Message-ID: <38680asstr$1033996202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 07 Oct 2002 09:05:56.0115 (UTC) FILETIME=[BECF3E30:01C26DE0] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Mon, 07 Oct 2002 09:05:55 +0000 Subject: {ASSM} Association - Day 2 by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard (bd, Mf, nc) Date: Mon, 7 Oct 2002 09:10:02 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, IceAltar Association (a serial bdsm novel) By Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard DAY 2--SABRINA What a weird guy. Geoffrey was friendly and cheerful to a fault, but it was clearly painful for him to express any sentiment that began with the letter "I." Once recovered from the Bikini Incident (memo to self: why do I get so prickly around men I might fancy?), we spent the rest of the day chatting by the pool, sipping his lovely wine, and enjoying the sun and water. While Geoffrey listened raptly to the smallest details about my life, he politely evaded any questions related to him. After last night's dinner, I pulled out my briefcase to show him some sample photographs and backgrounds for the annual report. But he scarcely glanced at them, dismissing my suggestions with a yawn. When I asked to hear his vision, his plan was generic at best. Besides, even the dumbest clotheshorse knew better than to lounge by the pool in leather. Did Sorenson have the slightest clue about graphic design? Was he even a real photographer? I flashed back to yesterday's bad feeling. Maybe I should call someone. After all, only the chairman and some board members know where... Oh, stop it, Sabrina, I admonished myself. Sorenson's probably one of those temperamental artistic types who can't verbalize. Besides, the chairman may be a jerk, but he's not stupid, especially when it comes to the association's public image. No way would he trust an amateur to illustrate the annual report. Although there seemed to be some confusion about the professional capabilities of the proposed model, which apparently was still me. I wondered what had happened to the photos, names and numbers of the girls I had forwarded to him weeks ago. Geoffrey probably never even opened the envelope. After lunch, he suggested we move forward with the program, given the tight production schedule I had set for the printer. I soon found myself putting on various leather outfits and parading around his living room. I couldn't shake the feeling that Geoffrey was hiding something behind his impeccable manners. And the doubts were becoming more acute. The more I thought about it, the more he looked like a cat playing with the mouse who'll soon become lunch. He was gently tossing me between his velvety-soft paws, but the claws were poised to spring. I shivered. Was it my imagination? Or too much Chardonnay? Anyway, this was the beginning of a brand-new week, and Geoffrey's true intentions would reveal themselves soon enough. --GEOFFREY-- It was time to play make-believe, a game I always enjoyed as a prelude to detention. After a big breakfast, I led Sabrina behind the house to the large wooden structures that ostensibly justified the off-the-map location of my not-so-humble abode. Although I didn't ask about her equestrian abilities, Sabrina looked like the well-bred type who spent her pre-teen summers at a camp specializing in dressage. Despite my efforts to keep the stables immaculate, I could never quite eliminate the smells common to all buildings that housed animals. Hay. Wet hair. Various discharges. And the unmistakable tang of leather. The closet near the main entrance concealed a long rack of outfits, including pants, jackets, boots, an assortment of riding crops, and even a collection of authentic cowboy gear like chaps, hats and spurs. "Why don't you try these on?" I said as I pulled out leather jodhpurs, a white silk blouse and knee-high boots. I knew they would fit her perfectly, but I wanted to maintain the illusion as long as possible. "Without the swimsuit," I added when Sabrina started pulling on the pants before removing the rubber thong and top that had served as her only clothing since her arrival. When she was dressed, I pointed toward a row of stalls. "Pick one." She wandered down the main hall and stared at the nameplates on each door: "Thunder," "Dynamite," "Hothead." She finally came to "Akasha," and after a moment of scrutiny, she nodded her assent. "An excellent choice," I said. "Akasha is my favorite. She's a bit wild, but it's mostly in her head. Once you teach her who's boss, she's very obedient." I strolled briskly to the doors and threw them open to reveal a jet-black mare who snorted at the scent of the stranger before her. "I suppose we should start with a saddle, but we'll be doing some bareback shots later. Sorry I only have western ones. I find the horn comes in handy for specific poses." I led Akasha out of her stall to the main entrance. After a few moments of heaving and cinching, I held out my hand to help Sabrina up. "Giddyup," I said with the barest hint of a smile. --SABRINA-- Compared to the frenetic thumping of my heart, the hottest Brazilian samba would