Winifred's Workshop
Winifred's Workshop

by Van © 2018

Chapter 11

Dramatis Personæ


Well, it took about two weeks to finalize the arrangements, but eventually... it happened!


I'd resigned myself to playing the lowly role of uncompensated serving girl at Irene's party, but then, I was the most junior member of The Club's Rope Chapter and all the other members would also be uncompensated serving girls, so what choice did I have?  Also... curiosity.

I was going to meet (and help serve) the Senior Members of The Club!  Nobody would tell me anything, but they just had to be fabulously wealthy and gorgeous older women, like Irene.  Right?  Even if some of them were scary and ugly (which I seriously doubted)
I'd still serve them drinks and crab puffs and stuff, no matter what.  I wouldn't want to embarrass Irene.  Looks aside, the main thing was they had to be was interesting.  If any of them were uninteresting, no matter what they looked like, I'd cross them off my list of Intriguing Not Rope Chapters of The Club.

Yes, I was curious.  I remain curious.  Curiosity is a good thing, and Molly Schmeck is curious.  (Allow me to rephrase that.)  Molly Schmeck exhibits curiosity.  Anyway...

There was also the issue of costumes.  I knew from the get-go that we'd be required to wear "costumes" of some sort and was assured that Irene would handle everything (so to speak), but nobody would tell me anything about the impending costumes either!  In fact, I could tell they were enjoying keeping me in the dark.  Apparently, the entire Rope Chapter has a streak of Mean Girl, not just Libby.

Actually, I was coming to recognize that Libby Locke is not an actual Mean Girl, but displays Mean Girl attributes as an affectation.  She's an artificial Mean Girl.  It's social camouflage.  And it wasn't like I was foisting Mean Girlishness upon her.  Being the gorgeous daughter of the gorgeous Irene, I suppose I assumed Mean Girl was her default state.  Know what I mean?  Grow up rich and gorgeous and at a certain age, without intervention, you become a Mean Girl.  Anyway, Libby isn't so bad.  Also, she's gorgeous!

Where were we?  Oh yes.  The party.

I'd made an appointment at my regular place and had my hair cut the day before.  My short-pageboy/long-pixie was in fresh trim, literally!  I was ready to go!

Micki, Fern, and I met at Winnie's house and Irene sent her handsome hunk of a chauffeur/bodyguard to pick us up in one of the Locke's SUVs.  That way we wouldn't have to drive separately to Stately Locke Manor and compete for parking with what I assumed would be the gazillions of limos and luxury sedans that would be delivering Irene's guests.  That's what I assumed, anyway.  The mansion was already abuzz with caterers and parking attendants.  Libby met us as we entered by way of a side entrance and led us on a circuitous journey to a spacious room that was empty except for a pair of clothing racks on wheels and a half-dozen straight chairs.  One of the racks held a score of hangers and the other four garment bags.

Winnie gave each of us a smiling kiss, then headed for the door.  She was leaving?

"Where ya goin'?" I inquired (demanded).

"My costume is elsewhere," she explained (cryptically), and was gone.

I pouted at the closed door.  Nobody tells me nothin'.  I heaved a sigh and turned to the others in the now Winnie-less room.  What else could I do?

Each of the garment bags bore a label with one of our names, and the bags themselves were of an unusual design, more like oversized hanging toiletry kits that true garment bags.  Each had the traditional big space in the shape of clothes-on-a-hanger for, uh, clothes-on-a-hanger, but the rest of the bag was mainly a series of zippered compartments, one on top of the other.  And only the stacked compartments held anything, specifically, the folded elements of our costumes.  The big hanging clothes spaces were empty.  The zippered compartments were full.  And you don't really care and I'm babbling again, right?  Anyway...

"Strip," Libby ordered, smiling in my direction.

"Huh?" I responded sagely.

The others were already removing their clothing and hanging them from the hangers on the formerly empty rack.

"Everything?" I inquired.  Logically we had to undress to get dressed, but how far?  And at that point the underwear question became moot.  Fern had already kicked off her sneakers, hung up her jacket, pulled her tank-top over her head, peeled down her jeans, and was completely nude.  That's right, Fern had gone commando again, like she had for her session at Winnie's studio.  The others weren't far behind, even though they had underwear to contend with.

