0 comments/ 113951 views/ 62 favorites Association By: adrianhunter By Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard PROLOGUE International Fashion Council Memorandum Extract from the minutes of the monthly board meeting Point 35-c: Cover for Annual Report The Executive Director motioned to discuss the cover for the association's annual report. The ensuing discussion resulted in general agreement that the theme should focus on the IFC's new initiative to promote leather apparel to a worldwide audience. The Secretary opened the floor to suggestions for an umbrella slogan to encompass the myriad qualities of leather as a suitable material for haute couture designs. Additional discussion centered on leather's benefits, with a general consensus that the proposed wording would have to accurately deliver the desired value messages in a simple headline that would also lend itself to graphic interpretation. Several themes were proposed and subsequently rejected. Finally, the Chairman put forward "The Economy of Movement" as a suitable slogan that subtly reinforced the association's ongoing efforts to reduce its operating costs in light of the growing number of complaints regarding excessive expenses incurred by the executive committee. After a brief brainstorm session, the board agreed to move forward with the Chairman's recommendation, as well as his strong preference to assign the project to the creative design firm of Geoffrey Sorenson Ltd. Given the critical importance of the leather initiative for the association, the Chairman urged the board to provide Mr. Sorenson with absolute freedom in regard to the composition of the cover and the interior pages of the annual report. The Board selected Executive Director-elect Sabrina Taylor to travel to Sorenson's studios to supervise the photography sessions for the cover. It was also suggested that Taylor should serve as the model for the project, as it would be a unique opportunity to introduce her to those members who have not yet made her acquaintance. After a brief debate, it was decided that Taylor would research and contact other professional models for consideration. A detailed proposal for the project will be drafted by the board for immediate review and approval. The board of directors voted unanimously in favor of the recommendation, with Taylor abstaining. *** From the desk of Geoffrey Sorenson May 25 On behalf of Geoffrey Sorenson Ltd., we happily accept the International Fashion Council's proposal regarding principal photography for the association's annual report, and look forward to making the acquaintance of Ms. Taylor in the near future. Sincerely yours, Geoffrey Sorenson President and Chief Creative Officer Geoffrey Sorenson Ltd. *** 27 May Dearest Geoffrey, Forgive my use of an ancient typewriter, but I don't trust the phones, and I can't get away to meet with you in person. I am very pleased you have accepted the assignment to design and photograph the association's annual report. However, I'm afraid there's more to this project than a few pretty pictures. Specifically, the board of directors finds itself in rather urgent need of your expertise in the field of, shall we say, international export of perishable goods. As you know, one of our senior staff members, Sabrina Taylor, has been assigned to supervise the project on-site at your studios. When she returns, Ms. Taylor is scheduled to take over as Executive Director of the International Fashion Council in accordance with her surprise victory in last month's election. While the board did its best to maintain the status quo, her platform of complete disclosure struck a resonant chord with the membership, and the votes in her favor were substantially higher than those cast for the incumbent. This unexpected turn of events is most unfortunate. While the board is legally required to promote Ms. Taylor, suffice it to say we do not share her enthusiasm for a complete audit of the association's records, specifically in regard to some expense vouchers which will be difficult to justify to outside professionals. In fact, we are quite certain the investigation will quickly escalate into more troublesome encounters with law enforcement representatives, not to mention tax-compliance officers. Therefore, we find ourselves in a bit of a tight spot, and feel compelled to take drastic measures that will ensure Ms. Taylor's proposed financial review does not occur. I trust you to make the necessary arrangements in your usual thorough manner. I am confident that your efforts will be more than amply rewarded by the final purchase price negotiated with your friends in Hong Kong. However, if you need any additional funds, please don't hesitate to give me a shout. Thanks again for helping out an old friend. I presume you will know what to do with this letter, but just in case, I have taken the liberty of enclosing a book of matches. Best regards, A *** From the desk of Geoffrey Sorenson May 29 A, Got your note, and thanks for sending along the photographs of Ms. Taylor, too. Based on her considerable "qualifications," I am quite confident that a mutually-satisfactory transaction can be arranged. Give my best to the board, and please assure them that your "problem" is as good as solved. GS *** International Fashion Council Memorandum Date: June 1 To: Geoffrey Sorenson From: Sabrina Taylor Subject: Annual Report Project Thank you for your recent telephone call; it was a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. While I continue to have strong reservations about the Chairman's proposed theme, I have come to