index


Message-ID: <38679asstr$1033992602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" <adrian_hunter@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Association - Day 1 by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard (bd, Mf, nc)
Date: Mon,  7 Oct 2002 08:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Association (a serial bdsm novel)
By Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard


DAY 1--SABRINA

So, there I was, finally.  Three steps and a knock away from meeting 
Geoffrey Sorenson, my host for two weeks.  Instead of clearing out my desk 
and moving to my new office, I had been sent to supervise the photo session 
for the annual report at a studio whose location redefines "remote."  How 
absurd.  Did the board still think I was their cute administrative 
assistant, so eager to please?  I couldn't wait to introduce them to the new 
Sabrina Taylor as soon as I returned.

It was a wonder I had found this crazy place.  After an endless drive, I had 
to ask for directions four times before I chanced upon the small gravel road 
fighting its way around pines and firs toward the "GS Studios."

When I wheeled around the final bend and drove past the large front yard, I 
wasn't sure what to expect, but certainly not the modern two-story edifice 
ahead of me.  Bathed in the afternoon sunlight, the white walls, 
orange-tiled roof and ivy swirls around the front door made it look like a 
villa on the French Riviera.  A very unusual sight in such rustic 
surroundings.

I sighed with relief and pushed aside my gloomy thoughts.  Maybe this stupid 
assignment wasn't going to be so bad after all.  Hell, if there was a pool 
behind the privacy hedges, the place could pass for a resort.

I parked the car, grabbed my suitcase out of the trunk, and walked to the 
door, keeping my eyes fixed on the strange knocker in its center.  A 
grinning skull wasn't exactly standard issue in Cannes.

I knocked twice, and couldn't help smiling as I recalled all my worst-case 
scenarios.  Like how the association wanted to send me away so they could 
elect a new director.  Like maybe the chairman's nephew, a spoiled brat who 
wasn't smart enough to run the coffee machine, much less the council.  Or 
the odd rumors about Sorenson whispered after the last board meeting.  It 
was just like me, always expecting the worst, but secretly hoping for the 
best.

I was still smiling when the door opened.

--GEOFFREY--

Damn!  Another one broken.  And this package read "extra large," although 
you can't really tell by looking.  Maybe these were made for the Japanese 
market, where they claim stupendous sizes on the box while the rubbers 
themselves are actually smaller than regular.

I balanced the anal plug on its base next to the pile of foil wrappers, 
making it look like a Christmas tree from a distant planet.  Well, maybe not 
being able to get a condom around it was a sign that it was a little larger 
than--

A knock.

Another one.

About time.

I scooped up the plug and tossed it underhand into my correspondence drawer, 
then swept the condom cases off the desktop into the trash.

Stay cool, I reminded myself as I hurried, then strolled, down the staircase 
from my office to the entry hall.  You've done this before.

I willed my most charming smile onto my face, and pulled open the door.

"You must be Sabrina Taylor," I said as I motioned her inside.  "Geoffrey 
Sorenson.  I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance.  I presume my 
directions made sense.  Can I take your bag?"

Et cetera.  Smooth and social, yet faintly professional.  A light 
conversational patter to cover my brain's dangerous detour toward red-line 
overload.

The chairman's pictures scarcely did her justice.  Iwata was going to pop a 
cork when the courier arrived with the sample rolls I would shoot this 
afternoon.

And I would pay off my mortgage with the profits from selling her to the 
highest bidder.

"Career opportunities, they keep you off the dock," I sang to myself as I 
carried her luggage upstairs.  No wonder so many of America's Founding 
Fathers were slavers, too.

But I couldn't help being a bit nervous.  Things were running too smoothly.  
I saw, I conquered, I came.  My old friend Murphy wouldn't like that.  His 
law is absolute; anything that can go wrong, will.

My talent-acquisition process was usually much more of a challenge, 
involving all sorts of intrigue, as well as a fair share of danger.  First, 
I had to find the right kind of girl.  Pretty, but not memorable.  Strong, 
but not muscular.  Smart, but not sensible.  Restaurants were my preferred 
hunting ground, as no waitress wants to be one forever.

Then came the persuasion part.  A little flattery here, some outrageous sums 
of money there...let the fish sniff the lure first.  Bring her to the house, 
open a bottle of wine, and start talking about friends and family.  If she 
has an abundance of either, take a few sample photos and bid her adieu.

If not, convince her to stay the night.  If she agreed, continue the process 
for a week or two.  One night, add a little something to her wine to help 
her sleep.

Finally, something besides my camera would click.  And the price of the key 
was inevitably six digits, or more.

No, this one required more attention to the details.  For one, Sabrina 
Taylor wasn't some anonymous runaway contemplating an alternative career in 
pornography.  She had a real job, although that would be easy to erase, 
given who had sent her to me in the first place.  The odds were good she had 
a full, active life outside the office, too.  Maybe even a boyfriend.

Luckily, I had two weeks to work all the angles.

Time to bait the hook.

--SABRINA--

"All settled?  Great.  Did you find everything you need?  Brilliant."

Geoffrey escorted me through the living room to French doors that led to a 
patio extending across the length of the house.  A huge swimming pool 
surrounded by lush lawns and tall trees dominated the view.

Not bad for a photographer, I thought to myself.  In fact, he'd have to be 
one of the world's best to afford property like this.  So why was he 
bothering with a little project like an annual report for an association?

Something was strange here.  Money for nothing, and your chicks for free?  
Maybe like the expense-report irregularities that seemed to crop up with 
increasing frequency in the council's financial statements?  I made a note 
to do some research as soon as I got back to the office.

