In short order, everyone was staring at the piano key pattern that ran from ankle to ass on both legs. With impeccable timing, Christine stepped out of her panties and bent over, displaying the heavier marks on her buttocks and softer places.

The others may not have seen it, but I noted a heavy, scabby line, which ran from the spine to just short of the anus, not beyond. Two other lines stopped abruptly at mid vulva. When I saw it, a knot in my gut loosened. I had put a great deal of effort into positioning the clamps and weights, not to mention the butt plug, so that they would catch as much of the whip ends as possible. Christine was showing me that I had been successful. At the very least, simple bowel movements would not be agony.

Of course, Christine had other motives. She is a shameless exhibitionist and proud of my skill. She was displaying both, to an audience which could appreciate some of the subtleties. It was not without effect. Julian was so engrossed that he did not notice me picking up a loose electrical cord. When the cord impacted the back of his trousers, he jumped forward and a wet spot appeared in front. Of all the video I never shot, that is the one I miss editing most. Julian's face was priceless.

After that, things began to move again. Christine did not dress, but Julian went to work, with only an ambivalent look in my direction. I think he was trying for reproachful, but there was too much longing to bring it off. I lifted his phone and sent myself his number. I then replied with a promise to tie his balls up and lash him while Christine sucked his cock. I showed both the ladies, before I sent it, and promised they could watch. You would have thought it was mid July from all the fanning going on.

My own fitting was boring in comparison. I took off everything, as usual, but the usual tension was not in the air. Julian spent a good fifteen minutes wrapping the short corset around, then another ten minutes adding the extension and tightening the strings. I relaxed into the sensations as into a warm bath. I do not think it was the reaction Julian expected, especially since I had him tighten it twice. The clamp on my body was reassuring. Christine understood perfectly.

As long as Julian drew out the process, we were still done before ten o'clock. I asked Maggie where to find decent coffee, but we never made it that far. There was a resale shop in front of Julian's corsetry. I went in, just to get a look, but we wound up spending over an hour. The first half hour we spent on shoes. For no apparent reason, there were at least a dozen pair of quality shoes in Christine's size. It was not quite the unmarked Blahnik pumps Siobhan had paid $300 for, but there were SAS, Naturalizer and Isaac Mizrahi. Instead of $80-$180 a pair, these were priced at $12.97 to $16.97. We bought all but one. Christine does not like checkered patterns.

Once we had shoes, we needed the rest of the outfit. Some were easy. Basic black pumps go with anything. The most fun was a darling pair of navy slingbacks, with red heels and a bow. We found a navy skirt, with white polka dots, a white convent blouse and a red belt that matched the heels. I wanted Christine to wear it out, but we had to cover the bruising on her calves. Christine shrugged and said, "Hose."

Sure enough, the store also sold new pantyhose and such. A pair of white nylon knee highs and some red hair ribbon came next. It was almost ready, but it needed one more thing. Cynthia's hooker-red lipstick completed the look. Christine's eye went wide when I pulled it out, then her eyes crinkled with mirth. We would see. Whatever else was true, Christine looked very sassy.

We were admiring the look in the full length mirror when my phone played

Hungry like a Wolf.

Without checking, I knew Christine had reset my ring tone and Francine was calling. I gave her a swipe on the back of Christine's head before I answered. Francine and Siobhan were around the corner by Julian's.

We checked out and went to lunch.

Siobhan:

Christine and I were messaging when there was a knock at the door. Sheila came in, looking lost. Considering what was going on in her life, I was not surprised. Sheila tried to wave us back, but Christine and I were having none of that. In seconds, the three of us were hugging fiercely.

When we broke, Christine went to dig in her bag. She pulled out a cute little black and silver chemise. Sheila went all misty eyed and hugged Christine. I suspected that the chemise would be the "borrowed" item for the wedding day. I did a little digging of my own. There were a great many vintage women's personal items stuffed various places, including Sheila and Sean's bedroom. I had retrieved one of them for Sheila to wear. It was an intricate sterling pin, with a blue stone. My eye put it pre-1920s, which made it suitable for the wedding theme.