agree that "The Economy of Movement" will magnify the qualities of leather as a chic, yet cost-effective alternative to other materials for today's fashions. At the request of the board, I have enclosed a detailed list of my body measurements. Since I do not share the board's enthusiasm for posing for the annual report myself, I have also forwarded résumés and portfolio samples from several fashion models whom I think will better capture the approach we discussed. I will leave it to you to choose the most suitable one(s) and arrange for her/their participation in the project as required. Please don't hesitate to contact me if you have any additional questions. Otherwise, I look forward to meeting you and your team in person. ST *** VIA WESTERN UNION JUNE 6 TO: DAV IWATA/HONG KONG NEW PRODUCT AVAILABLE STOP PHOTO SENT STOP DETERMINE INTEREST STOP GS *** VIA WESTERN UNION JUNE 7 REPLY TO: GEOFFREY SORENSON GOOD NEWS STOP SCHEDULING 2 WEEK AUCTION STOP PREFERENCE PONY STOP HAVE FUN STOP DI *** VIA WESTERN UNION JUNE 8 REPLY TO: DAV IWATA TIMING OK STOP CLEANING BARN STOP GS *** 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. *** 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... Association 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. *** DAY 3--GEOFFREY Looks like another warm one, I mused absentmindedly as I checked the clock. Six a.m. Time's a-wasting. Sabrina wasn't amused to be rousted out of bed so early, but I wasn't in the mood to be charitable. Minutes later, she was following me down the dirt trail toward the barn, naked and groggy and trying to shield her eyes from the rising sun. We went past the barn and into the woods, finally stopping in a clearing. I reached into one of the duffel bags I had brought along and pulled out something light and brown. "Here, put these on." I didn't think she recognized the suede apparel. Elaborate symbols and ornaments were embroidered into the leather with colored beads. Fringe hung down from the hems. Moccasin-style boots complemented the matching top and bottom. "They're now referred to as 'original Americans,' which replaced 'native Americans,' which replaced 'Indians,' not to mention 'redskins,' 'braves,' 'chiefs' and other colorful team mascots," I explained. "But for this morning's session, we're going to be quite politically incorrect in our portrayal of the noble savage." Sabrina stepped into the bottom part of the get-up and pulled them around her hips. Somehow, I doubted that Sioux and Cherokee women dressed in buckskin hot pants, but historical accuracy was far down my list of important elements for this shoot. Association I helped her knot the leather lacings that held the skimpy top against her chest, and then busied myself with my camera equipment while she sat down to tie the straps around the moccasins. "Are you ready?" I inquired redundantly, as she looked absolutely ravishing in spite of her disheveled state. I produced a black wig from the duffel bag and positioned it on top of her head, helping her tuck the stray strands of her own hair under the scalp covering. "Perfect. Now, you need to look authentic." I reached down and grabbed a handful of loose dirt, then smeared it against her thigh. "Like that. Dirty yourself up. All over your body. Try not to get any on your face though." When I was satisfied with her grime quotient, I pulled out the makeup kit. "Now we'll add some war paint, and you'll be all set." After I finished applying the various colors to Sabrina's cheeks and around her eyes, I wrapped a beaded band around her head and handed her a quiver, a tomahawk and several long leather straps. "We'll pass on the feather, but that just about does it. Put the bow and arrow over your shoulder, and stick the axe and the straps into the side of your pants. Now, here's what I want you to do. You're a fierce Indian, er, original American warrior. You've spotted a paleface snooping around your territory. I want you to pretend you're tracking her. Hide behind those trees over there." The shutter clicked like a machine gun as we progressed through the woods. After an hour of stalking, I directed her to pretend that she had caught her prey. She looked confused, so I tried to explain. "Just imagine there's someone else in the picture with you. I'll combine the images in the darkroom. Take out the bow and arrow. Pretend to be aiming it at someone. Good, excellent, now take out the tomahawk. Look menacing. Pretend your captive is in your face. Now, get down on the ground. That's it, perfect. Okay, now you're taking your captive back to your camp. Follow me." We walked a short distance to another clearing with the trunk of an old tree, stripped of its bark and most of its branches, standing in its center. "You're doing great, Sabrina. Pretend you're tying someone to the post. That's it, a little higher. Use all the leather straps. Toss them out of range over there. Almost done. Take this..." I reached into my backpack and pulled out an old-fashioned bullwhip. "Your captive was stupid enough to be carrying this when you caught her. Use it. That's right, I want you to whip the post. As hard as you can. Get your arm into it. No, like this." I took the handle from her hand, reared back and gave the post an enormous whack. "See, you want it to snap. There, that's better. Harder. Meaner. You don't like this paleface. She wants to take away your land. And...stop. That's a wrap. Good girl. Great stuff. I'm starving, aren't you? Let's go back to the house and get you cleaned up and into your cowboy clothes for this afternoon's shoot...well, who did you