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From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" <adrian_hunter@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] doc.umentary by Adrian Hunter (bd, rom)
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 11:10:04 -0400
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for the "romance classic" category. please see attached txt file.

cheers,
adrian
*********************************
adrian hunter and chelsea shepard

superlative bondage fiction
http://www.adrianhunter.com

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<1st attachment, "documentary_by_adrian_hunter.txt" begin>

Author's note: A transcription of a lover's thoughts while being held 
captive by a piece of paper. In the print version, each section between 
astericks is presented on its own page.


doc.umentary (bd, rom)
By Adrian Hunter
Copyright (c) 1997, 2002


The blank sheet of stationery looked so bright lying there against the dark 
mahogany of the desk.

Positively virginal.

She picked up the paper and held it up to the bare bulb overhead, admiring 
its delicate translucence...its cragged texture...its ghosted logo...the 
watermark is almost medieval...never heard of the manufacturer 
before...probably from Europe, where they still have a clue about analog and 
tradition and extravagance and...

You're stalling.

He's waiting.


***


She exhaled a prolonged sigh through her nose and picked up his Michel 
Perchin pen that gleamed like the proverbial little red Corvette under 20 
coats of wax.

Such a masculine toy.

An advertisement for his virility.

Like some overpriced Cuban cigar.

The Hemingway syndrome.

Christ, this thing has the heft of a bazooka.

A lethal weapon.

Especially tonight.


***


She wished he had provided something more comfortable to sit on than a metal 
folding chair.

So hard and cold against her naked butt.


***


She scanned what used to be his guest bedroom for the thousandth time.

Bare walls.

Cheap pine floorboards, splattered with baby-blue blotches from some 
long-ago nursery renovation.

No furniture besides the desk and chair.

Nothing in the closet.

He said he was redecorating.

Which was supposed to explain the plywood nailed up over the window.


***


She stared at the door for a moment.

Is it locked?

Or are you just too nervous to check?

Not that it mattered.


***


Her eyes drifted down to the fluff between her thighs.

"What's he going to do to you tonight?" she asked it out loud.

As if its lips could form words, too.

That's entirely up to you, her mind responded on its behalf.

***

She unscrewed the cap of the pen and laid it on the desk, then crossed her 
legs tightly.

But what to write?

"Tell me your darkest desire," he had suggested.

"Something you've never shared with anyone."

She permitted herself a crinkle of a smile.

What, he wanted more?

Their entire relationship seemed to be one long expos  of their souls, an 
infinite loop of excavation and revelation.

Unearthing the dangerous visions she thought she had locked away in a 
private safe that made Fort Knox look like a piggybank.

The ones with enough passwords to encrypt the CIA, every bank account in 
Switzerland, and the secret formula for Coca-Cola to boot.

Only he knew the combination.

Left, right, left.

Tumblers clicking home.

Turning her inside out.


***


She rewound her history tape to childhood. Playing cowboys and Indians. 
Always allowing herself to be captured. Squirming and squealing as the boys 
lassoed her to a tree in the woods.

Pretending to be an unwilling prisoner.

But only so they'd tie her tighter.

So much more complicated now.

Is it? Really?


***


She remembered a silly, smutty ditty that she and her high school friends 
used to sing as they drove around town pretending to be on the prowl.

Good girls don't, they would shriek whenever it came on the radio.

And then she would silently mouth the final refrain, the one the singer 
practically purred.

But I do.

Well, no, she really didn't. Not back then, anyway.

She had just wanted to.

Desperately.

And she kept it all bottled up inside her until it was dangerously 
overinflated, seams straining like Rosie O'Donnell in a dress she stole from 
Parker Posey.


***


She thought about the scenes in minor movies that made her secretly swoon, 
like Natassja Kinski spread-eagled at the end of "Cat People," or the 
hogtied heroines in "Big Trouble In Little China."

And her bootlegged copy of "Lair of the White Worm," starring a very young 
Hugh Grant gone to fetish hell.

