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Subject: {ASSM} {AdrianHunter} Marquise--Chapter One by Adrian Hunter (bdsm, 31 flavors)[1/6]
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Date: Thu, 11 Nov 1999 03:10:01 -0500
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(Welcome back, ASSM...I'll post the rest of this epic once the group is up and
running smoothly. If you can't wait, the entire story is on my new and improved
website at http://www.geocities.com/~adrianhunter)
Marquise--Chapter One
By Adrian Hunter
This is crazy.
And don't forget stupid, stupid.
Michelle stared out her window at the millions of earthbound galaxies
glittering like the insides of a pirate's treasure chest. From the air,
Manhattan looks like it was designed by Disney, dozens of familiar
tourist icons crammed onto the real fantasy island, the future
unfolding in a diorama that shares only tenuous connections of rusting
metal to the state that borrowed its name.
"This is the captain. I hope you're enjoying our view of New York
tonight, because I'm afraid you'll be seeing a lot of it. The tower at
LaGuardia has asked us to sit tight while they get some other planes
down first. I figure about 20 to 30 minutes before we arrive at the
gate."
She pushed her head back against the dwarf pillow and closed her eyes.
Great. More time to think.
More time to talk herself out of this.
Oh, but you're really traveling on business, Michelle. An artfully
contrived appointment with a dim prospect who seems to be surgically
attached to the competition. Hell, she'd be lucky to get 15 minutes and
a cup of coffee out of the guy.
After this self-inflicted humiliation, she was going to do a little
shopping over on the west side. Chelsea, actually. Stomping grounds of
Edie Sedgwick and Sid Vicious and subway vigilante Bernie Goetz, among
other notable Noo Yawk riffrafferati.
Sapphotica. A boutique for the discriminating fetishist.
She shook her head to clear away the dark, shiny visions. You're on a
mission, girl. Focus.
Chasing ghosts and dreams is more like it, she reminded herself. She
had no idea if the people there would know anything about Joshua. If,
in fact, there even is a Joshua.
Oh, he's real. No artificial intelligence could push her buttons so
effectively. And she shuddered at the thought of spending hours online
with some pimply high-school student or worse.
Despite their mutual affection for steamy ASCII, their relationship, if
you could even call it that, always kept one foot firmly planted on the
floor. Joshua took her ideas and spun them into stories he posted to
various newsgroups. She turned him on to private mailing lists and
occasionally introduced him to some members of her dom/sub knitting
circle. They traded pictures they found on the web. Sometimes, they
even allowed themselves play out various roles in private chat
sessions.
She had no idea what he looked like, where he lived, or if his name was
really Joshua Fisher. Or, for that matter, if he was a he, a she, or
something in between.
Just another normal, happy couple on the Internet, she laughed to
herself.
They had met a few months ago in a chat room. She had recognized his
screen name, and IM'd him to say how much she enjoyed his fiction. He
had responded pleasantly, sparing her the childish come-ons and
slobber-lipped heavy breathing so typical of these encounters. Soon
thereafter, they began exchanging letters, short notes at first, then
longer missives touching on topics Michelle had kept buried in herself
since she could remember.
He made her laugh when he told her about some of the weirdos he
attracted by "sharing my most intimate obsessions with several million
closet pervs" (including ourselves, she often reminded him). He always
seemed to say exactly what she wanted to hear, both in conversation and
his more formal writing.
He didn't believe her when she told him he was an international online
legend, even when she swore his name had been mentioned reverently
during the course of many separate discussions with her digital
companions.
"Joshua Fisher, man or myth?" she had joked, but she was only
half-kidding. While his stories appeared frequently in the alt.sex
universe, personal postings were rarer than Republican strippers. He
wasn't so much a lurker as he was a phantom, often seen but rarely met.
So who are you, Michelle, the exorcist? Or Linda Blair?
She wasn't sure anymore. Especially after she introduced him to the
Marquise.
During her travels through the gutter colonies of the net, she had
chanced upon a group of lesbian B&D enthusiasts led by a rather
forbidding dom who apparently ruled with an iron fist, or at least one
that was severely studded. Those admitted to her inner circle were
allowed to call her Lady Eleanor in private, but Michelle soon realized
most of her clique of admirers preferred her formal title, especially
those who seemed to know her IRL.
