Finishing School Ch 00 Prologue

Prologue

"You understand, Mr. Fredericks, that both you

and

your wife will have to sign the release forms," I said, using my best professional voice.

He was one of those men that just exudes power and authority. As he should have been. He was, after all, the Regional Vice-President of Seven Boring Things for a Fortune 50 company. But this was my domain and, after all, he had come to me.

But he just smiled and said, "she'll sign. I'll sign right now if you want me to."

I grinned and said, "all right, then. Would you like the tour?"

He stood and offered his hand.

"Absolutely," he said, as we shook, sealing the deal.

I picked up the telephone handset and punched the button to connect me to my secretary.

"Send her in for the tour," I said.

The door to my office opened before I put the handset back, and Jeanine stepped in, looking like she had just stepped off the set of the

Donna Reed Show

or, maybe,

Leave it to Beaver

. She was in a calf-length dress with an A-line skirt, and a wide belt cinching her waist tightly giving her a bit of an hourglass figure in spite of her matronly, 50-something body. The dress had a notched collar, a nice touch from the 1950s I thought. The dress was pink with a delicate pattern. Her pumps had a moderate heel, three inches or so, that did good things for her legs and her walk, and I noted that the seams of her nylons were ruler-straight. She had a simple strand of pearls necklace, her nice lady's watch, and her engagement and wedding ring set.

Her makeup was perfect of course. A tasteful eyeshadow, delicately arched eyebrows, a hint of eyeliner, and scarlet lips.

Her nails were done in matching scarlet, and manicured to a nice oval shape.

Her hair was a light cap of curls without a hair out of place.

"Jeanine, this is Mr. Fredericks, Mr. Fredericks, Jeanine," I said, making introductions formally.

She stepped to him, as she had been trained to do, eyes suitably downcast, and took his hand.

"Very pleased to meet you," she said, formally, again reflecting our training.

Fredericks smiled. That was usually the reaction when a potential client saw the results of our program.

"Jeanine," I said, using only her first name as we always did here at the school, "what classes are in progress right now?"

She thought for a second and said, "housework."

"That's a good one," I said, "take Mr. Fredericks to the classroom please."

She moved to Fredericks, taking his arm with both of her hands, looking up at him with a properly adoring expression, and said, "come with me, please, dear."

His smile spread.

"How long have you been here, Jeanine?" he asked.

She looked up at him, giving the impression that nothing existed in the world except him and that nothing was more important than pleasing him.

"I graduated from the 12-week course yesterday and my husband will pick me up on Saturday," she said, again giving the impression that being certain to answer him was the most important thing in the world right then. Her back was arched slightly, an almost subliminal offer. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes never left his.

"I see," he said, "are you anxious to get home?"

Her eyes got big and she said, "Oh, God, yes. I miss him so much. I just hope I can please him."

I moved in and said, "Jeanine, take Mr. Fredericks to classroom four now, please."

She tugged on his arm gently and they started to the classroom. I followed a few paces behind, admiring our work. She matched his stride perfectly, her hands on his arm, her eyes on his face, the look on her face something that could only be called "adoring." She was, in other words, a prime example of what we did here at the Finishing School.

In classroom four, a dozen of our girls were being taught proper housework technique. All of them looked more or less like Jeanine. We had figured out, when we were starting the school up, that the Donna Reed or June Cleaver look was the best for what our clients wanted. It was mostly dresses with A-line skirts although there were a couple of angora sweaters and poodle skirts in evidence. Those girls had white bobby socks, saddle shoes, and torpedo bras. All were perfectly coiffed and made up with tasteful jewelry.

This was Mrs. O'Neil's class so I figured Mr. Fredericks would get to see our operant conditioning in action. Greg and I had agreed, when we were first laying out the business plan, that there was no need to re-invent any wheels. It was mostly a matter of marketing and finding the right clientele. So our techniques would have been easily recognizable by Pavlov or Skinner. Bad behavior was punished, immediately and painfully, and good behavior was rewarded, again immediately but this time pleasurably.

Mrs. O'Neil got the first two weeks of classes. It was up to her to teach proper grooming, deportment, and basic duties. Housekeeping was one of those basics. I mean, come on, no husband wants to find his wife bitchy or looking bad because she's doing her job.

