Come True: More Prize Winning Erotica
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by Adrian Hunter
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: Award-winning B&D fictions! In Come True, award-winning author Adrian Hunter explores the forbidden fantasies of men who take without asking, and women who yearn to be taken. In 2000, he was the recipient of the "Best Bondage Writer" award from SIGNY. His short stories, novellas and poetry have been compiled in four volumes: Chain Reaction, Come True, Crash Your Party Dress and Something Just Clicked. This anthology of Hunter's work features "Marquise," a novella about the adventures of a woman and her online boyfriend who discover the dramatic difference between cyberspace and real life, plus one of his most enduring works, "Out of Commission," a tale of a sales rep who literally gets more than she bargained for. Come True also includes two stories about immovable objects that don't object to being objectified, "Statuesque" and "Nu de Maître" by frequent collaborator Chelsea Shepard. Adrian Hunter's erotic fiction is the kind of torture that only hurts when it stops.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2003
eBookwise Release Date: July 2004
17 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [175 KB]
Reading time: 200-280 min.
"You will count them out loud for me. One ..."
This is crazy.
And don't forget stupid, stupid.
Michelle stared out her window at the millions of earthbound galaxies glittering like the insides of a pirate's treasure chest. From the air, New York looked like it was designed by Disney, dozens of familiar tourist icons crammed onto the real fantasy island, the future unfolding in a diorama that scarcely resembled the rusting metal indigenous to the state that borrowed its name.
"This is the captain. I hope you're enjoying our view of Manhattan tonight, because I'm afraid you'll be seeing a lot of it. The tower at LaGuardia has asked us to sit tight while they get some other planes down first. I figure about 20 to 30 minutes before we arrive at the gate."
Michelle pushed her head back against the dwarf pillow and closed her eyes.
Great. More time to think.
More time to talk yourself out of this.
Oh, but you're really traveling on business, Michelle. An artfully contrived appointment with a dim prospect who seems to be surgically attached to the competition. Hell, she'd be lucky to get 15 minutes and a cup of coffee out of the guy.
After this self-inflicted humiliation, she was going to do a little shopping over on the west side. Chelsea, actually. Stomping grounds of Edie Sedgwick, Sid Vicious and subway vigilante Bernie Goetz, among other notable Noo Yawk riffrafferati.
Sapphrodite. "A boutique for the discriminating fetishist."
She shook her head to clear away the dark, shiny visions. You're on a mission, girl. Focus.
Chasing ghosts and dreams is more like it, she reminded herself. She had no idea if the people there would know anything about Joshua. If there even is a Joshua.
Oh, he's real. No artificial intelligence could push your buttons so effectively. She shuddered at the thought that she had been spending hours online with some pimply high-school student or worse.
Despite a mutual affection for steamy ASCII, their relationship, if you could call it that, always kept one foot firmly planted on the floor. Joshua took her ideas and spun them into stories he posted to various newsgroups. She turned him on to private mailing lists, and occasionally introduced him to members of her dom/sub knitting circle. They traded pictures they found on the web. Sometimes, they even allowed themselves to play out various roles in private chat sessions.
She had no idea what he looked like, where he lived, or if his name was really Joshua Fisher. Or, for that matter, if he was a he, a she, or something in between.
Just another normal, happy couple on the Internet, she laughed to herself.
They had met a few months ago in a chat room. She had recognized his screen name, and IM'd him to say how much she enjoyed his fiction. He had responded pleasantly, sparing her the childish come-ons and slobber-lipped heavy breathing so typical of these encounters. Soon thereafter, they began exchanging letters, short notes at first, then longer missives touching on topics Michelle had kept buried in herself since she could remember.
He made her laugh when he told her about some of the weirdos he attracted by "sharing my most intimate obsessions with several million closet cases" ("including us," she often reminded him). He always seemed to say exactly what she wanted to hear, both in conversation and his more formal writing.
He didn't believe her when she told him he was an international online legend, even when she swore his name had been mentioned reverently during discussions with her digital companions.
