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From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" <adrian_hunter@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Creature by Adrian Hunter (bd, Mf, xmas)
Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2002 18:10:02 -0500
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Creature (bd, Mf, xmas)
By Adrian Hunter


Fuck carols. All through the house, the walls reverberated with the
sound of Charlie Watts slamming every drum in his kit simultaneously
as the Rolling Stones double-clutched their Fenders into "She Was
Hot," to be followed by "Pretty Beat Up," "It Must Be Hell," and of
course, "Tie You Up (The Pain of Love)." The "Undercover" album was
full of dense, demonic music by grown men, not Backstreet Boys. Even
their most ardent fans were afraid of it.

Robert didn't give a shit about remastered debutante debauchery and
true-stereo versions of "Satisfaction." I'm talking 'bout the
midnight rambler. Honey, this ain't no rock and roll show.

Always the rebel, he could hear Lynn say. Well, maybe think out
loud, he decided as he continued packing pieces of foam around the
breathing tube in her mouth.

"I think I'm going off the rails, riding down the pleasure trails,"
he sang to her, filling in Keith Richard's missing harmony. "Always
take your passion where you find it."

Down the avenue. Into the lost bayou. Into the tall bamboo.

Into the human zoo.

This year, he and Lynn told everyone they were going to Greece for
the holidays. More specifically, a little island off the coast. No
phones, no lights, no motorcars. Not a single luxury, except an week
of uninterrupted togetherness.

Their friends and family understood. It certainly wasn't the first
time. Her mother didn't even bother wrapping their presents anymore.

Good. More tape for us, Robert mused as he finished sealing Lynn's
lips.

"It's so nice the way the two of you escape every year." Okay, so
"escape" wasn't the proper verb in this context. But they certainly
got away with, er, from it all. Stop the mail, close the shutters,
drive the car to the airport, park in long-term, then "grab a cab,
grab a cab, and baby, come right by" for a sneak preview of Home
Alone 5.

How did the saying about the monkeys go? Didn't hear and see come
before "speak no evil"? Always the rebel. No matter. Robert rolled
three waxy balls together between his thumb and fingers, then pressed
the pliable mass deep into Lynn's ear canal. Total silence was an
impossible ideal, but a combination of the plugs, plus more foam over
her ears, plus an Ace bandage around her head, was close enough.

The bandage also helped increase the darkness factor of the adhesive
pads he had already smoothed and plastered over her eyes. Although
the layers of black electrical tape on top of the corrugated fiber
were probably just as effective in this department.

He knew it was overkill. But Lynn liked it that way. Besides, she
had a tendency to snort out the foam he used to plug her nostrils,
and all their hoods were designed for maximum air intake through the
nose.

Their season's-cretins ritual dated back to 1998, their first
December in the house. They had been lounging in the living room,
enjoying Jamaican rum without eggnog pollution, hanging her thigh-
high stockings by the chimney with careless abandon, and related
harking and heralding. Lynn mentioned something about how she used to
pester her parents to leave a snack for Santa Claus, and her father
would explain that the Big Guy preferred a frosty ("like the snowman,
darling") mug of beer instead of the time-honored glass of milk. Her
family would set out a special table that she would decorate with
their leftover ornaments, gift bows and tinsel, plus a few candles
("so he can see it in the dark, Daddy!").

Five rolls of ribbon later, Lynn found herself kneeling next to the
fireplace; her legs wrapped together from thigh to foot; her hands
cuffed to either side of a short spreader bar on the floor; a
'kerchief crammed into her mouth; two sugar-plum approximations
dangling from clamps on her nipples; the frozen glass, filled to the
rim with Belgium's finest, centered on her back; the long, tapered
candle jammed deep between the now-extremely rosy cheeks of her
bottom.

"Hope he doesn't start his rounds in China," Robert had remarked as
he threw the frayed cane into the hearth and lit the kindling beneath
the Yule log, then used the same match to spark the wick of the
candle. He gazed out the window at their clatter-free lawn, already
rehearsing his apology to his upstate cousins for missing the long-
planned reunion.

"Lynn's come down with something," he had told them the next day.
"No, nothing serious. Just a bad case of the flue."The rest of that
week had proceeded so splendidly, they decided to make it a holiday
tradition, a secret fruitcake recipe no sane person would ever want
to sample.

After mummifying her head, Robert helped Lynn lie down on the carpet
in front of the fireplace where he had assembled the evening's
accoutrements: cuffs for her ankles and thighs; a waist belt
festooned with D-rings; and her favorite mittens. Plus this year's
big present: a sleep sack made out of the same sturdy material as her
institutional straitjacket. He would have preferred leather, but they
had been disappointed too many times with "one size fits all"
products that inevitably proved too large to properly hug her slim
shape with the desired level of constriction. Alas, "full-body
corset" required levels of customization unavailable by mail order.
But he was quite certain he would hear no complaints about this
particular purchase. Not if she ever wanted to slumber under a
comforter again.