think was going to play the paleface?" --SABRINA-- While trying to finish at least half the salad on my plate, I turned to look at the quiet surface of the pool with envy. I sure could've used a dip. The cool water might have silenced the millions of thoughts in my mind. Geoffrey's last words certainly hit their target. How had I not seen this one coming? Of course I would play the cowgirl. And he was giving me enough time to consider our forthcoming session, with the post and the whip to look forward to. Was I supposed to get worried, possibly scared? This was obviously the price to pay for his lost wine. Well, I had screwed up marvelously last night, but he had given me no time to apologize and try to make up. At least I could have cleaned up the wine cellar. Playing with jagged glass would have been better than the awful night I had spent tossing and turning. I laid down my fork, unable to swallow another green leaf, and raised my glass instead. A glance at his face proved he was still mad at me. Alright, Geoffrey, I thought to myself, I know what it would take to get even. Once I played prey to his satisfaction, he would insist on tying me to the tree. "For effect. Honestly." I would struggle and argue, but eventually, I'd give in, because I knew this is what he wanted and, okay, I owed him one. I sipped more wine as I continued my silent confrontation with him, creating a strategy while my thoughts were still clear. I knew how easily he could bring me to a state of confusion, and I wanted to make sure I'd be in control at all times, even when he would think otherwise. Being bound should make him happy, I reasoned, but that wouldn't be enough. When both of us knew I was helpless, he'd try to scare me with the whip, maybe wait until I screamed in protest. And maybe I'd give him all that. But that's as far as the payback game would go. If he even dared to brush me with the tip of the whip... "Are you finished?" His interruption startled me, and it took me a couple of seconds to admit I couldn't eat more. I declined his invitation for coffee--my nerves didn't need more stimulation--and helped him clear the table. Then I waited for him to take us back to the woods. --GEOFFREY-- As expected, the leather chaps looked stunning around Sabrina's slender legs, as did the matching vest around her chest. She probably hated the fact that her ass was uncovered, to say nothing of the lack of buttons or snaps for the front of the vest. But her opinion would be the only negative once the film was developed. A most suitable model. Her board of directors, to say nothing of the adult paysites on the Internet where I planned to sell the pictures, would be very appreciative indeed. I accessorized her with a leather thong, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots, a black Stetson, and a red bandanna for her neck that eventually wound up in her mouth when we returned to the clearing. As usual, she kicked up an awful fuss as I lashed her to the tree in the center. I ignored her and concentrated on the tasks at hand. Once Sabrina's wrists and ankles were bound behind the back of the post, she seemed unusually nervous, even though we were clearly just working. I wondered if she expected me to actually use the bullwhip on her. Silly girl. That's much too clumsy a weapon. A crop, or perhaps a flogger; those were suitable for human flesh. Plenty of time to try the entire collection. Later. But not too much later, as customers who paid handsomely for flesh generally preferred to receive their purchases in pristine condition. After I finished the tree shots, I took her to the side of the clearing where I had planted five stakes in the ground. At first, she protested mightily about lying on the dirt spread-eagled, but when I threatened to gag her again, she calmed down and allowed me to bind her outstretched wrists, ankles and neck to the short wooden posts. "Be thankful there isn't an anthill underneath you," I joked as I poured a jar of honey on her exposed parts. "Don't want to be too authentic." Speaking of which, I actually kind of liked the way her face contorted when she yelled at me about getting her all sticky and messy. Again, I went about my business, even encouraging her to scream and thrash as if she really were being devoured by tiny insects. When I was satisfied with the shots, I sliced away the leather straps and helped her to her feet. "We made a lot of progress today. Thank you for being so co- operative." While I began packing my equipment, she turned on her heel and started marching back toward the house without a word. "Sabrina? Come back here!" Models will be the death of me, I decided as I watched her storm away. But such a necessary evil. Tomorrow, I planned to spend the morning in the darkroom while giving her some down time. Then, in the afternoon, we would run through the rock-star scenario on the stage in the studio; she was going to look smashing in tight leather pants and stiletto heels with a guitar strap pressing against her breast. And after that...I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper covered with the calculations I had scribbled while talking to my wine broker this morning about the current price for three cases of premium Merlot. *** DAY FOUR--SABRINA When Geoffrey announced I would have the whole morning to myself while he worked in his darkroom, I felt like applauding. It was the best news I'd heard since my arrival five days ago. I asked if I could call the association's director to update him on our work, expecting a polite, but firm refusal. Instead, he led me upstairs to his study and pointed at the phone on his desk. "There. And please, do not touch anything else," he warned. "Am I allowed to sit in the chair?" He didn't bother to answer, and stomped back downstairs. I hoped I wouldn't see him again until lunch time. Good riddance. I sat, or rather slumped, in his leather chair, taking off my ridiculous heels and putting my bare feet on his desk. Every time I thought I had sussed out Geoffrey's game, he unleashed another surprise, always a bad one. So he didn't use the whip, but he gagged me, which was even worse. And what about tying me to the ground, coating me with honey and joking--joking!