Message-ID: <5714eli$9711201336@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/5714.txt> From: begonespam@aol.com (Begonespam) Subject: Knotical by Adrian Hunter (mf, bd, cons) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-Id: <19971120121101.HAA10033@ladder02.news.aol.com> Knotical By Adrian Hunter It's almost five o'clock. Time to make the donuts. Sharon shuddered and stared at the spreadsheet displayed on her monitor while a million Monarch butterflies pulled a San Juan Capistrano in her stomach. Your idea. Your word. "Yours." He had gotten that funny look on his face, the one where he shipwrecked his soul on a mental desert island. Then he had left for work without saying anything more. But she knew better. She had spent the entire day at work absolutely incapable of accomplishing anything beyond the bare minimum required to not get fired, keeping her door shut and letting voice mail answer all her calls. "Are you OK, Sharon?" they asked nervously. "Yes. I'm. Fine. Big. Project. Due. Monday. Please. Go. Away." Etc. They're so obedient. Just like you. 4:58. Might as well call it a week. Move to "Start" button... Select "Shut down"... Click. "Are you sure you want to: shut down the computer?" Click. Blue sky..."Please wait while your computer..." Blackness..."It is now safe to turn off..." Yeah, right. If only it were so simple. The butterflies scattered and searched for sustenance. 4:59. 11:59. Pumpkin time. Any year now. Rewind. Press "play." Scenes. Dreams. Fiends. Screams. Will he...? Could he...? Would he...? Should he...? Does he...? Sharon began to think of an instruction sheet...no, an owner's manual... "Step 1: Remove all..." "Hello? Anybody home?" What the... "I'm looking for a Sharon..." She almost screamed in surprise at the sight of the stranger in a funky brown uniform standing in the doorway to her office. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't see anyone out front. I have a telegram for a Sharon..." Come again? A telegram? "Yes, I'm her." He handed her the yellow envelope. Were you supposed to tip these guys? She tore it open. "GO TO YOUR CAR STOP LOOK UNDER THE SEAT" Yes. Sir. Sharon hurried out of her office and down the stairs to the parking lot. She stopped halfway to debate going back to switch her heels for flat shoes, but figured he would prefer the former. A good time to appease the beast, she told herself as she made her way across the asphalt desert. Door's still locked. Of course, he has the key. Click...open...slip in...sit down...reach under...find... A piece of paper. With a note scribbled in what looks like lipstick. "LEAVE YOUR PANTIES IN THE PARKING LOT" Her body suddenly felt like it was filled with ice cubes. He must be kidding. He's not kidding. He never kids. Sharon's head swiveled back and forth like a fugitive on the lam. Nobody around. This is ridiculous. This is real. She reached under her skirt, hooked her thumbs around the elastic, and pulled her underwear down her legs and over her heels. She craned her neck around to check if there was a sack left over from a fast-food breakfast behind her seat. No such luck. Would he actually check up on her? A vision of him flashed behind her eyes. Wearing nothing but his faded-to-white jeans. Scowling. The flogger in his hand. She stopped, opened the door a crack, and slipped her cotton briefs under the car. The tires squealed as she accelerated out of the parking lot. As she headed for the freeway, she began to mull her fate. Would he be waiting for her at home? Or would he make her wait for him? Maybe he'll be normal, even volunteer to cook dinner. Maybe he's invited friends over. Maybe we're going out. Maybe he'll make me... Wait a minute. What's that on the passenger-side mirror? Looks like someone smeared something red... Another lipstick note. >From him. She pulled over into a gas station and leaned across the seat. "BOUTIQUE NOIR BUY A PROPER GAG." She pulled herself back, rolled her eyes, then wheeled the car around to head back to the old commercial part of town, the land of U-Stor-It compounds and decaying industrial parks. Of course she knew about the store...her insides went postal just thinking about the sight of one of its distinctive black bags in their bedroom...but she had never actually visited it herself. Twenty minutes and two wrong turns later, she pulled into a strip mall parking lot. According to the address she got from directory information via her cell, this should be it. Should I park in front? What if someone recognizes my car? Oh, fuck it, she decided. They would have to do a bit of explaining to do, too. She got out and headed for the most likely-looking storefront, the one with blacked-out windows and a small, discreet metal plate next to the...with the name of the store engraved in script. And the door's locked. Wait, it can't be closed...oh, press the button like