"You understand, Mr. Fredericks," I said, sitting at my big, impressive desk, my best serious look on my face, "that the $60,000 tuition is just the base rate. There will be additional charges billed to your credit card and I won't be calling for approval."
He chuckled and said, "David, I grew up middle class, went broke, now I have plenty of money, and at no point did I worry about nickles and dimes. I've signed and I won't be bitching about charges at this point."
"Okay," I said, "the lawyer says I need to remind you for the record and on tape."
I turned to his trophy wife, and what a piece of work she was. I figured she was still getting asked for her ID if she went into a bar. She was blonde although to my trained eye it was clear that when I had her naked her natural hair color would be something else. She was over-made up, that blonde hair piled high, and over-accessorized (if it's not a word it should be) with a half dozen rings and studs in her ears, a Goddam nose ring, what I always called a snot hook, rings on each finger and a half dozen gold chains around her neck, showing nicely on the expanse of well-enhanced cleavage she was displaying behind the expensive silk blouse unbuttoned three buttons down.
And just to complete the image of a trophy wife brat, she was chewing fucking GUM!
Oh, sweet cheeks, I'm going to handle your orientation myself, I thought.
"And you, Tiffany," I said, wondering if that was actually what was on her birth certificate, "do you understand what the Finishing School is about?"
She was leaning back in her chair, exuding insolence.
"Anything for my baby," she said, flashing Fredericks an adoring look so fake I expected a movie director to materialize and yell "CUT!"
"Where do I sign?" she asked, deigning to lean forward.
I pushed the contract across the desk, the little stick-on "Sign Here" tags showing the half dozen places she needed to sign. She sighed, theatrically, and scrawled something unreadable. That was okay, though. I had a video recorder going and Mrs. O'Neil as a witness.
"All right, then," I said standing and walking around the desk.
"Kiss your bride goodbye," I said, offering my hand and shaking as Fredericks stood, "she'll be a new woman the next time you see her."
Tiffany stood too and kissed him and it was obvious how she had bagged her sugar daddy. The kiss absolutely oozed promise and pleasure. She was molded to him, one hand around his neck, one entwined in his hair. One foot raised in a scene I knew she had watched in a movie somewhere. Her hips rocked in minuscule motions, almost too tiny to see, but I'm certain Fredericks was feeling them.
Hell, my dick got hard watching that scene and I was pretty jaded when it came to women being sexy.
Finally, he broke the kiss and caught my eye. In that instant I understood. He knew exactly what he had, and enjoyed it, but wasn't about to be taken in by it.
I grinned back.
He patted her cheek, turned, and left without looking back.
When he was gone her act turned off.
It was like a switch turned off her adoring trophy wife persona the instant the door closed behind him.
"All right, let's get this bullshit over," she said, all haughty Lady of the Manor, another scene I was sure she had watched on the big screen somewhere.
Well, I had seen this act before too.
I reached out, quick as I had been taught in those hundreds of hours in a karate dojo, and grabbed her by the hair, twisting, the sudden pain and shock immobilizing her. Mrs. O'Neil moved in, expertly, this wasn't our first rodeo, stuck the needle into her neck and drove the plunger home.
I held her while the bolus of Ketamine did its job and she quit fighting. She wasn't exactly unconscious, but she was very much open to suggestion.
We walked her down to the little surgery room.
When Mrs. O'Neil told her to undress she did so without hesitation. Then we got her situated in the special gynecological chair we had developed. We laid the chair back until she was prone. I enjoyed watching Mrs. O'Neil work as she tightened the strap that ran around the headrest to hold her in place by looping around her neck, not tightly enough to choke but enough to prevent any movement. A second strap across her forehead, this one much tighter, held her head absolutely immobile.
Similar straps at wrists and elbows locked her arms to the armrests and a wide belt across her hips fastened her to the chair. She worked one of the little foot pumps at the base of the chair and Tiffany's hips rocked forward, pushed up by the cushion. Two more straps, one at her ankles and one at her shin just below her knee, clamped her firmly to the stirrups, and as I watched Mrs. O'Neil moved first the right and then the left stirrup to its maximum point, leaving the lovely Tiffany completely exposed.
I wasn't surprised that she was smooth as a grape. So smooth, in fact, that I assumed it was permanent, something involving lasers and chemicals I figured.
Mrs. O'Neil finished the preparations with strong surgical tape. She used a special wet wipe to clean Tiffany's clitoral hood and then parted the very top of her vaginal slit, stuck the end of the tape on the bare skin she had cleaned, and then pulled the tape up, pulling the clitoral hood out of the way before sticking the rest of the tape to the skin of her belly, holding the hood back. She did the same thing to both of Tiffany's full, plump, outer lips, her
labia majora
, taping them to her thighs.