--about ants? Was it my lack of an appreciation for verisimilitude, or was this guy insane? I didn't know how many bottles of his precious wine I had broken the other night, but the price I'd already paid seemed sufficiently high. In fact, I would have told him so, if my anger hadn't reached a level of intensity quite beyond the capacity of speech. No words could have expressed my indignation better than the stubborn silence I maintained until bedtime. Not that it seemed to bother him. I dialed the director's number and, after updating him on the sessions, tried to get more information on Mr. Sorenson. Apparently, his reputation was irreproachable, and no one had ever complained about his work. His artistic ideas were praised by his many clients; working with him was considered a privilege. Oh, it was my privilege for sure, I grinned as I put down the receiver. Well, if he gave up on his bondage madness, I might even get to see what the fuss was all about. I left the room and decided to go outdoors. After a long and peaceful walk, wandering everywhere but near the stables or that fateful clearing, I returned to the pool and spent the rest of my free time in the water. The solo stroll restored most of my confidence and self-control. However, the minute Geoffrey reappeared, I fretted over what his next "artistic" idea would be. As it turned out, this one had been fun. I got to play rock star, and that was an old fantasy I enjoyed acting out. He asked if I knew any Joan Jett, and my rendition of "I Love Rock and Roll" almost brought a smile to his face. Almost. But at least I knew he was pleased, and I began to relax. Surely the wine cellar disaster was forgotten now, and our future photo sessions would be as entertaining as this one. Dinner was implausibly enjoyable; our discussion centered on music, and we discovered we had at least one interest in common. When I went to bed, I was convinced I had gone through the worst and things could only brighten up. I slept like a baby. *** DAY FIVE--GEOFFREY The day dawned red and promptly reversed, growing progressively darker as the weather took a turn for the wetter. After a hearty and strangely pleasant breakfast, I led Sabrina downstairs to the studio. "Indoor sports today, I'm afraid," I announced in what I thought was a cheerful tone of voice. "Looks like this could last through the weekend. Good thing we're on schedule." Stop chattering, you asshole, I almost said out loud. To distract myself, I walked to the edge of the room and pulled out a rack laden with fancy leather outfits, elegant European designs suitable for a cocktail party at Versailles or a disco on Capri. Let her go to the ball for a while. Plenty of time before the clock strikes midnight. And I already knew the shoe would fit my Cinderella's foot, not to mention her ankle, calf, knee and thigh. I let her have fun playing dress-up, her demeanor becoming less inhibited as the hours rolled by like minutes. After a glass or two of wine at lunch, she became positively saucy, then borderline obscene, flashing various body parts in perfect time to the lights triggered by my shutter. I realized this particular session would give me more than enough naughty pictures for the association's stupid little annual report. If they even bothered to use them. But I could probably sell several thousand copies myself after she's safely transported to the other side of the planet. Maybe they could be used as bait for new subscribers to bdsm-vixens.com or whichever porn site offered me the most money for the proofs. Not that I was going to need the extra dough, according to the most recent telegram from Hong Kong informing me that her auction was progressing splendidly. But fresh pictures always helped spur reluctant bidders. I waited until Sabrina tried on the micro-miniskirt, then suggested she put on the thigh-high boots from the day before. Giggling, she agreed. She even let me help her squirm into a leather bustier that covered her torso from her navel to just barely over the top of her nipples. Opera-length leather gloves, complete with laces, soon ran up her arms to her shoulders. "You look like a gorgeous sex kitten," I noted with a smile. "Maybe a kitten with a whip?" "What is it with you and this bondage stuff?" Sabrina asked with the slightest of slurs in her voice. "Curiosity killed the cat," I replied with a wink. She giggled again while I unlocked one of the trunks and pulled out a flogger with long leather strips hanging down from a stout handle. "Hold this like you mean it," I said, handing it to her. I lowered his voice into a make-believe villain. "Make me suffer with your gaze." She burst into laughter and started pretending to be a world-class dominatrix, snarling and sneering and cracking the whip. "Hurt me," I cried as I snapped picture after picture. "Make me your slave. C'mon, show me what you'd like to do to me." After several poses, I signaled for her to stop. "I hate to waste