| Association (a serial bdsm novel)
By Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard
Note: past episodes can be accessed at
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 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 playing with the mouse who'll soon become lunch. He was gently
tossing me between his velvety-soft paws, but the claws were poised
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.
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 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
"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.
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
"Giddyup," I said with the barest hint of a smile.
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.
When we reached the 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 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
Remarkably, I found myself on Akasha. Then he said the magic word:
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 where you want, and I'll try to look
good in the pictures. After all, that's all you need, 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 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 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.
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?"
"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 had been exhausting. First, the 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.
"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
"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
"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 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.
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
"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
"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 on the lip of the stage and walked brusquely
out of the studio.
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
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.
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-
"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
"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 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
"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 always used to say. Plenty of time for better things to come. And
"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 © 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 and
novellas, is now available from Renaissance Ebooks
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard