Kitty & Teddy, LLC Ch. 04a

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy:

"Nanny CC is an interesting case. Her devotion to Mom is the stuff of legend, but she always referred to Aunt Frannie as her teacher. Perhaps rabbi or guru would be closer. With CC, you always have to fill in gaps."

Chapter 11a - New Hire Orientation

CC:

I am Christine Collins, commonly known as CC, and I did not want to do my job. I was a waitress for R&T's Coffee Shop, also known as the 7^th Street Diner. It was a dead end job at a greasy spoon, but it almost paid the bills. I had already been through two other jobs and was looking, quietly, for another. If Mr. Fredricks found out, he would fire me on the spot.

I was 19 years old, less than a year removed from high school. At 5'8" and only 110 pounds, I'm a bit thin, but have the tits to fill out a uniform. It gets me interviews, but I have trouble when someone wants me to talk. It has always been like that.

I am neither pretty nor beautiful. In spite of my tits, I have had only a handful of boys show interest and could count the physical encounters on one hand. I suppose it was partly it was because I did not understand how to dress or use make up, but mostly it was because I was painfully shy. As dead end as this job was, it would not be easy to find another one, much less a better one.

That day was slow. I had already had a regular old geezer, getting his daily soup and sandwich. My next table was another guy that came in occasionally. He is not big, but comes across as solid, dangerous and ex-military. With him was a shortish accounting type, who did not give a shit if anyone knew he was gay.

After I served the geezer his lunch, I picked up the plates for the other table. As I approached, I quit worrying about serving the food, getting a tip, or paying my bills. In fact, I did not want to do much of anything, except listen to the conversation at my last table:

Guy 1: "Save the last one for a moment. It's a female subject, and I want you to view it separately. What do you think about the others?"

Guy 2: "Hot. Really hot. There are things that could be better. For example, the lighting is all passive. None of these used a flash. The camera is good, but not studio grade. That said, the composition is excellent. Every shot looks completely unstaged. That is odd since the kiss mark is central to each shot. Where did you get these?"

It was the reference to a female subject that caught my attention. It sounded like they were talking about pictures. The way Guy 2 said "Hot. Really hot." told me he was not talking about the weather. The lust was almost tangible.

Guy 1: "Not yet. Turn to the last shot, the one with the female subject. Tell me about it."

Guy 2: "This is fine work too, exceptional in fact. I have done thousands of female nudes in the last year. Dozens of them are in this vein. I would stack this torso shot with any of them. The framing is outstanding. In this case, the face would distract from the interest. At the top, you get these fantastic shoulders. It takes a moment to notice that the arms are bound. The hair forward is inspired. The line leads you down to a glistening pussy, with just the tip of the clitoris poking out. That is very difficult to stage. The pubic hair could be shorter, or removed, but here it looks very natural, as if this were a candid shot."

The part about "arms are bound" sent electricity through my body. The line about "glistening pussy" could refer just as well to me. He went on.

Guy 2:"But, there is still more. The asymmetry, caused by the hair, draws attention to the perfection of the breasts. The shape is very nice for breasts this heavy, almost as if they were never subject to gravity, yet the skin says a woman in her mid to late 20s. The cherry on the sundae is the little curl of hair framing the nipple of the covered breast. That kind of touch is often purely chance, again, making the whole image look spontaneous.

"That last shot is an award winner if it ever gets entered. The others would have a dozen publishers pounding on the door. If you can get the photographer that shot these, why do you need me?"

Guy 1: "You clearly respect the artist. As you might guess, she is the owner of the lips. She staged each of the shots, save the last one. It happens, I staged that one. Is this woman someone you could work with? You would still be behind the camera, but she would have artistic control?"

What lips?, I thought. What the hell was he talking about?

Guy 2: "Holy Moses, Sean. You sure know how to drop a bomb. If you had asked me without showing me the pictures, I would have told you to fuck yourself. Better yet, I would have told you to lean over the table so I could do it without lubrication. But, as you clearly intended to point out, you have me over a barrel. I would do a lot to finish this project, and she clearly has the talent to help get that done. So yes, I can work for this woman, if she can work with me. Humph, she probably does half her work with closet gays as it is. I might let her stage me, or have you do it."