the sign says, stupid. A soft breeze ruffled her skirt and reminded her of her nakedness. The door buzzed open. It took Sharon's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. Pretty much as expected...racks of gaily-colored bras and teddy sets, leather and rubber against a wall, a large glass display case, many cuff and strap combinations hanging from the ceiling that looked like snakes coiled and flattened and perhaps mating... "May I help you, ma'am?" Sharon whipped around. A thin, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair stood behind the counter. He wore glasses. And tattoos covered every inch of his arms. "N-n-no thanks, I'm just looking, thanks." "Take your time. Let me know if you want to see anything." He returned to studying the newspaper spread out next to the cash register. Sharon wandered around the store, stopping occasionally to inspect random products...a shiny red corset that gleamed like armor...a line of thigh-high boots standing sentry against a wall...a complicated harness with two huge dildos embedded in the crotch strap...where are the gags? She peered into the display case. The silver chains connecting the various models of clamps were presented as if they were jewelry. She didn't recognize some of the devices, like the pinwheel thing that looked like a small, spiked pizza cutter, but it wasn't too hard to guess their intended uses. Evil, vengeful visions distracted her as she admired the various cock-and-ball restraints, especially the lace-up leather flap covered with tiny spikes. "See anything you like?" Oh, just ask him, you ninny. "Actually, I'm shopping for a gag." "Right back here." He gestured behind him. Sharon felt like such a retard as she stared at the rack of rubber balls and stoppers dangling vertically from their straps and strings. "Any particular style you have in mind?" She didn't particularly want to engage him in the selection process, but it didn't look like she had much choice. "Not a ball gag." Her tongue squirmed involuntary at the memory of the too-familiar taste in her mouth. "Something...different." "Like maybe a penis gag? We have a few of those." "No, no...let me see that one...to the right...the one with the curved thing." He handed her the requested gag. It consisted of a single strap wrapped around a large piece of stiffened leather molded to fit the contours of the bottom half of someone's face from just under the nose to around the curve of the chin. A nasty chunk of rubber jutted out from the center of the mouthpiece. "That's nice," he remarked. "Yes," Sharon replied automatically, her mind thoroughly engaged in an internal debate between the relative value of his pleasure versus her distress. Sure, he would like it. But was it what he really had in mind? "You know, what I'm really looking for is..." The man leaned forward and smiled ever so slightly. "Perhaps you'd like this." He reached into the display case and pulled out a chrome contraption that looked a bit like a brace. It consisted of a strap connected to two long pieces of curved metal tubing. Sharon quickly surmised they were designed to fit between someone's teeth. "Just the thing to keep the mouth open to suggestion." "No, not for..." "Maybe this is more your style..." He showed her a rubber O-ring gag. Different approach, same result. Sharon shook her head. "No, I need something...well...proper." "Well, why didn't you say so?" he said, now smiling broadly. He walked around the counter to a corner of the store and pointed to a Styrofoam mannequin head hanging from the ceiling. "Tell me what you think of this." Sharon felt a surge of both excitement and utter dread. This is exactly what he had meant. God help her. Mouth covered with a thick square of black leather bolted to straps that passed around the nose and over the top of the head. Two more for under the chin and one that ran horizontally behind the head. Another strap ran diagonally from rings against the cheeks over the head. A thin one wrapped around the neck to secure the chin restraints. A padded blindfold. A large rubber ball. And an eyelet screwed into the center of the mouthpiece, just right for a padlock, or a leash, or a... "Proper enough for you?" Sharon couldn't believe she was actually going to say... "Yes, I'll take it." "Excellent. I'm sure you won't be disappointed." I'm sure he won't be, either. Sharon paid in cash and hustled back to her car, her head awash in calamitous anticipation of the evening to come...well, she could only hope she'd be allowed to... Someone had stuck a piece of paper under her windshield wiper. "SPORTS ZONE PURCHASE AN ASSORTMENT OF FISHING WEIGHTS" What?!? Where is he? Weights? Sharon scanned the parking lot, her nerves screaming battle stations. Nowhere in sight. She got in her car and headed for the hated Galleria, willing herself calm if only to stop her guts from churning like a cement mixer in overdrive. But there was nothing she could do about her nipples stiffening beneath her bra. She had to park like a mile from the entrance, but at least the Sports Zone had its own exterior door, so she didn't have to venture into the mall itself, a hateful experience worse than anything he could dream up in the basement. She remembered being dragged around the place by her parents, practically in tears as they fought about the cost of everything Mom wanted to buy. And then there were the wasted teenage years when her friends couldn't think of anything better to do than hang around the neon- and scum-infested food court gawking at geekazoid record-store clerks. It didn't take long to find the fishing equipment section...hell, it was the size of a cruise ship, aisle after aisle of rods, reels, lures, nets, waders, carrying cases, specialty sunglasses, fishing-themed gifts, even aluminum boats and outboard motors. She managed to locate the line-weight section, and found herself confronted with literally hundreds of choices, chunks of dull-gray lead in every conceivable shape and size...round, square, triangular, oval, oblong, fish-shaped, you name it. She started picking up samples at random. Too heavy? Not heavy enough? She tried to imagine what they'd feel like swinging from her nipples, and practically had to sit down. What clamps would be use? How tight? How would they be hitched to the clamps? Should she buy hooks or something while she was here? How many is "an assortment" anyway? Sharon felt a serious panic attack coming on, so she picked ten weights at random, grabbed a bubblepack of clips designed to attach them to the line, and walked briskly to the section's checkout counter. "What are you going to use these for, miss?" the clerk asked with a too-helpful grin. "Fishing," she replied testily. "Well, I know that. I mean, ocean or lake? For instance, this one here is a little light for..." Oh, great. Barney Fife to the rescue. "I'm in a bit of a hurry." "Sure thing. Did you write down the prices for these?" "What?" "Didn't you see the sign? You're supposed to write down how many weights you're buying and how much each one costs. We can't barcode stuff like this." Sharon mustered every ounce of strength to keep herself from screaming. "Tell you what. Here's a twenty. Keep the change." "Oh, no, they don't cost nearly that much. Now, if you'll just go back to the display and write down..." "Please. My husband is waiting for me parked in a handicapped space." "Well, I'm not supposed to..." "Pleeeeeease...he'll get real mad if I don't..." Was it Elizabeth Taylor who could cry on command? "OK, missy, don't get upset. Maybe he should come in and help you choose..." Uh oh. Don't do it. Stay calm. Count to 10. Murder will only make you late. "Alright, I guess they probably cost a buck apiece, so that will be..." She jammed her change into her purse and darted toward the exit like a cat with its tail on fire. She burst through the automatic doors and almost walked right over the words scrawled in familiar-looking, not to mention rather large, lipstick-red letters on the sidewalk. "MARINA SLIP 45" She stood and stared at the message. The marina? Where the fuck is he? As in boats? Was he following her? On the ocean? Is he watching her right now? What kind of boat? Images of a pirate ship... Him dressed as a scurvy scalawag... No, the captain, decked out in a red longcoat, tri-peaked hat, outrageous plumage, a parrot on his shoulder... Her lashed to the mast... She walked briskly to her car and headed for the freeway, the packages on the passenger seat clanking ominously whenever she hit a rough section of road. Slow down, Sharon. The last thing you want to do is get into an accident and find yourself explaining how the gag works to a cop while you stand on the side of the road, presuming you don't kill yourself and they call your parents to collect your belongings. She pulled into the marina and looked for a parking space. Take a chance on the meters? Or bite the long-term bullet? She rolled down her window to pull out a ticket from the machine that controlled the gate. Let's see, two shopping bags, purse, heels, no sweater or coat, much less underwear...yep, I'm all set for seafaring. She locked the car and headed toward the slips. Slim, knife-like yachts jostled hull to hull with the floating party pavilions and sport-fishing destroyers festooned with all manner of complicated devices designed to aid man in his eternal quest to outwit a creature with less brains that most insects. It wasn't hard to find slip 45. Between its docks floated a large, fairly nondescript powerboat, white with blue trim, probably 30 feet long, short deck, big cabin, open bridge on top, "My Obsession" painted in block capital letters across the stern. "Well, ain't that the truth," she remarked out loud as she