"Joshua Fisher, man or myth?" she had joked, but she was only half-kidding. While his stories appeared frequently in the alt.sex universe, personal postings were rarer than Republican strippers. He wasn't so much a lurker as he was a phantom, often seen but rarely met.
So who are you, Michelle? The exorcist? Or Linda Blair?
She wasn't sure anymore. Especially after she introduced him to the Marquise.
During her travels through the gutter colonies of the net, she had chanced upon a group of lesbian B&D enthusiasts led by a rather forbidding domme who ruled with an iron fist, or at least one that was severely studded. Those admitted to her inner circle were allowed to call her Lady Eleanor in private, but Michelle soon realized most of her clique of admirers preferred her formal title, especially those who seemed to know her in real life, or IRL in abbreviated netspeak.
The Marquise supervised an invitation-only web site, mailing list and regular chat sessions that delved deep and wide in matters of sexual dominance and forbidden submissions. Michelle discovered this secret paradise after she befriended a funny lesbian couple, "Lovely" Rita and "Polythene" Pam ("just like the Beatles!" they had chirped unnecessarily), in a public chat session. Rita and Pam were forever bickering about everything from sharing the keyboard to whose turn it was to polish all their leather, and Michelle got a kick out of their affectionate bitchplay. If she ever got up the guts to switch her gender pref, these are the kind of women she'd want to start with.
After a series of email exchanges, Rita and Pam told her about the club, and decided to introduce her to the Marquise as a potential member. Lady Eleanor had agreed to interview her online, and despite her predominantly hetero/top leanings, the Marquise had agreed to take her on as an "apprentice sub," which Michelle felt was somewhat redundant until she got to know some of the other women in the group.
At first, she had not been allowed to add her comments to the weekly mailings, nor join in any chat sessions. Instead, she lurked, listened, observed and learned.
And, truth be told, giggled more than a little.
These people are nice, but nuts, she had decided. The Marquise had a very complicated series of rules that had to be followed to the letter. Variations and infractions were punished with speed and severity. The guilty were given detailed instructions for punishments to be self-inflicted, along the lines of:
"Take the keys to two pairs of handcuffs, place them at the bottom of a plastic gallon jug filled with water, and freeze the container for 48 hours. When you are ready, place a large plug in your ass and a vibrator running on its lowest setting in your pussy (and don't forget fresh batteries). Then, put on a pair of rubber panties to keep them from being dislodged, and add some rope around your crotch for insurance. Get the container out of the freezer and put it on the floor. Gag yourself with a head harness. Place a pair of handcuffs around your ankles, and one cuff around your left hand, leaving your right hand free. Lie on your stomach, put your hands behind your back, and bend your knees until you can loop the chain of the cuffs for your wrists around the chain between your ankles. Once the hogtie has been established, snap the open cuff shut around your right wrist."
Michelle had been told it could take up to eight hours for the ice to melt.
When Lady Eleanor finally gave her permission to speak to the group, Michelle assiduously followed all the regulations: waiting her turn, always addressing members by their full formal names (some of which were lavishly long in the style of a faded European court about to be overrun by a peasant revolution), digitally curtseying to those who entered late, always saying "please" and "ma?am," and so on. The Marquise had quickly noticed Michelle's occasional lapses in spelling, and made it a point to mete out "behavior modifications" for every slip, not that Michelle had any intention of wearing tiny clothespins under her blouse all day at work.
But she quite enjoyed the high level of sophistication and intelligence of the Marquise and her "merry band of muff-munching misfits" (according to the home-page descriptor). They were most patient with her endless questions, as well as generous with praise for her often-wobbly contributions to the letters and the endless river of the chat sessions.
Although males were strictly forbidden, Michelle told Joshua about the Marquise, and even shared unedited chat transcripts and copies of the chain letters. He was much intrigued by the thought of 20-plus women who treated bondage like something to do after coffee at a Junior League meeting, and fairly begged her to introduce him to the group as "ShareY?all," a bubbly blonde b-word who "gets all, like, hot" just thinking about being tied up and ravaged by women "who know how to do all the right things to me."
"Bad idea, Josh," she had written back. "These dykes don't dick around."