Guy 1: "OK. Here is where things stand. I have a lunch meeting with her tomorrow. We are friendly, but I also know that her schedule is packed. Hopefully, Helen can help shift some of that load. One way or another, we will know by one o'clock tomorrow. So, go to Mass. See a movie. Take some time for yourself. Either I land her at the meeting, or I am well and truly fucked. If it makes you feel better, I consider her to be replacing me, not you."

Guy 2: "That's a point. If she has artistic control, we might get a coherent theme, finally. That is one area where you well and truly suck. As a sucker of no mean repute myself, that is my highest praise. But, there is something you have not told me. Give."

Guy 1: "What I did not tell you is that she did not shoot any of those pictures. They were taken out of video. It was really good quality video, but she never took a shot."

Guy 2: "Are you telling me she cut all these prints out of digital video recordings? That would explain the lighting and the spontaneity. And the kisses. It was bull's eye cropping. Holy Freaking Moses, she got professional grade prints out of video. Yes, Sean, I want to meet this woman. In fact, I could line up twenty people that would want to meet this woman."

Guy 1: "Don't bother. I am already dating her."

Guy 2: "That is what the lipstick on the last picture was about. She loves your work. That was her in the last shot, and she loves your work, and gave you a prize winning picture as proof. Congratulations Sean, that is one hell of a woman. She makes me wish I was straight and better looking than you."

He was not the only one that wanted to meet her. I was ready to throw myself at the woman's feet.

Guy 1: "Now, where's my lunch? It should..."

Suddenly, my face felt like it was on fire. I was caught standing there, listening to a private conversation, long enough for their food to get cold. The owner had fired girls for less. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. Guy 1 motioned me over. Steeling what was left of my nerve, I took their plates to the table. Guy 1 took them from my hands. Then he took my wrist and pulled me closer.

He whispered, "Do you want to see it?"

I was unsure what "it" was, but it had to have something to do with what they were discussing. I found myself nodding. The other man opened a folder, showing a picture of a woman. It was just as they had described it: bound arms, great hair, glistening pussy, incredible tits. My face got warm, then hot, but I could not look away.

Guy 1 said, "Justin is a photographer. He could make a lot of money shooting pictures of you in situations like that. I am not going to ask him to do so. Here is why." He released my hand, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. He said, "Call the number on that card. Ask for Helen. My name is Sean. Tell Helen that Sean told you to call about the job. Do not tell anyone else. Just finish your shift, and call Helen in the morning. Got it?" I nodded.

Guy 1, Sean, went on, "Remember, do not tell anyone. I will leave you a nice tip when we go. Now shoo. I think your boss wants to know why you are still over here. Tell him that Justin is a famous photographer and you wanted an autograph. He did not give it to you, but he gave you a sneak peak. Now go."

Mr. Fredricks would be all over anyone famous, so I hurried to bus another table. With luck, no one would ask any questions. Not long after, I went to the bathroom and frigged off. I never had a boyfriend in the sexual sense. Instead, I had a fantasy life. It was a rare day that did not bring at least one self-managed explosion. Nothing I had ever done came close to the orgasm I had while thinking about the picture.

Then, I came out and had another table to wait. A short time later, Sean and Justin paid their bill and left. I found $21, folded to look like $2, left as a tip. Whatever else, Sean Richards was not cheap. I wondered if he was the Richards in Richards Imports. From what I had seen, it was possible.

The next morning, I called the number on the card and asked for Helen. She went, "What?"

I said, "Sean Richards said to call and ask for you."

Helen said, "You're late. Go to Personnel." The phone went dead.

That meant I had to go to Personnel. That meant not going to work. There was one certain way of dealing with that. I called Mr. Fredricks and told him I had a job interview and would be late. He told me not to bother coming in at all. If this was not a job, then I was screwed.

I took the bus across town. Helen had already said that I was late, so I was severely anxious by the time I found Human Resources. I went to front desk and said, "Helen said to come here."

The girl behind the desk, her name plate said Barbara Johnson, stared at me. I was beginning to wonder why, when Miss Johnson asked, "Helen said?" I nodded. Miss Johnson went on, "You mean used actual words, as in more than one?" I nodded again, counting the words and holding up five fingers.

