“Where do instructors register?”
“Your website never worked for me, can I still get the early bird discount?”
“When are the NA meetings?”
“Where are the quiet rooms?”
“Where are the dungeons?”
“Is the sit-down dinner formal leather, or can you wear casual clothes?”
A frighteningly large woman rose up from where she’d been unpacking a box of lanyards and shouted over the din. Her high, quarterdeck voice easily overwhelmed the crowd of questioners, and her sheer bulk intimidated most of them as well. Maureen Olmstead was a hell of a lot of woman—almost five foot ten and easily two hundred and seventy pounds, much of it molded into a plus-size corset that hefted her generous, pale breasts into a stunning display of cleavage. A net of colorful beaded wire was draped over her long auburn hair; her dark brown eyes narrowed as she took control of the situation.
“Registration will begin in ten minutes! A through M over there, N through Z over there! Instructors, judges, contestants, press and guests, in the office behind me! Printed schedules are late; either check the master schedule on the website or keep your panties on until we get them here! Street legal clothing everywhere but the dungeons and no discounts, we are sold out!”
For a moment, the small crowd just stared at her, perhaps buffeted by the sheer force of her personality. Then, meekly, most of them sorted themselves out into appropriate lines, checked their smart phones and tablets or wandered off.
Maureen adjusted her designer gold-framed glasses and handed the box of lanyards to one of her volunteer force.
“I don’t know what we’d do without you, Bitsy,” said a harried looking man behind her.
“That’s Slave Bitsy,” she corrected. “And don’t you forget it.” At thirty-nine years, Ms. Maureen “Bitsy” Olmstead was getting sick and tired of looking for the right partner, and she wanted to make sure everyone knew she was a slave, just in case Master Wonderful showed up. She plumped up her ample breasts, fluffed out her hair a little under the beads and checked her nails. Impeccable. “Hey!” she cried, pointing. “Don’t touch the bags! You’ll get one when you register!”
The man in leather pants, shirt, tie and cap drew his hand back quickly and muttered, “Sorry.” He obediently shrank back into the line, a bundle of keys jangling on his left hip, and Bitsy turned her attention to her staff. It takes a real slave to run things, she thought for the tenth time that day.