I quickly followed suit, meaning I removed my suit, and by suit I mean my sneakers, jeans, t-shirt, and undies.  We had all dressed casual, knowing we'd be wearing Irene's mysterious costumes during the actual party.

And then... we opened our respective semi-unusual-garment-bags and the wait was over.

I'll spare you my astonishment, embarrassment, and near-continuous stream of whining complaints as I dressed myself (meaning was persuaded to dress myself) in the contents of the bag labeled "Molly."  My fellow Chapter members were highly entertained my discomfiture and begrudging compliance.  I could tell.  I even heard the A-word (adorable) used several times during whispered exchanges.

As with my past descriptions of Winnie's rope-work, I'll spare you the blow-by-blow (or the slither-by-slither) and cut to the final result, which was...

Molly Schmeck — Sexy Bunny!
I was ADORABLE!  (Even I had to admit it.)  I was also embarrassed, blushing, blinking through my glasses, and ready to call the whole thing off!

A few more details.

Everything but the shoes, cuffs, and collars was fake fur, but it was a very thin variety of fake fur, more-or-less thin white pile.

I've already mentioned that the bodysuit was French cut.  It exposed my white-fishnet-stocking-clad hips, just barely covering my crotch, and was giving me a bona fide camel-toe!  Also, it was decidedly thong-like in the back, exposing almost all of my white-fishnet-stocking-clad butt-cheeks!  Also, the suit had an elastic, corset-like waist that squeezed me like a girdle and pushed up my boobs to bulge atop a pair of half-cup shelves!

More about the suit:  A V-shaped dart in the front (held closed by a lattice of thin, crisscrossing white strings) exposed my inner side-boobs, or my entire inside cleavage, or whatever you call it (or them), halfway to my navel!  And the skimpy thing's top hem just barely covered my nipples!  In fact, if it wasn't for a horizontal band of fluffy fake fur trim, much longer than the rest, I think my nips might well have been fully exposed!  As it was, the tops of my areolae were just barely covered by the strip of "rabbit fur."

Needless to say... I was sexy!

So, you might ask, if the undeniably sexy bunny costume was so humiliating, mortifying, and kinky, why did I dress myself in it (with the smiling assistance of my fellow Chapter members) and why didn't I call the whole thing off?

I'll tell you why.  Peer pressure.

The other Chapter members' costumes were just as sexy, revealing, kinky, and ADORABLE!  How could I chicken out!  (Wait.  Nobody was a chicken.)  How could I hop away like a frightened bunny?

Here's the rundown.

Micki Booker — Sexy Cat!
Fern Wu — Sexy Racoon!
Libby Locke — Sexy Leopard! 
Anyway...  How could I hop away in the face of all that?  Peer pressure.  By the way...

Not-At-All OMINOUS Minor Details Common to All of Our Costumes!
Nothing was attached to anything (at the moment), but we couldn't remove our heels, cuffs, or collars without the use of the tiny gold key which (at the moment) hung around Libby's neck on a thin gold chain.  The bottom line:  Our Sexy Animal costumes were bondage waiting to happen!

Irene!  How dare you!

I couldn't help but wish Winnie hadn't scurried off to... wherever it was she'd scurried off to.  There was no fifth garment bag hanging on the rack with her name on it, and there should have been, and if there's a God in heaven it would have held a Sexy Fox costume!  I felt cheated... also sexy and embarrassed.

Anyway, resplendent in our Sexy Animal costumes and with Sexy Leopard Libby as our guide, we giggled and smiled (or in my case, blushed and pouted), abandoned our street clothes, propriety, and pride, and made our way to Stately Locke Manor's Stately Kitchen, which turned out to be more of a Kitchen Complex.  It was practically industrial.  Not surprising, actually, as Locke Manor was not only Stately but Huge.  Giant fancy parties might not happen every day, but when they did, food preparation would be a major logistical operation that would require space, and the mansion had it, lots of it... meaning space.

Anyway, about a dozen men and women were present, all dressed in white cook's outfits.  All had things to do, and all were doing them.  I don't know who were caterers hired for the occasion and who were regular household staff, but they were very busy.  The heat from the ovens was mildly oppressive and a zillion savory aromas filled the air.  The noise was incredible... but now that I think about it, the noise was entirely credible.  That many people making that much yummy food makes for a lot of clattering and clanging pots, pans, bowls, spoons, and whisks.

A rather imposing woman lumbered towards us.  She was six-foot something with broad shoulders and a not unattractive but flushed and semi-scowling face.

"It's about time," the woman growled.

"Sorry, Chef," Libby said.  Sexy Leopard Libby wasn't smiling, but she wasn't intimidated, either.

The woman (who apparently was the head chef) pointed to a counter cluttered with mostly empty trays.  "Food will appear there."  She pointed at a pair of swinging doors.  "The party is out there."  She pointed at another counter with trays of glasses and rows of bottles being carried over by a white-clad woman from a nearby bank of refrigerators.  "If you haven't eaten yet, feel free to nosh, but don't overeat and don't you dare get drunk.  Kickoff is in twenty-seven minutes.  If you have any questions, too bad."  And with that she turned and returned to the fray— "Chef!"  Chef!"  "Chef" —answering a flurry of demands for her expert attention.

Even at that point, before we'd even started serving, I'd already formed the opinion that catering looked like work.  I decided to stick to writing and blogging.

"Yes, Chef!" Libby answered belatedly, then we scampered and/or strolled to the trays of food and sampled the cooks' efforts.  Everything was delicious... especially the crab puffs, the tiny little shrimp toasts, and the mini-quiches.  And the bacon-wrapped sausages.  And the Swedish meatballs.  And the... everything.

Sexy Raccoon Fern opened pint-sized bottles of spring-water and handed them around.  Fern Wu, pillar of sobriety.  Go figure.

Anyway, we were just about finished with our light meal when the swinging doors opened and Irene entered.  She was smiling.  Her blonde tresses cascaded to her bare shoulders in carefully coiffed disarray.  A fortune in glittering diamonds graced her neck and dangled from her ears in the form of a choker and a pair of drop earrings.  Her formal, floor-length gown was strapless, black, and hugged her waist before falling to the floor.  A pair of open-toed sandals graced her perfect feet.  She was GORGEOUS!  My camel-toed crotch agreed.

"Aren't you girls just perfect," she gushed.

Libby rolled her eyes, Fern grinned, Micki cocked an eyebrow (at thirty-something she was a little old to be called "girl"), while I... wait for it... blinked through my glasses and blushed.

Irene continued smiling and looking us up and down, visually examining every detail of our costumes, from our locked on heels to our fluffy animal ears.  I was last.  Irene's smile remained unchanged (as did my blush), but faded into a coy moue as she focused on my blushing face.  "Aren't you missing an accessory?" she purred.

"She is," Libby agreed, "but I thought I'd let you explain the Club tradition involved before correcting the oversight."

I started blinking again.  Missing accessory?  What missing accessory?

"Molly already thinks we're too mean to her," Fern chuckled.  "We thought you might as well share the love."

Irene focused on Fern.  "I'll deal with you later," she promised, then turned back to me.  Her smile had returned.  "During Senior parties, it's a Club tradition that the most junior member of the host Chapter is designated by the wearing of a specific accessory."

"What does that mean?" I demanded (pouted).  "What accessory are you—mmpfh!"  Somebody, one of my so called "friends," had stepped behind me, reached around my head from either side, and popped a ball-gag in my mouth!  Irene was still in front of me, the Sexy Raccoon was holding my left arm, the Sexy Cat my right arm, so by process of elimination the Sexy Leopard was doing the honors.

Libby!  And just when I was about to grant her tentative non Mean Girl status.

The gag was like the training ventilated-ball-gags I'd worn earlier, meaning its diameter was smaller than a standard-damsel-silencer ball-gag.  However, it was solid.  No ventilation holes.

"Mrrrpfh!"  This was an outrage!  How dare they!

Irene picked up a steel serving tray and held its polished surface in front of my grimacing and now gagged face.  It wasn't a perfect mirror, but was close enough.  I could now see that the gag's strap was white, the ball pink, and molded into or attached to the front of the pink rubber sphere was a pair of white, rectangular, and apparently enamel... teeth!  Teeth!  And they protruded from under my upper lip like buckteeth!  Bunny incisors!