By this time, the other woman in the office was staring at me. Miss Johnson finally asked, "What, exactly, did she say?"

"'You're late. Go to Personnel.'"

The other woman, Barbara Kennedy, said, "There is a memo. Helen says put her on office staff, but does not give a name." Then she looked at me and asked, "Did you meet Mr. Richards this morning?"

I responded, "Yesterday. Here is his card."

On seeing the card, both Barbaras nodded. Barbara Johnson explained, "That is why Helen said you were late. Mr. Richards' cards are a bit famous. You are the fifth person this year." Barbara Kennedy interrupted, "Sixth." Barbara Johnson went on, "Most people around here know that they can bring the card straight here. What was your interview like?" Huh?

I said, "What interview?" I had served Mr. Richards lunch. He and someone named Justin were discussing pictures. I blushed as I remembered the picture, but I went on. "He gave me his card." There was the bit about not telling anyone, but that was probably not important here.

It did not seem to satisfy them. Barbara Johnson asked, "Where were you? Was there anyone else?" That was easier question to answer. I said, "7^th Street Diner. Justin."

The Barbaras looked at each other, then Barbara Kennedy shrugged. Barbara Johnson pulled a clipboard out of a slot and handed it to me. It contained the usual sort of employment forms. Miss Johnson said, "Fill these out. Then I will take you over to Auctions and introduce you to Mary. With one of Mr. Richards hires, you could wind up anywhere, but Justin is doing photography for the big auction, so we will start you there. Good luck. You will probably need it."

On that ominous note, I was led to a table, where I completed the forms. Once finished, Barbara Johnson took me down the hall to a door marked, "Richards Auctions". Inside, she introduced me to the office manager, Mary Jones. Ms. Johnson told Ms. Jones that I was a "card hire" and that I was to be office staff. She went on to cover the short details of my resume: HS diploma, experience as a sales clerk and waitress.

After she was finished, Ms. Jones asked, "Has he missed yet this year?" Huh? I had no clue what the question meant. Ms. Johnson said, "Not unless you count Cox and Hart." Both women laughed, the Ms. Johnson left. New places are confusing.

I said nothing, but my expression must have showed my confusion. Ms. Jones explained, "Sean Richards is famous, in certain circles, for hiring people with either no experience or with major issues. For example, his personal secretary has a face that will curdle milk. She speaks about once a month; I think her total is about 30 this year. In spite of excellent training, no one would hire her, until Mr. Richards met her at Walmart. Now, she runs all the businesses. She may not talk, but she has no problem texting and emailing. What?"

I had not meant to raise the issue, but now that she was asked, I had to answer, "Helen said, 'You're late. Go to Personnel.'"

Ms. Jones eyes got large. "Wow. Helen said five words. Who the hell are you?"

I was confused. "I'm just a waitress." I served him lunch. He and the photographer, Justin, were discussing pictures. Mr. Richards asked me if I wanted to see one. Then he handed me the card and told me to call Helen in the morning. As I thought back to the picture and the redness started to cover my face again.

Ms. Jones was staring at me, but also nodding. I wished I knew what was now making sense, since nothing seemed to make any sense at all. However, Ms. Jones began to explain the auction that company was working on. As she explained, I started to blush, again.

The short version was that it was an auction of erotica. However, that would not convey the nature of the items offered for sale. Many were hundreds of years old and fully authenticated. These items ranged from fertility symbols, to fetishes, to religious artifacts, to straight forward dildos. There was also a large selection of written or printed erotica, including a letter in the hand of the Marquis de Sade. More modern pieces included several famous movie props and a large collection of BDSM gear from a Hollywood brothel, dating to Prohibition. The auction was estimated well into eight figures.

However exciting the pieces were, or at least could be, there was a great deal of boring paperwork that had to be correlated, indexed and filed. I spent the rest of the day verifying the contents of folders against a list and notifying Ms. Jones of any discrepancies. At 5:00 PM, Ms. Jones showed me the time clock and punched me out. I was on the bus home before I realized I did not know my salary.

At 8:00 AM the next morning, I was back at it. At 10:00 AM, Ms. Jones came up and said, "It was nice having you. Go to Helen's desk. Mr. Richards is asking for you." I went down the hall to the big offices, and stopped at a nameplate saying "Helen Norwood." Helen motioned me to a seat. Shortly thereafter, the door opened and Mr. Richards came out, motioning me up to Helen's desk.

