|by Van © 2018
Well, it took
about two weeks to finalize the arrangements, but eventually...
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.
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
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
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
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!
- White high-heel
pumps with ankle straps;
- White fishnet
- White, fake fur,
French-cut, strapless, one-piece bodysuit;
- A pair of white,
fake fur, finger-less gloves (with pink palms);
- A pair of starched
white cuffs (with gold cuff links in the shape of cute
little gold carrots);
- White collar with
a black bow tie;
- Hairband with a
pair of cute, semi-erect bunny rabbit ears, also in white
fake fur (with pink satin interiors)
- A round, white,
fluffy bunny tail attached to the back of the bodysuit,
directly over my tailbone.
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
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
- Black shoes,
fishnets, and fake fur bodysuit.
- White cuffs (with
silver mouse cuff links).
- Black finger-less
gloves (with pink palms).
- White collar and
- Black cat ears
(with pink interiors).
- Drooping black cat
- The only accessory
she had that I didn't was a large (but relatively quiet)
jingle-bell dangling from her collar.
Libby Locke —
- Gray shoes,
fishnets, and fake fur bodysuit, with a light gray tummy.
- A much fluffier
tail, with black and gray bands.
- A Zorro-mask of
black mini-fur. (The eye openings were quite generous,
displaying her amazing brown eyes to full effect.)
- Sexy Racoon fit
Fern's Trickster persona perfectly.
could I hop away in the face of all that? Peer
pressure. By the way...
- (Or maybe she was
a Sexy Ocelot.)
- Libby's costume
was virtually identical to Micki's, only the fake fur was
tawny-tan fur with dark spots and she had a white tummy.
- Also, no
Not-At-All OMINOUS Minor Details Common to All of
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!
- The ankle-straps
of our high heel pumps had flush-mounted locking buckles.
- Our cuffs looked
like "normal" cloth shirt cuffs from the outside, but their
interiors included white leather straps, also with
flush-mounted locking buckles!
- Our collars were
similar, meaning they had cloth exteriors (including those
cute little bow-ties), but leather strap interiors with
- Each cuff and
collar had at least one small steel D-ring incorporated in
its strap. They were folded flat and not at all
noticeable, but they were there!
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
"C'mon," Libby chuckled, took me by the arm, and dragged (led)
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
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
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!