I told Sheila that the pin was my grandmother's, though that was supposition. It had been in my mother's detritus and it made a good story. Many women do not get along with their mothers-in-law, and my mother was no exception. More likely it was a generation older, at least. Grandmother Richards was into modernization. She had been behind the addition to the house. Great grandmother Sparks had been a famous beauty, while great grandmother Richards had been high society. Either was possible. The important thing was that it was now in the hands of someone who would appreciate it.

After Sheila left, Christine came over and kissed me on the cheek. It was sweet, but I was in another mood. I told Christine to get her gag, because I did not want to wake the neighbors. I tied her up, left ankle and arm to the headboard, right ankle and arm to the footboard. I ran my hands over Christine's badly bruised ass, then I attacked her with a peacock feather. Lord Jesus her armpits were sensitive.

After Christine had three squirming orgasms, I untied her. She offered to make me cum—fully dressed. This I had to try. Christine had me sit in the desk chair. She took my hand and told me not to pull it back. Since this was in lieu of being tied up, I promised to comply. Christine licked my wrist and blew it dry. Then she licked and nibbled my entire hand, with special attention to the webbing. All the while she stroked the wrist with her fingertips and fingernails. In less than a minute I was gritting my teeth and clenching the rest of my body, struggling to keep still. After five minutes I was going completely crazy. Christine leaned over, as if to whisper in my ear. Instead she bit my earlobe. I came right on cue.

A few minutes later, Christine text me that we should exchange some foot worship. I felt my nipples crinkle at the thought. Long after that, we stripped down and went to bed. We spooned together, with Christine on the inside. I played with her hair and she stroked my hand. It was nice.

In the morning, we had a decision to make. We both would wear corsets. The question was whether to lace them or not. I elected a light pull, which gave me some figure control, without much discomfort. I then chose tall heels, but brought a pair of low ones as backup. Christine matched me. On the way to the cars, I grabbed a couple of energy bars and an orange. Christine made do with an orange.

The trip to Elizabeth was less than an ordeal, but only because I had the trip home from Brooklyn for comparison. Francine told me more than I wanted to know about Hollywood. Fortunately I was able to divert her to a subject I gave a shit about—clothing construction. I learned a lot about fabric weave and thread types. I would never have thought to check to see whether the color of the stitching matched the color of the cloth. If it did not, it was a reliable sign of cheap construction, regardless of the price. Unfortunately, the reverse was not true.

Once I had Francine lecturing and answering questions, she calmed down relative to her normal pace. I knew the type. To some degree, I was the type. There is a comfortable feeling in knowing a subject. Sharing it with an attentive audience is satisfying. And relaxing, which was invaluable to me, if not Francine. Naturally, she gave a quiz.

We arrived in Elizabeth ten minutes before the store opened. Without bothering to ask, I told George to find a drive-through breakfast. Francine ordered three breakfast plates, two coffees and ice cream. I had coffee and an egg sandwich. George refilled his thermos. Francine ate everything and drank one of the coffees before we made it to the store. George shook his head in amazement. I told him to remember if he was getting snacks. His grunt spoke volumes.

The store had not changed in three days, but my attitude had. The first time through the doors I had seen a chaotic mess, with concrete floors and bare lights. This time I saw the departments laid out and possibilities in the racks. Francine made a beeline to an empty merchandise cart. That made sense. They probably had just finished racking the merchandise. It was a good place to look for the newest arrivals.

The department was outerwear. Being late May, I had not worn a jacket in weeks. Francine went straight to the large end and pulled out half a dozen winter coats. The colors varied, but she showed me how to check the lining, the seam construction, the weight and a dozen other details. By the time she finished, I understood why her choices were better made than the ones still hanging.

We moved on to jackets. These had more colors and patterns. Some were lined. Some were not. Rather than focus on construction, Francine showed me the tailoring, where it lacked or was omitted. One jacket she singled out for particular abuse. On one hand the fabric was good quality, but the cut was sloppy, the stitching shoddy and length uneven. Then she set another jacket beside it. The color was different, but I could see a number of similarities. Before Francine said a word, I said, "Knock off." Francine favored me with a big smile. Even though the fabric was good, the first piece was a cheap imitation of a quality product. Francine said it was one way remnants died.