The Marquise supervised an invitation-only web site, mailing list and
regular chat sessions that delved deep and wide in matters of sexual
dominance and forbidden submissions. Michelle had discovered this
secret paradise after she befriended a funny lesbian couple, "Lovely"
Rita and "Polythene" Pam ("just like the Beatles!" they had chirped
unnecessarily), in a public chat session. Rita and Pam were forever
bickering about everything from sharing the keyboard to whose turn it
was to polish all their leather, and Michelle got a kick out of their
affectionate bitchplay. If she ever got up the guts to switch her
sexuality, these are the kind of women she'd want to start with.
After a series of email exchanges, Rita and Pam told her about the
club, and decided to introduce her to the Marquise as a potential
member. Lady Eleanor had agreed to interview her online, and despite
her predominantly hetero/dom leanings, the Marquise had agreed to take
her on as an "apprentice sub," which Michelle felt was somewhat
redundant until she got to know some of the other women in the group.
At first, she had not been allowed to add her comments to the weekly
mailings, nor join in any chat sessions. Instead, she lurked, listened,
observed and learned.
And, truth be told, giggled more than a little.
These people are nice, but nuts, she had decided. The Marquise had a
very complicated series of rules that had to be followed to the letter.
Variations and infractions were punished with speed and severity. The
guilty were given detailed instructions for punishments to be
self-inflicted, along the lines of:
"Take the keys to two pairs of handcuffs, place them at the bottom of a
plastic gallon jug filled with water, and freeze the container for 48
hours. When you are ready, place a large plug in your ass and a
vibrator running on its lowest setting in your pussy (and don't forget
fresh batteries). Then, put on a pair of rubber panties to keep them
from being dislodged, and add some rope around your crotch for
insurance. Get the container out of the freezer and put it on the
floor. Gag yourself with a head harness. Place a pair of handcuffs
around your ankles, and one cuff around your left hand, leaving your
right hand free. Lie on your stomach, put your hands behind your back,
and bend your knees until you can loop the chain of the cuffs for your
wrists around the chain between your ankles. Once the hogtie has been
established, snap the open cuff shut around your right wrist."
Michelle had been told it could take up to eight hours for the ice to
melt.
When Lady Eleanor finally gave her permission to speak to the group,
Michelle assiduously followed all the regulations: waiting her turn,
always addressing members by their full formal names (some of which
were lavishly long in the style of a faded European court about to be
overrun by a peasant revolution), digitally curtseying to those who
entered late, always saying "please" and "ma'am" and so on. The
Marquise had quickly noticed Michelle's occasional lapses in spelling,
and made it a point to mete out "behavior modifications" for every
slip, not that Michelle had any intention of wearing tiny clothespins
under her blouse all day at work.
But she quite enjoyed the high level of sophistication and intelligence
of the Marquise and her "merry band of muff-munching misfits"
(according to the home page descriptor), and they were most patient
with her endless questions as well as generous with praise for her
often-wobbly contributions to the letters and the endless river of the
chat sessions.
Although it was strictly forbidden, Michelle had told Joshua about the
Marquise, and even shared unedited chat transcripts and copies of the
chain letters. He had been much intrigued by the thought of 20-plus
women who treated bondage like something to do after coffee at a Junior
League meeting, and fairly begged her to introduce him to the group as
"Syndie," a bubbly blonde b-word who "gets all, y'know, like, hot" just
thinking about being tied up and ravaged by women "who know how to do
all the right things to me."
"Bad idea, Josh," she had written him back. "These dykes don't dick
around."
He finally seemed to get the message, and the topic never came up
between them again. But she was always wary of new members, fearful he
had used the information she had given him to infiltrate the group
without her help. She was especially curious about "Bottoma," a
purportedly-young thing who claimed to be exploring her conflicts
between being everyone's "best girl" and somewhat blacker desires.
Michelle convinced herself that if this newbie passed muster with the
Marquise, she must be as real as any of them.