have sounded like a New Age paean to silence. It started when we were walking down the hill from Geoffrey's house. There was no escaping the stench. Then I noticed the hoof marks on the ground, and I knew we were heading to the stables he hadn't bothered to mention earlier. I admire horses. Their noble beauty fascinates me, and I have dreams of galloping in open fields, my hair to the wind. But horses scare me to death. When I was young, I was bitten by a horse...okay, a donkey. Thirty years later, every time I get close to any equine animal, I see the monster's head lunging toward my adolescent flesh, and I panic. In my city-based life, this has never been a problem, but whenever I've had the opportunity to ride a horse, I resent my irrational fear. I've often wished that someone would push me to overcome it. Could Geoffrey? When we reached the barn and I heard the sounds of stomping and snorting in the stalls, I had to gather all my strength to keep walking. No way was I going to show him fear. I put on the cowboy clothes in a state of semi-consciousness, realizing much too late that wearing leather jodhpurs without underwear was a terrible mistake. Like he cared. And then I had to face them and, of all things, pick one. "Oh, any without teeth will do, thanks." What kind of names were these? I was just about ready to tell him I couldn't possibly sit on "Dynamite" when I saw Akasha. Better to take my chances with a mare. I followed him out of the barn, my fear building with each step. When he held out his hand to help me up, I wished I believed in a powerful deity whose holy intervention would get me out of this predicament. Remarkably, I found myself on Akasha. Then he said the magic word: "Giddyup." I didn't move. Neither did the horse. Sweat was pouring down my forehead as my childhood nightmare clicked "play." Geoffrey finally noticed something was wrong. "Come on, you can't possibly be afraid of a pony." I couldn't tell whether he was angry or disappointed. In any case, he certainly didn't show any sign of compassion. So I got angry for both of us. I was on a damned horse, for crying out loud. To me, that was worth a round of applause, not sarcasm. "Look, I've never been on a horse. Where I live, you drive to work. I'm not from Wyoming, and I'm no rodeo girl, okay?" I knew I was overreacting, but the strain was becoming too much to bear. Obviously, Geoffrey hadn't anticipated paralyzing fear as a variable. While he pondered the right decision, I tried to help. "Why don't you lead the horse where you want, and I'll try to look good in the pictures. After all, that's all you need, right?" --GEOFFREY-- "Right." Murphy's Law is an absolute, I reminded myself. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Anything that can't go wrong, will go wrong anyway. Anything that goes wrong, will continue to go wrong, until you stop doing whatever it is that went wrong in the first place. So I held out my hand and helped Sabrina off the horse. As I led Akasha back to her stall, I mentally reblocked the planned photo session. The barn would be scenery enough for the outfits in question, none of which were crucial to the project anyway. And her palpable fear could prove to be quite useful later on. "It's frightfully difficult to get pictures in focus when the subject is in motion," I said upon returning. "So this should allow us to move to a second setting earlier than planned. Now, let's get you standing over there by the barn door. Here, hold this crop at your side. Let it dangle, don't grip it like you're trying to strangle it. Turn a little toward me. Good, now look up. Perfect. Hold it." Three hours, four outfit changes and 37 rolls of film later, I announced it was time for a shower and lunch. "We'll try something different for the afternoon session. Did you ever want to be a secret agent when you grew up?" --SABRINA-- "You mean like a spy? Spooks and secret codes and groovy gadgets?" "Something like that. Go take a shower while I fix lunch." If not for the heels, I would have run up the stairs. The morning session at the barn had been exhausting. First, the horse panic, from which he had mercifully liberated me. Next, the never-ending poses, always trying to look good and follow his exact commands. No wonder professional models insist they deserve their millions. Getting clean and fed gave me the extra energy I needed for the afternoon session. I followed him down a flight of stairs to what I presumed was his studio. When he turned on the light, only the right half of the room brightened. A large portion of the space was taken up by a low stage surrounded by four pillars that supported a web of iron bars, probably to hang backgrounds. A black curtain hid the wall behind the stage. There were no windows. As he walked to the dark side of the room, I tried to identify the mysterious shapes lurking in the shadows. He motioned me toward a stool by the stage. Leaning against it was the most awesome pair of boots I had ever seen. "Put these on, will you?" I sat on the stool and held up one thigh-high tube to take a closer look. Supple black leather, laces up to the top, and, of