Only it looked like heaven to her.

And don't forget the collection of Penthouse Forum magazines with purported 
reader letters about submissive adventures, shamefully bought at a Quik-Stop 
several miles out of town.

Totems and talismans.

Baggage for a journey with no real destination.

A furtive reverie that never broke the surface of her carefully-rendered 
reality.

Until now.

Oh, yes, she rued.

Now.


***


She opened one of the desk drawers.

Still empty.

Nothing to look at except the paper.

Nothing to play with except the pen.

And yourself, she noted, as she glanced down at her breasts.

Her left hand floated to her right nipple, fingers grazing the bumps with 
intimate acquaintance.

She closed her eyes and increased pressure.

Maybe this will help fire the imagination.

Not that you ever required much assistance in this department.


***


She tried to think of something complicated, something that would impress 
him with its creative possibilities for distress. Perhaps a dramatic 
suspension involving her hair. Balancing precariously on one foot. Limbs 
lashed to his Nautilus machine.

No, maybe he wanted her to script a scene. NIN groupie. Emma Peel. Patty 
Hearst. P.O.W. Ponygirl. Thousand-dollar whore.

Cowboys and Indians.

All of the above.


***


She let her hand fall away.

All she really wanted was him.

His intuitions.

His inspirations.

His instructions.

His hot breath on her skin.

His fingers groping.

Pinching.

Exploring.

Tightening.

Would he hold back on her?

Make her suffer?

Beg for the abuse she craved?

Or would he take her roughly?

Seal her mouth with tape?

So he could do whatever he pleased?

Oblivious to anything but his own needs?

Heart pounding wildly against her?

All up to you.


***


The trick to life, she reminded herself, isn't getting what you want.

It's wanting what you get.

It's only everything, she sang to herself.


***


Why does this feel so awkward?

What if he doesn't respond?

Maybe you're afraid you'll scare him off.

Too much too soon.

Too little too late.

Chase him back to his fortress of solitude.

The line between romancing and stalking gets rather fragile when the object 
of affection doesn't return the favor.


***


Oh, just be honest and tell him how you feel.

Yeah, and prisons are filled with people who confessed the truth.

This must be what jail is really like.

***

She wiped her fingers across her forehead and noted the shine.

Come on, this shouldn't be so hard.

Stop panicking.

Don't make such a big deal out of it.

Let yourself go.

But that's just it.

She already had.

Didn't he know it?

What more could she do to prove it?

Not some pathetic scribbling.

He could download dirty daydreams by the truckload from the net.

This called for epochal.

***

She reached between her legs and squeezed, hard.

Fingers instinctive.

Autopilot.

Rubbing the lamp.

Summoning the demon.


***


A dark room.

A cell.

Kneeling.

Ankles cuffed to a spreader bar.

Arms laced tight in leather behind her.

The back of the gag roped to her elbows so she was forced to stare at the 
ceiling.

Nipples clamped and strung up so she couldn't lower herself.

Him lying on his back, head propped up on cushions between her legs.

Slithering tongue.

Feral teeth.

Endlessly.

Then abandoned with vibrators jammed deep in her ass and pussy.

Knowing it would only be worse when he returned.


***


Her eyes popped open like parachutes just a few ticks before the internal 
nuclear incident.

That's it!

Touchdown.

She smiled broadly and relaxed against the chilly steel of the backrest.

Validate the transaction.

Proof of ownership.

Please retain this copy for your records.


***


She leaned forward, picked up his ridiculous pen, and began to print across 
the top of the stationery in her most architectural block capitals.

"CUSTOMER RECEIPT."


###

Copyright (c) 1997, 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do 
not repost nor repurpose without permission.

AdrianHunter.com
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard, including 
our new bdsm novel, "Once Bitten."

http://www.adrianhunter.com

Correspondence: adrian(underscore)hunter(at)hotmail(dot)com


<1st attachment end>


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