In the meantime, I figured I might as well enjoy the generosity of my most 
hospitable host, starting with what looked to be a delicious late lunch 
waiting for us on a glass-and-metal table under an umbrella near the pool.

--GEOFFREY--

"I hope you don't mind Chardonnay," I said as I poured another generous 
helping into Sabrina's glass.  "The Beaujolais wasn't worth the cost of cork 
this year."

My guest giggled pleasantly, and shielded her eyes from the sun.  We had 
been chatting for more than an hour, and the glorious spring afternoon was 
well on its way to its rendezvous with twilight.

I stood up and wandered over to a wooden cabinet where I found a bottle of 
coconut oil and some ostentatious Swedish sunscreen for her face.

"It's too nice to sit inside, and you don't want to singe that lovely skin 
of yours," I said as I proffered the exotic condiments, knowing how much 
better she would photograph with some color, especially in contrast to the 
white parts my customers valued most.

"Damn, I didn't bring a bathing suit," she muttered.  "I don't suppose..."

"Of course I have a spare bikini," I said magnanimously.  "You'll find it in 
your bathroom.  Top drawer of the towel cabinet."

As soon as she entered the house, I finished my wine in a single gulp.  
Let's see if she's willing to try something new, I said to myself.  
Something a little risqué.  Something out of the ordinary.  Something to 
scare Mummy.

Something she never expected.

--SABRINA--

Did Geoffrey really think this minuscule rag--nothing more than three 
triangles and string--qualified as proper bathing attire?  The white rubber 
was so thin, it verged on translucent.  And the shoe situation was even 
worse.  Instead of flip-flops or sandals, all I could find was a pair of 
white mules with four-inch heels and straps like spaghetti.

What kind of game was this guy playing?  Contrary to the board's 
expectations, "supermodel" wasn't listed on my résumé.  Neither was prudish, 
but I hated to be jerked around, especially by strangers on my payroll.

"Fuck it, and fuck him, too," I said to my reflection in the full-length 
mirror, rendered blurry by my wine-soaked eyes.  "I'll show him who's 
running this show."

I shoved the bikini back into the drawer, slipped on the ridiculous shoes, 
and headed for the stairs.  Strangely, I had never felt so self-assured in 
my life.  Naked as the day I was born, I walked through the French doors and 
headed straight for the chair where Geoffrey sat with his mouth agape.  All 
you could hear was the water lapping against the sides of the pool, and the 
click of my heels on the enameled tiles.

--GEOFFREY--

"Where's your bikini, Sabrina? You'll need it to avoid--"

"Let's get something straight, Geoff-reeeey."

She drawled out my name like a naughty child pulling a piece of gum out of 
her mouth.

"You don't tell me what to do.  And I don't like jokes at my expense."

I stared at her in raging silence, my emotions ping-ponging between panic 
and lust.  Under normal circumstances, bad manners like this would present 
an opportunity to accelerate the incarceration procedure.  And there was 
nothing like a little obstinacy to make the training process more 
satisfying.

But there was nothing normal about this woman, starting with her physical 
proportions, all of which would earn A+ grades from any meat inspector.

I reminded myself to stop thinking of her like that.  She's no corn-fed 
cutie running away from a knuckle-dragging father who starting fucking her 
before she hit puberty.  My typical lightning won't blow her fuse.  And she 
didn't care about my money, so she wasn't about to compromise her class by 
playing fetish doll for me.

This one was definitely different.  What a pleasant surprise.

"I beg to differ, Sabrina.  And so will you.  Much as I enjoy the show, 
please go back inside and put something over your skin before you hurt 
yourself."

Instead, she flipped me off as she slithered into the chair next to mine and 
stuck her hand across the table in search of the wine bottle.  I was sorely 
tempted to wrap a manacle around her slender wrist, but I still needed an 
airtight alibi before I could engage her in a more formal curriculum of 
behavior modification.

"The sun is quite strong, even this early in the season, so I really must 
insist.  If you need some assistance, I'd be happy to put the bikini on you 
myself."

--SABRINA--

"I see."

Pretending to be calm, I took the wine bottle and filled my glass.  I needed 
a few seconds to formulate my reply.  Angry, yes, but I was interested, too. 
  I didn't think Geoffrey was the kind of man who failed.  As to putting on 
the bikini himself, I had no doubt he would.  I played with the idea of 
letting him take the initiative, just to see how he would manage to keep me 
still, but I wasn't going to give him the pleasure.

I took a sip.  Lovely.

"Like I said, you don't tell me what to do.  However..."

Another sip.  I needed this.

"I will put on the so-called bikini, but only because the sun is much too 
cruel on my sensitive parts and I value them too much to see them hurt."

He grinned.  "At least you're reasonable."

I emptied my glass and got up, my eyes locked on his.

"While I'm gone, will you be so kind as to refill my glass, Geoffrey?"

I left him to savor his semi-victory and walked slowly back to the house, 
silently cursing the heels with each step.

Once in the bathroom, I dug out up the white latex scraps.  I was going to 
look like a centerfold spread in a magazine sold exclusively from under the 
counter.  But I could handle it.  If only I could manage to tie the strings 
behind my back.  Was I that nervous?

As I walked out of the bathroom, I lost my balance and stumbled, twisting my 
ankle.

"Ouch!  Damn stupid heels."

I made an angry move to take them off, but changed my mind just as quickly.  
The day had been long; I was getting tired, not to mention edgy, and the 
last thing I wanted was another fight.  We would discuss footwear tomorrow.

Taking a final look in the mirror, I decided woman's lib would wait another 
day.

(Continued in Association - Day 2)


***
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



_________________________________________________________________
Chat with friends online, try MSN Messenger: http://messenger.msn.com

-- 
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: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+