the outfit," I said as I reloaded his camera. "Are you game to keep going?" "Sh-sh-sure," she replied with yet another giggle. I returned to the open trunk. "Let's try the other side of the equation. Put your hands behind your back." I walked toward Sabrina holding a pair of handcuffs. --SABRINA-- I swear I was ready for him. When Geoffrey whipped out the whip, I knew we would revert to his favorite sport: tying me up and pretending it was all in a day's work. Same old story, same old song and dance, my friend. Only this time, I was in the mood to play along. I had fun. I was slightly drunk, too. I wanted a taste of danger, like I did when I was younger and hitchhiked with my best friend; two schoolgirls, pretty and insolent and shouting it to the world, more terrified of our parents than any dastardly fate that might befall us. Nothing bad ever happened, except the one time when the driver started masturbating as he headed out of town. We literally jumped out of the car at the first traffic light, and tried to laugh to forget how scared we had been. We were kids, and danger was fun. That day, danger was fun, too. Without hesitation, I put my hands behind my back, and I felt the same thrill as climbing in the car of a random stranger. When I play with fire, I occasionally forget it can burn. I felt the cold metal on my wrists at the same time as I heard the "click" of the lock. He was fast, as always. Geoffrey took something out of his pocket, brought it up close to my face, and--yikes! Darkness. Total. Very, very total. I didn't like this at all, but I bit my lip. This is just a game, I told myself. Let's see how far you can go. He led me toward the back of the stage and fumbled with something. After the noisy photo session, the silence around us was almost surreal. I felt him attach what sounded like a clip to the chain linking my cuffs. "I'm tired of these standing shots," he said. "Time for something different." His last words echoed in my ears when my arms suddenly shot skyward. To keep my balance, I had to bend forward. When the pulling stopped, I found myself in such an awkward position, my insubordinate nature spurted back. "Hey, not so high. I can't keep my balance. C'mon, bring it down." "Hold on. Let me deal with that little balance problem," he said as he walked back to his trunks. While I was trying to find a more comfortable position--lifting my head, bending my knees, trying to turn around, none of which really worked--he grabbed my hips to straighten me up, and asked me to spread my legs. "Wider. Much wider. There." As he spoke, he clutched my leather- clad ankles and connected them to something. When I heard him turn away, I tried to move, but discovered I could no longer close my legs. Oh, good, he had me grounded, too. I conducted a rapid survey of my situation, and decided the game was not turning in my favor. Yet, despite the obvious discomfort, I was still more thrilled than upset. Funny what a mixture of wine and adrenaline will do to you. Two days before, I had kicked up a fuss about being lashed to a tree. And there I was, doubled over, with my ass not even covered by the almost-nonexistent skirt. My hands and feet were useless, and I was completely in the dark as to what was to come. Then, quite unexpectedly, I burst into laughter. "Now, this is quite a situation you've put me in, Geoffrey," I managed to splutter. "And tell me, what do we do now?" --GEOFFREY-- "I want you to hold this for me. But if you drop it, I'm going to use it on you. Open your mouth." Before Sabrina could react, I wedged the handle of the flogger between her teeth, then stood back to watch as she struggled between the desire to spit it out, and the consequences if she did. "A very wise choice," I commented once she calmed down. Not that it would last. This one seemed to think that fighting me was a winning strategy. I needed to take advantage of it while I could, capture her aggression and make it come alive on film. Several rolls later, I decided she could use some accessories. "I'm going to give you some more things to hold until I need them." I placed a leather gag with a thick rubber penis jutting out of the mouth plate into one of her hands bouncing behind her back. The other soon received a sizeable plug for her ass. As I reloaded his camera, I watched her fingers twitch and claw as she tried to deduce what they were clutching. She looked so marvelous when she got agitated. But such a pity to lose the eyes. I would definitely take some pictures without the blindfold. To see and be seen, to scream and be screened. I pulled some clamps out of one pocket and fingered them appreciatively. They were the kind that looked like little presses, the kind used to crush grapes. A single turn of the screw could create entire new dimensions of distress. And if that didn't work, there was always the weights. Eventually, the whip would be on the floor, then in my hand. I reached over to one of her breasts that had popped free of the bustier and positioned the two thin brass bars around her soft, pink nipple. Holding it steady with one hand, I began twisting the serrated knob with the other. --SABRINA-- The regular "click" of the shutter was the only thing that kept me close to a semblance of reality. Beyond that, nothing made sense. My attention was centered on my jaws and teeth. "Don't drop the handle" was the only thing that registered. I had no doubt that the thing in my mouth was the lower half of some kind of whip, and I wasn't going to let Geoffrey use it on me. I wasn't sure he would, but I didn't want to learn otherwise.