I stared at my reflection in the tray.  What an outrage!  How dare they!  How humiliating!  How adorable!  I had to admit it.  I was adorable... and gagged.

"It really is a tradition," Irene chuckled as Fern and Micki released my arms, "and has the virtue of the junior member not being able to embarrass her Senior with naive questions or comments."

I reached behind and felt for the gag's buckle.  It had a flush-mounted locking buckle, like the other straps of our costumes.  Dammit!  (Pardon my French.)

Libby stepped in front of her mother, removing the gold chain with its dangling key from her Sexy Leopard neck, and held it open.  Micki had stepped behind our Senior and used her Sexy Cat fingers to secure the clasp.  Now, a zillion-dollar diamond choker and a fine gold chain and tiny key graced Irene's neck.

"Thank you, Pumpkin, Micki," Irene purred, planted a kiss on Libby's cheek, a second kiss on Micki's, then smiled at the rest of us.  "My guests will start arriving at any minute.  Break a leg!"

And with that, she turned and left via the swinging doors.

I turned and stared daggers at my fellow Sexy Animals, my hands clenched in tight fists.

"Oh, look," Fern cooed, pointing at my hands.  "Cute little bunny paws!"

Okay, that did it!  Fern was gonna get slapped!.  Not right now, of course.  It would cast a shadow on our Senior's party.  Wouldn't want to embarrass Irene.  Later.  And from the way my fellow Sexy Animals were smiling at me, it might even be slaps all around.

Micki turned, parted the swinging doors, and was peeking through the gap.  "Guests," she announced.  "We're on."

We straightened our bow-ties and fluffed our ears.  'Screw your courage to the sticking place!' I mentally quoted.  (William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, Scene VII.)   Then, we lifted trays laden with finger food or flutes of champagne and entered the party.

Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 11

I won't waste a lot of time describing the cluster of interconnected rooms that comprised Irene's party-space.  It was Stately Locke Manor.  Everything was expensive and in exquisitely good taste.  Lots of comfy furniture, a crackling fireplace (apparently just for the hell of it), and plenty of room, even for a modest crowd.

I noticed a buffet table off to one side laden with more of the same food we were carrying.  Also, several twenty-something young women in traditional maid uniforms were in attendance.  I assumed they were members of Irene's regular staff, there to take up the slack if one of the Sexy Animal servers went rogue and had to be put down.  Actually, I was grateful they were there.  What do I know about being a serving girl?  Oh-by-the-way, all the maids were cute and/or beautiful and/or adorable.  Pretty maids all in a row.  I know, big surprise.  Irene hires pretty maids.

 Anyway, what you really want to hear about are the mysterious Seniors, Irene's guests.  Am I right?

It turns out my intuition had been spot on.  All the guests were advanced in years... over 40... or even 50!  Also, every one of them was as gorgeous as Irene, each in her own way, and were dressed to the nines in formal gowns.  All black.  Lots and lots of cleavage and bare shoulders.  Lots of jewelry, enough that they could have tossed it all in a pile, found a good broker, and purchased a yacht or small jet.  Every complexion and hair color on the planet was represented.  It was a United Nations of mature pulchritude!  A melting pot of experienced eloquence!  A plethora of seasoned beauty!  A covey of comely elders!  (Okay, I'm going to stop now.)

I was impressed, and so was my camel-toe.  I was also terrified.

A dozen or so Seniors were already present, and more were arriving all the time!  Exactly how many Chapters did The Club have?  Had I been misled?  Maybe Irene's guests weren't all Seniors, but friends of Seniors, and friends of friends of Seniors.  Anyway, all the women were beautiful and obviously rich.  And other than the presence of four Sexy Animals serving drinks and canapés, this could have been any get together
of ultra-rich ladies.

And then, I noticed something else.

Irene was exchanging greetings with a cluster of newcomers.  The group parted, meaning various gorgeously gowned bodies cleared the way... and I could now see that Winnie was at Irene's side.

I suppose I should mention that Winnie was naked and tied up!  She was also being led around on a rope leash, the end of which was in Irene's hand!

Winnie was box-tied.  I suppose we
might as well rename the Rope Chapter the Box-tie Chapter.  And while I might be a novice, even I had gained enough experience to know why we favored the box-tie.  It's, uh, comfortable.  It allows for semi-long-term bondage without the need to keep a licensed physical therapist on retainer.  Even a newbie like Molly Schmeck could endure an overnight box-tie without suffering lasting deleterious aftereffects.  Nothing that a sauna and maybe a massage couldn't handle, that is.