course, high heels. Beautiful. The kind of boots I'd never consider buying. When would I get a chance to wear them? At work? With my oh-so conventional friends? With my parents? My life held no place for such boots. Yet, as I slid my feet in--and after the four outfit changes at the barn, I wasn't surprised that they fit perfectly--I knew they belonged to me. It took me a while to lace them all the way up my legs. I stood up shakily and peeked at myself in the mirror. Combined with my rubber bikini, I had never looked so sexy. No wonder women paid a fortune for such contraptions. The boots weren't just footwear; they were magic. The tight cocoon around my legs made me feel weak and powerful at the same time...a feeling I had never experienced before, and for which I could find no name. I stopped my daydreaming when I noticed Geoffrey in front of me holding another piece of leather. It was obvious he was trying hard not to be flustered by my appearance, but his natural charm asserted itself as soon as he opened his mouth. "Take the bikini off." I obeyed and reached out to accept whatever he held in his hand. --GEOFFREY-- "Put this on." I handed Sabrina the leather dress and smiled as she struggled to adjust it. One piece, no buttons or zippers; she had to slither into it like a sausage casing. Every time she tugged it down to cover her ass, the top hem slipped under her breasts. Finally, she got it to the point where her nipples were barely concealed, but I could clearly see the curve of her derrière where it departed from her thighs. "Perfect," I said as I admired the slight swell of her belly and the way her chest heaved with every labored breath. "Now, you'll need some outerwear." I slipped into the shadows and emerged with a long leather trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. If the Russians had had spies like this, democracy would have surrendered in 1955. "Let's see, what else? Oh yes, sunglasses. So convenient that the retro look has returned. Or is that redundant? You'll probably find a pair in your pocket." Sabrina reached into the coat and pulled out shades that looked like they'd been plucked from the nose of a Hollywood starlet preening on a stool at Schwab's. "Perfect, perfect, perfect. Now, the lights." I fussed with scrims and spots hanging from the grid until the room looked like the set of science-fiction film. Satisfied, I turned on the dry-ice evaporator next to the stage. A few seconds later, what looked like smoke began billowing out of it, creating a haze that diffused the lights in a three-dimensional patchwork of random patterns. "Now, I want you to pretend you're a spy, and you're being pursued by your worst enemy. You don't know who's behind you, above you, or perhaps right next to you. Stay in the middle of the stage so I can keep you centered. Leave your trench coat open. Ready? Go!" I shot roll after roll as Sabrina scurried like a rodent trying to avoid a hawk, peering and crouching and shielding her eyes from the lights as commanded. "Good, good. Now, freeze!" A brilliant white spotlight pinned her to the center of the stage. "Excellent, look scared. You've been caught. That's it, think fear, panic, chaos. Off with the sunglasses. Keep going. Good, better, perfect! Okay, take a quick break." I dragged over a wooden chair, then a lamp that was nothing more than a stick holding a bare bulb. "Take off your coat and have a seat." Sabrina sat down as instructed. "Put your hands on the arms of the chair." I produced a coil of thick rope and began looping it around one of her wrists. She immediately began struggling. "Easy...this is just for effect. Honestly..." Chastened, Sabrina allowed me to finish binding one wrist, then the other, to the arms of the chair. Not too tight, I kept reminding himself. Besides, the rope was so thick, it almost looked comical. But it would photograph marvelously. And that's all that mattered. For now. I positioned the lamp so the bulb was over her head, and adjusted some other spotlights. "I want you to imagine you've been taken to some dark and dank basement to be interrogated. You're screwed, but they're not getting anything out of you. That's it, resist their questions. You aren't going to say anything. Fuck them, and their mothers, too. Suddenly, one of them grabs your top." I reached over and jerked down the front of her dress, exposing her breasts. "Good, get mad. Indignant. You're not going to give these bastards an inch. Let 'em look." I kept talking and clicking as she got more and more agitated, throwing herself around in the chair until it began rocking off the floor. "Good, good, try to escape. Otherwise, you might not get out of here alive. That's it, perfect...and...okay, that's enough for today. You can stop now. Here, let me untie you. That wasn't so bad, was it? Take off your things, fold them neatly on the chair, and come join me by the pool for a drink. You look like you can use it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make a phone call." I put down my camera on the lip of the stage and walked brusquely out of the studio. --SABRINA-- As soon as Geoffrey left the