The airplane continued to arc in wide circles over the Atlantic, her
seatmates blissfully and mercifully asleep. Not that I'm in any rush,
Michelle told herself. Grab a cab, check in, sleep. Tomorrow will come
fast enough.
A little distraction might actually help right about now.
Instead, she churned the chronology for the thousandth time.
Everyone had noticed how Bottoma played to the Marquise, showering her
with trivial flattery and fawning over her every utterance. In return,
Lady Eleanor had favored her new disciple with special tasks notable in
their lenience, and even gave the novice the lead role in one of her
longer fiction serials that stretched over the course of two months'
letters. Even Michelle had felt a tinge of jealousy while watching
their extravagant exchanges scroll past her bemused eyes.
If Bottoma was really Joshua, he certainly never gave her the slightest
hint of subterfuge. In fact, he seemed even more hyperactive than
usual, babbling about everything under the sun except the Marquise and
her "lesbian erotic writers d/s club," which he abbreviated to LEWD,
much to her (mild, granted) annoyance.
Michelle had even tried to contact Bottoma privately, but had never
received a reply to either her letters or instant messages. No, the
girl had eyes only for her mistress. A few weeks later, she scarcely
gave it a second thought.
Until two things happened: Bottoma announced to the group that she was
going to meet the Marquise in person, and Joshua disappeared.
The first wasn't unexpected, or even unusual. Pam and Rita often spoke
of IRL sessions with the Marquise, and others were certainly more than
passingly familiar with details about Lady Eleanor that could only be
learned in the flesh. Although everyone in the group took pains to
maintain secrecy about personal geography, Michelle had deduced from
occasional telltale references that the Marquise and her real-life
posse lived on the east coast, most likely New York City or
thereabouts. Not far at all, actually.
The notice in the weekly letter had named a date for this fateful
rendezvous some six weeks ago. Around the same time, the near-daily
flow of letters from Joshua had stopped cold. One day he was sending
her chapter six of his latest white-slavery epic, then nothing.
At first, Michelle had brushed off his disappearance to the kind of
unforeseen, unavoidable, life-engrossing circumstances that sometimes
overwhelmed even the most well intentioned. But she became
progressively more concerned when she received no response to her
letters and his newsgroup postings ceased. Two weeks later, she caught
herself doing a random check to see if he was online, and received a
message declaring his screen name no longer existed.
Had she been dumped and ditched?
Not his style.
How the fuck would you know, she yelled at herself. You've never even
seen his eyes, much less the way he acts in a relationship.
This is not a relationship.
OK, so you didn't get dumped.
Then why do you feel so bad? Not to mention worried sick?
Not to mention running after him?
"Ah, this is the captain. We've been cleared to land at LaGuardia, so I
expect to be on the ground in a few minutes. Flight attendants, please
prepare for arrival."
Michelle pounded the armrest next to her seat, scaring the middle-age
man who was trying to squash his briefcase under his feet.
It's just a coincidence.
He's just a friend. And a cyber one at that.
This isn't real.
Where is he anyway?
Didn't he care?
After a month, she had been on the verge of a very real breakdown. Must
take action, she decided, no matter what that meant. To her surprise,
she was incapable of letting go of this so-called Joshua Fisher, even
to the point of lying to her boss so she could get her company to pay
for a visit to New York.
She knew this whole adventure was a long shot. She wasn't sure that the
Marquise and her tribe were anywhere near Manhattan. But she did know
the couple worked together at a fetish emporium, and based on their
stories of its rich and famous clientele, she figured the store had to
be in a major city. So hello, Big Apple.
The Village Voice featured several display ads for stores with names
like the Noose, Purple Passion, Body Worship and Come Again. But
Michelle was going to start with Sapphotica in Chelsea. She just had a
hunch.
Stupid. And crazy.
Relax, girl. They don't know what you look like. Just play it cool.
The plane bumped smoothly onto the runway.
If it's even their store.
"On behalf of our flight crew, we'd like to welcome you to New York.
The local time is...."
Showtime.
(to be continued)
___________________________________________
Stories: http://www.geocities.com/~adrianhunter
Mail: adrian_hunter-at-hotmail-dot-com
--
If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments
are their only payment. Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is
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