Anyway, it was a box-tie.  Not the most complicated box-tie I'd ever seen, but not the simplest, either.  The last time Winnie had box-tied Micki and myself our bonds had been more elaborate, but Winnie's box-tie was aesthetically pleasing.  It was beautiful.  Of course, it was binding the naked, curvaceous, smooth, firm, freckled body of Winifred Wilde, so how could it not be beautiful?

And it was now abundantly clear that even if only a fraction of Irene's guests were actual Seniors, meaning leaders of their own Chapters of The Club, all of them were in on The Big Secret, and none of them had any problems with it.

I carried my tray of champagne flutes through the throng (or semi-throng).  One at a time I was relieved of my burden of chilled, bubbling flutes, but even though I was a lowly serving girl, I wasn't ignored, something I'd assumed would be the norm at a snooty party of super-rich biddies.  I hadn't yet bumped into Irene and the various clusters of guests fussing over Winnie, but everybody seemed to already know my name.

"And this must be Molly!"  "Oh, isn't she adorable?"  "Hello, Molly."  "Welcome to The Club, Molly."  "Oh, isn't she adorable?"  "With that cute little gag you must be Molly, Irene's new member."  "Oh, isn't she adorable?"

All the gushing questions were rhetorical, of course, as I was still wearing my bucktooth-ball-gag.

I smiled (meaning grimaced) and held the tray so Irene's guests could take flutes and quench their thirsts, and did my best to ignore their Cruel Taunts.  "Adorable!"  I heard it over and over.  And I swear, I tried not to be adorable.  I really tried, but was a miserable failure.  I was adorable.  (Truth be told, everybody was very nice.)

Tray followed tray.  Bubbly.  Crab-puffs.  More bubbly.  Bacon-wrapped mini-sausages.  Yet more bubbly.  Eventually, it was obvious that everyone was snacked out, quenched, and no longer required the beverage-toting or food-pushing services of Sexy Animals.  So... things changed.

Without my tray I idly wandered through the party (and tried not to be adorable).  I passed a room and found Micki leading what appeared to be a literary discussion.  The walls were lined with bookshelves (and books), so I guess it was the mansion's library.  Or maybe one of the mansion's libraries.  Stately Locke Manor is big enough for a half-dozen libraries.  Anyway, Micki was holding an open book and enthusiastically expounding the virtues of the author and his or her works.  I was too far away to hear what she was saying, but I could understand perfectly why the dozen or so guests smiling and listening to the lecture were interested.  How often do you get to participate in an impromptu book club hosted by a seriously gorgeous Sexy Cat who's also a professional librarian?

In another room, Fern was dancing.  She was being accompanied on the cello by a beautiful older woman with white hair in a strapless gown who reminded me a lot of Gwyneth Paltrow's mom.  What's her name?  Blythe Danner!  That's it!  The cellist wasn't Blythe Danner, of course, but she looked like Blythe Danner... sort of.  Anyway, the Blythe Danner lookalike played the cello and Fern danced.  And it was a Kabuki dance.  Fern had a pair of fans, but no mask.  Kabuki?  You know, that traditional, highly stylized Japanese art form?  Kabuki dancing.  Anyway, Fern danced.

I reminded myself that I'd had nothing to drink all night except spring-water, nothing to eat except the same delicious party-food everybody else was eating, and nobody else was exhibiting signs of having bizarre visions.  So, the probability I'd consumed some sort of hallucinogen was insignificant.  Anyway, Fern Kabuki danced and the cello-player played.  I watched for a while... along with several of Irene's enraptured guests... then shook my gagged head and left.

Almost immediately I bumped into Libby.

"There you are," she said.  The key to our costumes was back in her hand.  Obviously, she'd retrieved it from around her mother's neck.

"Mrrrpf?" I inquired.  Libby had spun me around, pulled my hands together behind my back, and was doing something to my cuffs.  I heard a quiet click, tugged on my wrists, and discovered my cuffs were now joined and I was wearing what amounted to a pair of highly unusual and bizarrely decorative handcuffs!  I spun back around and glared at my fellow Chapter member.  "Mrrrpf!"  This time it was not a question.