He said, "Helen, I am loaning Christine to Ms. Schwartz, for the foreseeable future. Russell will be bringing Ms. Schwartz at 11:30, so Christine should be ready to leave then. Have her get lunch and put her to work here til then. I am going over to the warehouse, so I can handle any questions they have."

Once Mr. Richards had gone, Helen got up and led me to a basket of snail mail documents. Shortly, I was marking sender names with a yellow highlighter, and sorting them alphabetically. At 10:55 AM Helen stood up and motioned for me to follow. In short order, they were getting stuffed bell peppers in the office cafeteria. By 11:30 AM, Helen was back at her desk and I was back to highlighting and sorting.

At 11:45 AM, a man and woman walked up. The man was dressed as a driver. He took a seat and settled in. The woman went up to Helen and received a clipboard with some paperwork. I had a sense of deja vu, to my time in Personnel the day before. While the woman filled out her documents, I checked her out.

She was a looker. She seemed very casual, even though she was dressed to stop traffic. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. She wore tight black pants, tucked into calf-length black boots. The sleeveless top was dark red. Her makeup was heavily black around the eyes and very red lipstick. I gasped. The lipstick gave her away.

This confident, intimidating woman was the same one I had seen naked in the picture. It was not obvious, but D cups breasts are still D cups when held by a bra. The trim athleticism was there, though she looked even thinner in the waist fully dressed. The white shoulders were the same. From what Justin had said, back in the diner, this was a "hell of a woman." Looking at her, standing at Helen's desk, reading a note, I had no reason to doubt Justin's assessment.

When the woman handed me the note, she commented, "I'm Cynthia. I guess you will be coming with me." The note read:

This is Christine. She is on my staff, but I am loaning her to you for the duration. Ask her to do anything you need done. Her training is weak, but I have noticed you have a talent for correcting errors. She is willing to learn everything there is to know.

Sean

As they walked back to the car, I felt I was being weighed and measured. As the car drove across town, Cynthia pulled out what little there was of my work history, my school failings, my worse failings in the area of boyfriends, even my family's lack of religious preferences. I could not refuse anything Cynthia asked, and I had trouble even trying.

As they pulled into a warehouse lot, Cynthia asked, "Sean showed you the picture, didn't he?" I must have turned completely pink, but I nodded. Cynthia said, "We are going to see some pictures, of a boy your age, in a similar situation." Pink would not describe my color at that point.

It may have been a warehouse, but there were more security people than I had ever seen. Cynthia was obviously known and expected. They took my picture, for an ID card, and we were allowed in. We went to a locked staircase, with more security guards, where Cynthia signed a book. Then, we went up the stairs and eventually came to a work area. There were tables covered with pictures of many things, many of which looked like dildos or something similar. At a computer, two men, one a bit older and the other my age, were introduced as Peter and Jason. They were looking at shots of a gagged man, who was standing on tiptoe.

The pieces fell quietly into place. These were the pictures Cynthia referred to, of a young man my own age. He was not just been on tiptoe, he was tied up that way, with a wooden stick holding him up by his armpits. He was wearing a jock strap. His penis was making a tall enough tent that you could see a gap between the fabric and his leg. The subject of the picture was Jason, seated in front of me, looking at the image of himself. I felt many things, but the oddest was jealousy.

I watched in fascination as Peter zoomed the in on the torso. Without the face or the feet in the shot, attention focused on the stick, from which Jason was hanging, and his erection. The shot scrolled up to a portrait, showing an expression full of conflicting issues: pain, desire, frustration, and oddly, acceptance. Would I be so calm under the circumstances?

Cynthia stepped up and took the controls. She quickly cropped off several smaller images. Two were much like the face and torso shots we had just seen, and others focusing on the armpits, the gagged mouth, the cuffed hands and the sweat on his forehead and chest. The older of the two young men, Peter, whispered, "Day-amn."

I was no student of photography, but even I could see that Cynthia was making striking small images, from the complex large one, and she was doing it almost as fast as she could move the pointer. Remind me not to bullshit this woman. In fact, try really hard never to disappoint her.