We moved to business jackets, then skirts and slacks, then full suits. Before I realized it, my phone was beeping. It was time to pick up Sheila, which meant our three hours were gone. It did not seem possible. I dropped another thousand on the contents of our cart, without thinking when I would wear them. Elspeth would help. I suspected Elspeth would be jealous, but that was good too.

We arrived at Julian's Parlor. Maggie and Millie were in, but no Sheila. Maggie complimented my look, and told us that Sheila had asked about coffee places nearby. Francine had her phone out before Maggie finished speaking. It turned out that Sheila was in the same building. Francine was off like a shot. Oh boy. That left me to manage the slippery stairs alone and in heels. I did my best Doctor and simply strode down the steps. To my surprise, it worked.

I was just starting to congratulate myself when I saw Sheila come around the corner with an unfamiliar woman. Whoever it was wore a great faux-schoolgirl outfit. The navy skirt had polka dots and a red belt. Her hair was done in pigtails, but with bright red ribbon. The navy shoes had three inch crimson heels. Matching it all was fire engine red lipstick. In fact...

I stopped dead. Christine was dressed in imitation of a high school girl, but looked mid twenties. Damn, she was hot. The impudent expression was perfect for the saucy outfit. Once again, I reminded myself that this was the Maid of Honor and a noted practical joker. You overlooked Christine at your peril.

Francine noticed me stopping. Seeing me stare at Christine, she laughed. "You think this is bad, you should see Pedro when he dresses as Patricia. Not only is he convincing as hell, he looks almost as good as Angela." That was surprisingly easy to picture. Pedro de la Garza had fine features and long Latin black hair. Put him in heels and a dress, it would work. The hard part was the casual way Francine tossed off Angela Molinari's name. Predictably, Francine's next words were, "Let's eat."

I was prepared for drive-through burger, but Francine had a place in mind. We had a long trek ahead, the first leg to Staten Island. Not far from the ferry, we stopped at a deli. Russell produced a picnic basket containing fruit and potato chips. We added half a dozen grinders and three thermoses: two of soup and one of coffee. Russell said he had sodas and water on ice. I wondered if I should thank Sean, Gerald or Sheila.

In all the years I lived less than forty miles away, I had never ridden the Staten Island Ferry. It was pretty cool, for five minutes. That was how long it took to set out the lunch. I had a cup of hot soup and half a sandwich. Sheila had soup. Christine, George and Russell had some of each. Francine cleaned up, then started pulling snacks out of the suitcase she uses as a purse. As I watched her eat the third melted Snickers bar, I recalled Sheila's words about Francine being eternally hungry. I resolved to lose a few pounds.

I rarely drive, and never in the City. I saw signs for the Lincoln tunnel and a lot of highrise buildings nearby. It was not a nice neighborhood. We pulled into a disreputable drive and plunged down a steep incline to underground parking. Francine greeted the attendant by name and told him there were two cars to go on her personal tab. There was a comic moment when the other guard asked "What personal tab?" and got kicked. Either Francine was routinely comped, or she owned it.

George stayed with the cars, but Russell came with us. That day, Russell exuded badass. It may seem trite, but having him there made me feel better. Somehow I figured that he would not be carrying packages later. I might, but he would be otherwise occupied. That worked for me.

We went up on the sidewalk, a block over and three blocks up. On the way we passed signs for four galleries, three theater companies, a dance company and about fifty restaurants. I finally ask Francine where we were. She said Chelsea. As we walked she flung her arm in various directions, referring to Penn Station, Chelsea park, the Fashion Institute, and the Empire State building. We were roughly in the center of everything she mentioned. I'm a country girl. I liked having all this in a different state.

Francine kept talking (of course). The number of theater-related businesses was staggering. In addition to theater companies, there were set companies, costume companies, talent companies and agents, booking agents, lawyers, accountants, facilitators and so forth. All this was mixed in with the arts people, book people, design people—plus the means to house and feed them. It was bewildering.

In mid-sentence, Francine stopped at an unmarked door. She produced a key ring and opened it. Inside was a long hallway, full of doors marked only with numbers. At #176, she again used the keys. We passed through to a noisy room, full of people operating sewing machines. We moved along the wall to an office. Inside was a balding man. The sign on his desk said Henry Schmidt, but Francine called him Fritz. He led us to a small work room and told us Jonathan would be in shortly.