He finally seemed to get the message, and the topic never came up again. But she was always wary of new members, fearful he had used the information she had given him to infiltrate the group without her help. She was especially curious about "Bottoma," a purportedly young thing who claimed to be exploring her conflicts between being everyone's "best girl" and somewhat blacker desires. Michelle convinced herself that if this newbie passed muster with the Marquise, she must be as real as any of them.
The airplane continued to arc in wide circles over the Atlantic, her seatmates blissfully and mercifully asleep. Not that I'm in any rush, Michelle told herself. Grab a cab, check in, sleep. Tomorrow will come fast enough.
A little distraction might actually help right about now.
Instead, she churned the chronology for the thousandth time.
Everyone had noticed how Bottoma played to the Marquise, showering her with trivial flattery and fawning over her every utterance. In return, Lady Eleanor had favored her new disciple with special tasks notable in their lenience, and even gave the novice the lead role in one of her longer fiction serials that stretched over the course of two months. Even Michelle had felt a tinge of jealousy while watching their extravagant exchanges scroll past her bemused eyes.
If Bottoma was really Joshua, he certainly never gave her the slightest hint of subterfuge. In fact, he seemed even more hyperactive than usual, babbling about everything under the sun except the Marquise and her "lesbian erotic writers D/S club," which he abbreviated to LEWD, much to her mild annoyance.
Michelle had even tried to contact Bottoma privately, but had never received a reply to either her letters or instant messages. No, the girl had eyes only for her mistress. A few weeks later, Michelle scarcely gave it a second thought.
Until two things happened: Bottoma announced to the group that she was going to meet the Marquise in person, and Joshua disappeared.
The first wasn't unexpected, or even unusual. Pam and Rita often spoke of IRL sessions with the Marquise, and others were certainly more than passingly familiar with details about Lady Eleanor that could only be learned in the flesh. Although everyone in the group took pains to maintain secrecy about personal geography, Michelle had deduced from occasional telltale references that the Marquise and her posse lived on the east coast, most likely New York City or thereabouts.
The notice in the weekly letter had named a date for this fateful rendezvous some six weeks ago. Around the same time, the near-daily flow of letters from Joshua had stopped cold. One day he was sending her chapter six of his latest white-slavery epic, then nothing.
At first, Michelle had brushed off his disappearance to the kind of unforeseen, unavoidable, life-engrossing circumstances that sometimes overwhelmed even the best intentioned. But she became progressively more concerned when she received no response to her letters and his newsgroup postings ceased. Two weeks later, she caught herself doing a random check to see if he was online, and received a message declaring his screen name no longer existed.
Have I been dumped and ditched?
Not his style.
How the fuck would you know? she yelled at herself. You've never even seen his eyes, much less the way he acts in a relationship.
This is not a relationship.
Okay, so you didn't get dumped.
Then why do you feel so bad? Not to mention worried sick?
Not to mention running after him.
"Ah, this is the captain. We've been cleared to land at LaGuardia, so I expect to be on the ground in a few minutes. Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival."
Michelle pounded the armrest next to her seat, scaring the middle-age man who was trying to squash his briefcase under his feet.
It's just a coincidence.
He's just a friend. And a cyber one at that.
This isn't real.
Where is he anyway?
Doesn't he care?
After a month, she had been on the verge of a very real breakdown. Must take action, she decided, no matter what that meant. To her surprise, she was incapable of letting go of this so-called Joshua Fisher, even to the point of lying to her boss so she could get her company to pay for a visit to New York.
She knew this whole adventure was a long shot. She wasn't sure that the Marquise and her tribe were anywhere near Manhattan. But she did know the couple worked together at a fetish emporium, and based on their stories of its rich and famous clientele, she figured the store had to be in a major city. So hello, Big Apple.
The Village Voice featured several display ads for stores with names like the Noose, Purple Passion, Body Worship and Come Again. But Michelle was going to start with Sapphrodite in Chelsea. She just had a hunch.
Stupid. And crazy.
Relax, girl. They don't know what you look like. Just play it cool.
The plane bumped smoothly onto the runway.
If it's even their store.
"On behalf of our flight crew, we'd like to welcome you to New York. The local time is..."