She carefully cleaned the skin around Tiffany's clitoris, a very distinct, VERY pink little button, plainly on display in this position.
"Now, the tricky part," she said, tearing open the little package that held the device that was the key to the Finishing School's success. About the size of a hearing aid battery with a very thin wire about a half-inch long exposed.
The wire was like one of those acupuncture needles, so fine it was barely felt as it probed. And she was probing now. It's important that the Training Aid be located precisely in that ganglia of nerves that offer a woman her pleasure.
Suddenly Tiffany screamed and you could see her body straining against the straps that bound her to the chair.
"There you are, you little rascal," Mrs. O'Neil said in a satisfied tone as she carefully marked the spot while Tiffany's screams echoed around the room.
Her screams stopped suddenly as Mrs. O'Neil turned the training aid off.
"Now, let's get you fixed, dear," she said in a voice that would have calmed a frightened fawn.
This part always fascinated me, so I watched as she filled the syringe with Novocaine and administered a half dozen shots around Tiffany's clitoris.
She made a small incision with a scalpel, very little blood, and carefully placed the little device where she had marked. Then she used a dozen tiny stitches to suture the little wound, clipped the threads, carefully cleaned the area, and then covered the wound with a flesh-colored material, essentially super glue, before stepping back with a satisfied smile on her face and saying, "Done!"
Tiffany was still very much under the influence of the drug and offered no resistance as we unstrapped her from the chair, dropped a fresh white shift over her head, and led her to her quarters.
"Take this, dear," she said, offering two Ramelteon tablets and a glass of water.
She took them.
"Now lay down, honey," Mrs. O'Neil said, "and get some sleep." She turned on the speaker built into the wall and restful, quiet music filled the room.
I watched, always fascinated, as the drugs took effect and Tiffany went to sleep.
"And now, me?" Mrs. O'Neil asked, a speculative look in her eye.
I grinned. "You know me too well," I said.
She smiled. "Oh," she said, "you men are so predictable."
"Come along, then," she said, taking my hand.
In her room she turned, faced me, and slowly, holding my eyes with hers as she did it, lifted the fine chain that was around her neck over her head and handed it to me. I smiled and caressed the fob suspended from the chain.
"Sadist," she said, the desire clear on her face, the womanscent of her excitement in the air.
"Masochist," I said, grinning, and pushed the button.
Her body went rigid and she was breathing in sharp little pants as she accepted the agony I was giving her.
Her will broke. I was always amazed at how much she could take. Our girls fell to the ground, screaming at the first touch of the Training Aid. But Mrs. O'Neil stood it for almost a minute before falling to the ground and crawling to me.
"No more, please, sir, god, please, no more," she said, wrapping her arms around my knees and kissing the material of my pants at my knees.
I made her beg and grovel for another half minute or so before releasing her.
She collapsed, sobbing, curled into the fetal position, hugging herself where she hurt.
I watched for another minute or so and then pushed the other button.
The orgasm might be artificial, but it is no less real. She was screaming again, but this time she was screaming, "YESSSSSS, GOD YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS."
When I released her this time she was gasping for air, great whooping breaths like a swimmer breaking water after too long underwater.
I moved to sit on the edge of the bed and watch while she got herself back under control.
Finally, she stood.
"Take off your clothes," I said, "entertain me."
She smiled and put on a record, yes, an actual vinyl record, and as the soft music, what she called "torch songs," started up, started her strip tease.
I loved watching her. It was such an interesting contrast. Her face and her hair and her body were all the 50-something matron she was. But in her head, she was still the high school cheerleader who had gone steady with the running back and got knocked up at 17.
Now, at 50-something, her body showed the child she had born, and the years in between.
She parted her legs, a bit more than shoulder length, and stood still for a moment or two, picking up the beat. Her hips started moving, snapping side to side. She did that thing only a woman seems to be able to pull off, running the fingers of her right hand through the left side of her hair and then doing the opposite, her left hand through the right side of her hair as her body picked up the rhythm.
She made each button of her jacket a little two-act play, first working the button through the buttonhole and then popping the button free. When she shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it, artfully I thought, to lay in the chair in the corner of the room, that matron's body was on display. Her bra showed through the not-quite-opaque material of her blouse and she started doing the button thing again on her blouse.
The blouse joined the jacket and before the next song was over, the skirt joined them.