And to think he had once scoffed at the idea of a 24/7 relationship.
Robert could see how permanent bondage would be difficult to sustain
over the long haul, but ten days, give or take a federal holiday on
January 2, was definitely do-able. As he and Lynn had proven four
times over.

For their second Christmas, Robert decided to upgrade to a live
tree. So he borrowed some tools and built a proper stand; a thick
post mounted on a sturdy base with a crossbeam to hold Lynn's knees
apart. He used plenty of green rope to bind her chest and torso to
the polished wood, her wrists and ankles crossed behind it. For
decorations, he stuck a shiny red ball in her mouth, then hung their
collection of crystal stars, diaphanous angels and wooden soldiers
from clothespins all over her body. He was worried that the lights
might get too hot, so he set them to blink, except the ones around
her crotch.

Lynn must think she's getting off easy this year, Robert chuckled to
himself. Especially after the birthday party they threw for Jesus in
2000. Instead of Christmas frippery, he had opted for a clowns-and-
balloons theme in the living room, plus a new padded bench; since the
big guy couldn't make it, Lynn had been deputized to receive the
customary spanking. One for every year. Such a marvelous tradition.

As was Clement Moore's famous poem about "A Visit From St.
Nicholas," although Robert always wondered about the disputed
author's multiple use of the term "courser" to describe Dasher,
Dancer and the rest of the reindeer gang. His internal dictionary
metalinked the definition to something closer to "horse." Which
worked well for last year's main event, in which Lynn practiced her
flying skills suspended from the ceiling in full ponygirl attire. He
had considered adding a flashing red bulb to the front of her
trainer, but she made a better Vixen than Rudolph. Lucky for her it
was winter, so nobody else saw the henna tattoo proclaiming her new
name above her freshly shaved pussy. Or the target he painted on her
ass in honor of the extra-large bundle of switches they had received
from Père Fouettard, St. Nick's French sidekick known to Anglo expats
as Father Spanker.

The only thing that had upset Lynn was the bit gag; the rubber-
covered metal bar wasn't stifling enough for her tastes, hence this
year's reinforced model. Of course, Lynn was the kind of girl who
safeworded during Shibari sessions to inform him that the hemp
binding her breasts should be tighter. So Robert returned to their
playroom to retrieve some leather straps to supplement the now-
connected cuffs, waist belt and mittens. Twelve all told, to match
the fabled days of Christmas, plus a butt plug shaped like a pear
from that partridge-infested tree.

Robert carefully arranged the thistles (he supposed it was better
than "gristle" as a rhyme for "to his team gave a whistle") between
the brown belts on top of Lynn's not-so-naked-anymore body. Down was
notably absent on this year's crop, but the weeds still boasted
plenty of prickly spines. Just like the pointy boughs of holly and
mistletoe he added for color. Naughty, but nice. Like she needed a
reminder to keep perfectly still.

Robert began lacing the surrogate peddler's pack as tight as he
could, but there was still plenty of space between the canvas and
Lynn's flesh. A pity. But he was going to make the most of it.

"I like it when you scare me," she often whispered after they
settled down for long winter's naps. Robert wasn't sure if Lynn was
susceptible to common female phobias; squealing and standing on a
chair weren't her style. Of course, neither action was much of an
option now.

When he got to her waist, Robert stopped to fetch the evening's
mini--no, make that Minnie--guest, who was still sleeping off the
Sominex he had pushed between its whiskers with a dropper.

"Feel on, baby, just like Sir Mick says," Robert whispered to the
tiny gray shape as he placed it gently on Lynn's stomach amidst the
jagged foliage. He knew that cheese was supposed to be their favorite
food, but he figured a dab of peanut butter on each nipple would
suffice for late-night nibbling before the inevitable prancing and
pawing.

"All snug in your beds," he said when he finished knotting the thick
cord at the top of the sack. The brandy snifter made tipping a little
awkward, but he managed to dribble a thin stream of Bailey's into the
breathing tube. Her favorite. Especially when he licked it out of her
navel. But they had plenty of days ahead for feasts of every kind.

"And remember," he admonished the canvas mass lying in front of his
slippered feet containing his beloved and her slender-snouted destiny.

"No stirring."

***
Copyright (C) 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do
not repost nor repurpose without permission.

***
For more Christmas bondage stories by Adrian Hunter, please visit our
(free) BDSM Library:

http://www.adrianhunter.com/library.htm

***
"Something Just Clicked," a collection of our bdsm short stories and
novellas, is now available from Renaissance Ebooks:

http://www.renebooks.com

And if you buy any ebook from Renaissance during the month of
December, you will also receive a free copy of "Sizzling Holiday
Shorts 2002," an anthology of new 'tis-the-season erotica, including
"'O' Carol" by Adrian Hunter.

***
AdrianHunter.com
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard,
including our newly revised bdsm serial adventure, "Association."

http://www.adrianhunter.com

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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