"C'mon," Libby chuckled, took me by the arm, and dragged (led) me away.

I was miffed.  I'd transfixed the Sexy Leopard with my Sexy Bunny laser-beam eyes and she hadn't even had the common courtesy to burst into flames!

Libby led me into the main room, the one with the fireplace, then towards the fireplace in question and the cluster of comfy furniture facing the largely decorative blaze.

"Molly!  Come here, darling!"

That was Irene.  She was sitting at one end of a comfy-looking sofa that also held two of her Senior friends.  Other elegantly gowned Seniors occupied nearby easy chairs.  All were smiling and sipping brandy.  I guess the maids were distributing brandy.  I know I hadn't distributed any brandy, and I hadn't seen any of the other Sexy Animals distributing brandy.  Maybe Libby had distributed brandy while I'd been observing Micki's book club and Fern's dance recital.  And now she was delivering me to her mother.

Libby forced me to recline, face up, across the three Seniors on the couch.  Okay, I didn't really resist.  She helped me recline.  Soon, my gagged head and bare shoulders were in Irene's lap, my middle was gracing the lap of a fifty-something brunette who looked, uh, French, and my feet were in the lap of a forty-something Asian woman who somewhat reminded me of Lucy Liu.  Almond eyes, high cheekbones, long silky-black hair, smiling lips... Lucy Liu.  Okay, obviously she wasn't Lucy Liu, but she was definitely Lucy Liu-like, maybe 85%.

Irene leaned close and kissed my slightly sweaty forehead, then smiled at her daughter and held out her hand.

Libby smiled back and handed her mother the key and golden chain.  She then blew me a smiling kiss, turned, and walked away, swinging her Sexy Leopard tail.

Irene turned my head, unlocked my bunny-bucktooth-ball-gag, and secured the buckle on its first hole.  She then handed the key to the French woman, who handed it to the Lucy Liu-esque woman.  Meanwhile, Irene gently plucked the ball from my mouth, leaned close, and kissed my lips.

"Are you enjoying the party, Molly?" Irene inquired.

I blinked through my glasses, my blue eyes locked with my Senior's blue eyes, and nodded.  "Uh-huh."

"Absolument adorable," the French woman sighed.  It was French.  "Abzu-lee-mon ador-l'ab."  (I don't speak French, but I know it when I hear it.  Certainement!)

I waited for the Asian woman to call me adorable in Mandarin, but instead she smiled, used the key to unlock my shoes, unbuckled the ankle-straps, pulled the high-heel pumps off my pointing, white-fishnet-clad feet, and dropped them to the side.  I heard the shoes land on the carpet with a quiet clomp.

Irene combed her fingers through my hair, straightening my bangs.  The French woman rested her left hand on my lower tummy and her right hand on my white-fishnet-clad right thigh.  Pseudo Lucy Liu began gently massaging my white-fishnet-clad tootsies.

My heart beating rapidly, I lay across the laps of the trio of elegantly gowned, seriously beautiful older women, and tried not to squirm.  Squirming would have been rude.

"Now," Irene said (not to me), "where were we?"

One of the women sipping brandy and watching from one of the easy chairs rattled off something in French.

"Bien sûr," Irene chuckled, then continued speaking French.  Apparently, my arrival had interrupted a story.  An anecdote about Irene's last visit to Paris?  Who knows, but it was all in French.

The other women smiled, and whatever Irene was saying turned into a conversation, all entirely in French.

I listened.  French is a pretty language.  I still had no idea what any of them were saying.  At least it didn't seem to be about me... as far as I could tell.

Irene continued playing with my hair.  The French woman's hands began moving, gently caressing my costumed body.  The Lucy-woman continued massaging my feet.  It felt good, all of it, especially the feet.  Lugging around trays of champagne and fancy edibles in high heeled shoes can get old.  Who knew?  Anyway, my dogs hadn't exactly been barkin', but a foot massage was most welcome, and the smiling Asian woman had magic fingers.

And then, I sighed, closed my eyes, and something surprising happened: I fell asleep!


Winifred's Workshop 
 Chapter 11


Chapter 10 Թ Chapter 12