They were working on vacuuming, and it was like watching a well-choreographed dance. The girls, we always referred to them as girls regardless of their age or status, moved lightly, up on the toes of their pumps, moving with grace, almost dancing as they moved their vacuums back and forth across the carpeted room.

Mrs. O'Neil walked over to us, patted Jeanine on the head, said, "Hello dear," and then turned to Mr. Fredericks.

"I'm Mrs. O'Neil," she said, "one of the instructors here," as she extended her hand.

Fredericks took her hand and shook.

"Would you like to see how we discipline our girls when they need it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. I was watching him carefully and saw that he was getting excited. Jeanine, of course, was still holding his arm with both of her hands, looking up at him with that adoring simper.

"See the girl over there," she said, pointing at one of the girls in an angora sweater and poodle skirt.

"Yes," he said and he actually licked his lips.

"See how she moves like a fullback rather than a ballerina?" she asked.

We both looked and I thought she was well within specification even if not quite as graceful as the others.

"I see," Fredericks said and I thought,

bullshit

.

"Welllllll," Mrs. O'Neil said and I thought

you ARE a sadistic bitch, aren't you. But just what we need

.

She showed Fredericks the ring of fobs she had, much like the thing you use to set the alarm on your car but smaller, like little buttons.

He nodded.

She sorted through the ring and selected one.

"Let's see if we can't touch her up a little," she said.

Once again I watched as Fredericks licked his lips.

"Ready?" she asked, looking up at him and smiling like a damn cheerleader hoping to get laid under the bleachers by the quarterback.

He just nodded and I thought maybe he would have trouble trying to say anything.

"

MARTHA

," she yelled in an oddly high-pitched, very feminine voice.

The girl in the poodle skirt looked up and Mrs. O'Neil pushed the button.

Martha's eyes got big and she screamed, bending at the waist until she was almost double, her arms crossed, hugging herself as the scream kept going until she ran out of air, gasped, and screamed again.

I know, in my head, that it was only a few seconds, but standing there, watching as she screamed, gasped a breath, and screamed again it seemed like minutes, maybe hours.

Finally, Mrs. O'Neil released the button and the screaming stopped although Martha held that position, hugging herself, clearly gasping for breath.

"Oh my God," Fredericks said.

None of the other girls had reacted at all. They kept vacuuming as if nothing had happened.

"How?" Fredericks asked.

Mrs. O'Neil said, "Jeanine, explain please."

Jeanine held that pose, both hands on his arm and looking up with that same look of adoration.

"Do you know what a clitoris is, dear?" she asked.

Fredericks said, "yes."

"Have you ever used a TENS device?" she asked.

Fredericks looked confused at that apparent

non sequitur

. "A what?"

She smiled. "A TENS device. Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation," she said, smiling like a kid reciting a complicated poem, "one of those things used by physical therapists that makes your muscles twitch?"

He chuckled at that. "Oh, yes," he said.

"Well," she said, "our first day here they implant a miniature in all the girls. The probe is located right at that bundle of nerves at our clitoris. On one setting it can give great pain. On the other great pleasure. It's one or the other, nothing in between."

Again she smiled, that proud smile of a student properly giving the answer to a complicated question.

"Pleasure?" he asked.

Her eyes got big and for the first time left his. She looked at me.

"Give it to him," I said with a smile.

Now she looked like a kid just told she can go to the ice cream store as she reached up and took the small fob held on a very fine chain around her neck over her head and handed it to him.

He took it and inspected it.

"The green button," Mrs. O'Neil said, once again in full horny cheerleader mode, "gives pleasure."

"And the red?" asked Mr. Fredericks, stupidly I thought.

Mrs. O'Neil just smiled and pointed at Martha who was finally standing straight and had started vacuuming again, this time very light on her feet.

He grinned and I made a small bet with myself that Jeanine would be the next one screaming in pain.

I lost the bet. He pushed the green button and she cried out her sudden pleasure as the electrically induced orgasm took her.

He released the button and she panted for several seconds, getting her breathing back to normal.

"When can my wife start?" he asked.