room, I exhaled hard enough to dissipate the smoke around me. I took off the dress, appalled at finding my body glistening with sweat, not to mention other delirious effects. I sat on the stage to unlace the boots, reminding myself to ask Geoffrey if I could keep them after the project was finished. While my fingers loosened the soft twine, I tried to calm down. What exactly had just happened? Everything had been going smoothly until he decided to tie me to the chair. At first, I thought he'd leave the ropes loose. I'm known to imagine the worst, and all I could think at that moment was, "This guy can do anything he wants now." Thank goodness all he did was take pictures. And leave me in a state of utter confusion. The predicament had felt too real to be mere make-believe. Why didn't I try to stop him? Was I playing the game? Or was the game playing me? The boots lay in a pile on the floor while I idly tapped my naked foot, staring at the shadows in front of me. I had an idea; Geoffrey would doubtlessly disapprove. What the heck. He never said I couldn't. I stood up, forgetting I was naked, and began to investigate the room. Cameras, tripods, spotlights; typical photography equipment. The walls were covered with closets and cupboards; I tried them all, but they were locked. Along the wall opposite the stage was a wooden table covered with boxes, all protected with padlocks. My curiosity piqued, I eyed two big chests on the floor. One was locked, but the second one opened. It was filled with ropes and chains of all sorts. Probably used to hang scenery. Boring. I looked around one more time, disappointed by my findings, until my attention drifted to a door in the darkest corner. Probably locked, I thought. I tried the handle. To my disbelief, it slid open. I hesitated. I can't do this, I told myself. I can't violate Geoffrey's privacy. Then again, he violated mine two minutes after greeting me. Besides, didn't he deputize me as his spy? I giggled and wondered what Geoffrey would do if he caught me for real. I pushed the door wide open. The room was completely dark. Holding my breath, I stepped forward while my hand searched for a switch along the wall. --GEOFFREY-- I wasn't sure if I heard the scream first and then the crash, or the other way around. I ran down the stairs two at a time and hit the master light switch with my fist. The room's smoky shadows disappeared as the fluorescents hummed to life. But where was Sabrina? "Sweet merciful Jesus...the wine cellar." I hurried to the back of the studio and ducked through the partially-opened door. "Don't move an inch," I barked as I groped past her head in search of the tug chain for the light. I jerked it downward and surveyed the damage. "I...I...I didn't..." "Shut up and stand still." I gave her body a quick once-over. No cuts or bruises. Then I turned my attention to the metal rack she had pulled over. All the new Merlots were shattered on the floor, leaving shards of glass glittering like a coral reef in the Red Sea. At least she hadn't knocked down one of the main racks. And the Merlots could easily be replaced, unlike the more vintage bottles gathering dust in the back. But I was still furious with Sabrina, to the point where I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths before continuing. "Later," I kept telling myself as a series of suitable punishments fogged my common sense, each more progressively spectacular in complication and despair. There she was, naked and cowering, tears streaming down her eyes, shaking with fear and dread. It would be a simple thing to scoop her into my arms, carry her to the stage, open a box and begin the ending. I finally regained my composure. Forgive and remember, my father always used to say. Plenty of time for better things to come. And come. "Put your arms around my neck," I said after I opened his eyes. "I'm going to carry you out of here." Sabrina sniffed a little as I stuck a hand beneath her knees and hoisted her away from the jagged disaster on the floor. "Wait for me upstairs," I told her as I carried her into the main room of the studio. "No, belay that. This is going to take me hours to clean up. So just get out of here. Take a shower. Make yourself something to eat. Watch TV. Go to bed. I really don't care." I dumped her on the stage, turned around and returned to the wine cellar without another word. Seconds later, I was listening to her naked footsteps ascending the stairs. Let her sleep on that, I thought as I waited a few moments before heading upstairs myself to gather the necessary cleaning gear. (Continued in Association - Day 3) *** Copyright (C) 2002 by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard. All rights reserved. Please do not repost nor repurpose without permission. *** "Crash Your Party Dress," a collection of our bdsm short stories and novellas, is now available from Renaissance Ebooks bttp://www.renebooks.com *** AdrianHunter.com Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard http://www.adrianhunter.com _________________________________________________________________ MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+