gazed westward at the fast-setting sun. Is he here? Sharon called out his name. No response. She scanned the runways and piers. A scattering of people fussing with their crafts, a group of noisy men loading cases of beer onto a houseboat getting ready for a Friday night high on the high seas, a strolling couple, a bawling child, an incoming sailboat, but no sign of him. A gull, hopeful for scraps, swooped down and waddled toward her feet. "Permission to come aboard?" The dirty bird looked up, mouth agape. "I'll take that as an aye-aye." Sharon stepped gingerly into the recessed deck, deeply regretting not changing into flat shoes when she left the office. She put down her parcels and lifted up one of the padded seat cushions at random. Underneath was a storage space filled with coils of rope. She dropped the lid and tried to disregard the icy finger that grazed her spine from neck to pelvis. It's just the ocean breeze taking a decidedly cooler turn now that the sun had practically disappeared, she told herself, none too convincingly. The boat rocked gently beneath her feet as she stared at the door to the cabin. Time to make the donuts. She grasped the handle, turned it southward, and pushed. Kinda dark...a galley...some bunks...that door must lead to the head...a table... With a manila envelope lying in the middle of it. With her name on it. Rip. Handcuffs. Clamps. A key on a string. And a piece of folded-over paper. She put down her parcels and sat down to read it. What, did he steal all her lipsticks? "THROW ALL YOUR CLOTHES OUT A PORTHOLE" Oh, you must be... "AND PREPARE FOR ME ACCORDINGLY" She glanced around the cabin, her gaze finally focusing on the support pole in the center of the room. Lashed to the mast... Aye aye, captain. Her hands reached behind her back and found the zipper to her dress. Sharon jammed the tatters of her dignity, plus her shoes, into the Boutique Noir bag and pushed it through the round opening into the sea. It didn't take long to realize he had conveniently removed the screws that adjusted the tension in the clamps. She cursed herself for not selecting smaller weights. Don't forget the key around your neck. It took her several minutes to get the gag on right, but once she finished adjusting all the straps, she knew he was going to be very pleased. She felt like Helen Keller as she groped for the cuffs on the table, then backed herself against the pole. Oh, god. Her wrists found each other behind the cool metal. Here goes... Click. Everything. Click. She was positive her heart was going to pound itself right out of her chest. Acutely aware of her nakedness. Quiet. Her helplessness. Dark. Her destiny. Time. Mind awash with distressing dreams turned real. Senses focused with laser intensity. The gentle sway of the harbor waves. The suffocating smell of marine fuel. The random slap of untethered sails. The insistent tugging on her nipples. The awful flavor of unrefined rubber in her mouth. Where is he? Did he get caught in traffic? How long is he going to make me wait? Why did he leave me the key anyway? A real pirate would never... Wait. What's that? Footsteps on the pier. His voice. And someone else's. "...a lovely night." "Sure is." "Where're ya headed?" "Oh, just a few miles out." "International waters, huh?" "Something like that?" Sharon felt everything south of her neck turn into a statue as the boat rocked with the weight of two men climbing aboard. "Got everything you need?" "All packed." "Here, let me help you stow that in the cabin." God...no...please... "No, I can manage, thanks." "Suit yourself. Galley should be fully stocked." "Great." "Any other questions about the boat?" "Nope. I'm all set." "OK, see you Sunday night then. Bring her back in one piece" "I will. Thanks again." The boat wobbled as the other man climbed back on the dock. "Bye." Sharon listened intently to the sound of his feet climbing the ladder on the side of the cabin, then above her in the bridge. The engines growled to life beneath her. He jumped down to the deck with a thump and moved around the cabin untying the mooring lines. Is he peeking in a porthole at her? He clambered up to the bridge. A moment later, the boat began backing out of its slip. The weights swung like pendulums when he finally pushed the throttle to full. Heading, she was sure, for nowhere in particular. A quiet spot in the sea. A place to drop anchor. Far away from anyone and anything. Where the law of the land doesn't apply. Despite the roar of the engines, all Sharon could really hear was the sound of a single word echoing through her mind like a gunshot in a cathedral. "Yours." ______________________________________________________________________ Read: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Gallery/9911/door.html Write: adrianhunter-at-geocities-dot-com -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /