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Subject: {AdrianHunter} A Turn Of The Page (bd, cons, mdom, wireless} [1/1]
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A Turn Of The Page
By Adrian Hunter


"And as you can see in this chart, our yield requirements exceed industry
standards by a significant percentage..."

They aren't listening to me, Vivian decided.

They're staring at my legs.

Christ, I would, too, if I saw someone wearing a skirt this short.

No, they're scoping out my tits.

That one on the left can't believe he might actually be seeing nipple rings
under my shirt.

And the fat guy in the back is trying to decide if I'm wearing thigh-highs or a
garter belt.

Fuck Kit anyway.

Well, at least they're going to agree to my lowball offer. Hell, they'll
probably throw in a dedicated CSR, 120-day credit terms and same-hour delivery.
And then they'll fight like starving sharks to be my account manager.

Vivian clicked mechanically through her Powerpoint presentation, numbly
reciting her company's supplier demands with all the enthusiasm of a Catholic
sixth-grader declining Latin verbs.

Watch the arm movements, she reminded herself. This stupid jacket doesn't close
all the way, and the last thing you want to do is give them a clear shot at
your chest, the details of which were embarrassingly obvious through the ribbed
white fabric of this too-tight turtleneck.

Just get through it, she kept telling herself. Answer their questions with
monosyllables. Stare back. Intimidate with extreme prejudice. Crucify their
little fantasies. Make their balls wither away in well-deserved fear.

Well deserved. That about sums it up. Especially after what she did to Kit.

She really didn't want to go to his high-school reunion, but she certainly
wasn't going to let him run free amidst a bonfire of former flames.

And she did like the way the bent metal tube of the chastity thingie made his
crotch bulge. Especially in those stiff new Levi 501s she bought him for the
occasion. They must have felt like sandpaper without underwear.

Three days.

Oh, he wasn't pleased at all.

But it had been her turn.

And now, the chickens...no, make that the cocks...had come home to roost.

Trust him to find a way to make her crotch bulge, too.

Vivian came to a discussion slide, and gratefully plopped down into the nearest
chair in what passed for a conference room in this factory time forgot that
would make even Dickens cringe.

He's way overdue for a message, she thought as the crack/cracker management
team did their collective best to roll their tongues back into their
Pabst-poisoned mouths.

No sooner had this thought crossed her mind when the SkyWriter erupted between
her legs.

"We require a Unix-based client to run our just-in-time or...oh..."

"Are you OK, ma'am?"

7-8-9-10...Vivian waited for the buzzing to subside.

Exhale.

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

Less than a minute to go before the next alert. Better get moving...

"Gentlemen, will you excuse me for a moment? I need to..."

She picked up her purse and stormed out the door before they could respond.
What, like they were going to say no? They would give each other blowjobs if
she so much as raised an eyebrow at them.

Vivian practically trotted down the hall to the ladies room, her heavy bag
banging against her black-stockinged thigh.

They probably haven't cleaned this pit since Carter lost to Reagan.

She jerked open the door to the first toilet, turned and fiddled with the lock
until the bar finally passed through the hasp, then sat down on the open seat
and hiked up the navy-blue dishrag that was passing for her skirt today.

The pager was vibrating its annoying reminder for the third time when she
finally pulled it out of the special pocket sewn into the front panel of her
trashy new black-lace panties.

Yes, yes, you bastard, I'm here, she fumed as she manipulated the cyclops
control pad to read the latest message from her so-called lover.

"OPEN THE PACKAGE I ASKED YOU TO PUT IN YOUR PURSE. INSERT IN BACK."

Oh, lord, no...she reached into her bag and pulled out the gaily gift-wrapped
box. She had had a bad feeling about this one all day long.

Sure enough, a butt plug, a good four inches long and made of that slimy gel
plastic. Translucent green. Charming.

At least the prick was kind enough, or perhaps cruel enough, to have included a
tiny tube of lubricant.

She forced herself to proceed as instructed. Might as well get this over with.

After all, it's only going to get worse.

She used up the entire contents greasing the sides of the sickly-colored probe,
then stood up, positioned its tip, grimaced, and pushed it past her protesting
anus into her rectum until its base was flush with her smooth cheeks.

A dull gray fog tinged the corners of her vision.

God, that's...that's...full.

Her breaths were coming ragged, fast and hoarse. Get a grip, Viv. You've got a
show to finish.

She selected "reply," "OK" and "send" on the pager. Last thing she was going to
do was give Kit the satisfaction of a custom response.

Better get cleaned up before they send a search party. She hiked up her
panties, jammed the pager back into its pocket, tugged down her miniskirt and
flushed for effect.

I can do this, she told herself again and again and again until she almost
believed it.

She exited the stall and checked herself in the mirror. Flushed. Hell, she
looked like she was in heat.

She caught a glimpse of the silhouette of her breasts behind her jacket. Yep,
those are nipple rings, alrighty. Probably the first time these slowbots have
ever seen 'em.

They were the day's second buzzbomb from Kit. He had made her pull off the road
en route to the factory to put them on. Right there on the interstate. Luckily,
nobody was feeling Samaritan enough to stop to "help" her this morning.

The rings weren't the real deal, thank god, but close enough; she had
practically needed pliers to pull the ends of the shiny gold hoops apart so she
could position them realistically around her tips. The squeezing had been
unbearable at first, worse than clamps, but now she barely noticed them, except
of course when she did something silly like move her body.

Jesus. If she skipped the part about her company's endless quality assurance
obsession, she just might get out of here alive.

Oh, Kit is going to regret this for many years to come.

Then again, that's exactly what he was thinking in California every time he had
sit down to pee.

She stifled a giggle.

They were such a pair.

Back in the conference room, she caught her quarry in the midst of what was
either a group deathbed confession or the makings of a very serious-stakes
betting pool.

Guess again, chawbrains. This meat's taken, thank you very much.

She began regurgitating her spiel, doing her living best to keep the cutest
parts of her body at least partly concealed behind the "business suit" Kit had
chosen for her that day.

He must have bribed the staff at Euphoria to open so early. When she received
that first page with the address of the city's finest gutterflash emporium, she
figured it was some kind of snipe hunt.

But no, they were waiting for her. "Oh, madamoiselle, we have just the thing
for you today." Yeah, right. So what happened to the clothes I was wearing when
I came in? Not to mention my flat shoes?

And how had Kit known to page her at the exact moment she was planning to erupt
in a scene that would make Faye Dunaway in "Mommie Dearest" look like a newborn
mouse in the ferocity sweepstakes?

"KEEP NOTHING BUT THE PANTIES AND THE PAGER."

She'd seen the two-way unit before. Kit had been using a beta model since last
summer to send and receive wireless email as well as the usual phone numbers
and Esperanto text messages from his office. He could be anywhere...across
town, across the country, right behind her...and his notes would arrive seconds
after he sent them.

The note in the box on her doorstep had said to not touch any of the settings.
Obviously, he had programmed the damn thing to vibrate when it received a
message, and it had some kind of repeater function that kicked in if she didn't
read what he sent right away.

The box had also contained smaller packages for the faux nipple rings and the
plug. And that was it, until she got to Euphoria.

OK, my tits are on fire, my ass feels like it's a duffel bag for a baseball
bat, and these five guys are going to have extremely vivid and debasing dreams
about me for the rest of their lives, especially because I hear myself giving
them my company's business without much of a tussle just so I can haul out of
here yesterday.

And where might you be going, Vivian?

Good question.

As she was shaking the hand of the plant's general manager, the pager sang its
happy song again in her crotch. Once he established she wasn't wearing a device
on her hip, he gave her a look that combined equal parts mental retardation and
Larry Flynt.

Kit. Must. Die.

"HOPE THE MEETING WAS A HUM-DINGER," she read once she got into her car. "HEAD
EAST ON THE INTERSTATE."

Right away, sir. She left at least a pound of rubber from each tire in the
gravel of the parking lot as she peeled away in a manner that would give
Shirley Muldowney pause for concern.

East. That gives him up to 3,000 miles to mess with her mind. And her mound.

Before she knew it, she caught herself doing 85 as she weaved around tractor
trailers as if they were pylons.

Hey, what's the rush, sister? He knows where you're going, so sit back and try
to enjoy the ride.

Sure, don't pay that li'l ol' pager in your panties no nevermind t'all. It'll
say howdy soon enough.

An hour later, Vivian decided she was having an anyeurism blowout in slow
motion, every heartbeat paused breathlessly in anticipation of the inevitable.

Tori Amos yodeled something about Christ and coming through the car's rear
speakers. Funny. She didn't remember having the "Little Earthquakes" tape in
the car recently.

Oh.

Duh.

Ha ha.

Bzzzzzrrrrrrr.

FUCK!

Vivian almost swerved into the railing. The second she had stopped thinking
about it...

She merged right and reached between her legs. Hope moisture doesn't affect
this little bugger's performance.

"GET OFF AT THE TRUCK STOP AFTER THE NEXT EXIT. I'D EAT A HEARTY LUNCH IF I
WERE YOU. BE SURE TO SIT AT THE COUNTER."

Vivian's shoulders sagged.

Oh well, she was definitely starving. And where better to load up on carbs and
animal flesh?

The tilt-cab cowboys in the main restaurant didn't bother with even the modicum
of restraint the factory droids had mustered in her presence. Did men still
really wolf whistle? Apparently, not to mention repeatedly.

She tried hard to not inhale her food, but it wasn't easy to properly masticate
when more than 100 pairs of Ray Bans were glued to her aching butt. Then the
SkyWriter thrummed industriously against her pussy, and she figured she didn't
really need a slice of pie for dessert anyway.

She wiped her mouth, swiveled and burned a hole through the forehead of some
land whale who was getting up from a booth with much snickering encouragement
from his buddies. Leaving a twenty on the counter, she blew into the parking
lot like a hollowpoint coming out of a Luger.

Open car door. Sit. Close door. Extricate pager. Push button once, twice,
and...

"YOU LOOK LIKE YOU NEED A COLD SHOWER. LUCKY FOR YOU, THIS FINE ESTABLISHMENT
HAS PUBLIC FACILITIES. LEAVE THE RINGS AND PLUG IN PLACE."

"No fucking way."

She stared at the tiny display screen and fumed. If he thinks I'm going to
expose myself to a bunch of flabby, dain-bramaged diesel dipshits...no, they've
got to have a separate bathroom for women.

After all, where else would the hookers clean up?

She sighed extravagantly and pressed the necessary sequence to respond. And
they probably won't have my kind of shampoo to boot.

As it turned out, Vivian was glad to have a clean towel. Thankfully, she was
the only patron, and the cashier seemed accustomed to slutty-looking women in
need of a quick cleansing in the middle of the day.

She couldn't help flashing back to gym class as she stood naked on the grungy
white tile as a trickle of lukewarm spit splashed listlessly against her limbs.

When she figured she was covered with more water than sweat, she hurriedly put
back on her Barbie clothes. As she was pulling up the hateful panties, she felt
a short buzz. He must have sent another message while she was still in the
shower.

He's losing his touch, she smiled as she called it up on the LCD.

"FIND LOCKER #244. COMBINATION 13-6-22. K."

Speaking of high school...Vivian wandered down the open hallway alongside the
shower building until she found the metal door in question. Right, left, right,
click.

The truck-stop motel key dangled like a noose from the metal hook in the
locker's ceiling.

She found herself singing "we're off to see the wizard" under her breath as she
searched for the room in question. All the way in the back. Figures.

Would he be waiting for her inside?

No, that would be letting her off much too easily.

She turned the lock and opened the door. Pretty standard fleabag furnishings.
Nice Formica kitchenette set. What's that ladder doing against the wall though?

It took a moment to register the handcuffs tied to the top rung and the leather
cuffs attached to the rails near the floor.

And then she saw the camcorder mounted on a tripod. Pointed right at the
ladder.

Running.

"Mark my words, Kit. I'm going to..."

Hey, that's me on the TV set...

Hello, chirped the pager.

Vivian purposely strode out of the viewfinder's range to retrieve his latest
missive.

"REMOVE YOUR SKIRT, JACKET AND TURTLENECK. PUT ON WHAT'S IN THE BEDSIDE TABLE.
CUFF YOUR ANKLES, REPLY TO ME, THEN CUFF YOUR WRISTS."

At first, she was surprised to see the polished stones gleaming like oversized
marbles in the drawer, until she noticed they were topped with bell caps and
hooks that were obviously supposed to loop around her nipple rings. And
naturally, she also found a no-win ball gag with straps for under her chin,
across her cheeks and around her forehead as well as a thick one with a
padlocked clasp for behind her head.

Bzzzzzrrrrrrr.

SHIT! Now what?

"HANG THE SIGN ASKING FOR MAID SERVICE ON THE DOORKNOB."

Vivian shuddered. First thing he'd see when he got to the room. And she would
be spread against the wall in prime condition for disobedience rectification.

She hefted the weight rocks and guided them to her pinioned pink knobs. Not
awful, she decided. Yet.

The gag took a minute to decipher, untangle and position over her hair. She
hesitated before snapping the lock shut. No return from here on out.

Like there was an escape hatch before?

For you, Kit.

Click.

Vivian immediately regretted not hanging the sign on the door first. She
slipped it open just far enough to stick her hand out, relieved to not find the
housemaid poised to knock. With luck, Consuela is turning tricks in a sleeper
cab.

Or that ratfink will show up first.

How long is that tape in the camcorder anyway? Two hours? Four? Christ, six?

She didn't dare stop it to check. Pretty obvious evidence. Speaking of which,
she'd better get into position as instructed.

The wooden ladder was leaning against the wall at a slight angle. Vivian lay
back against it. Tolerable.

She stared at her image on the TV screen. The heels, stockings and garter
belt...definitely over the top. She hated to admit that she looked pretty hot
in the panties though. And it was very strange to see herself gagged and
pseudo-pierced.

On with the show...

On closer inspection, she realized the ankle cuffs weren't tied to the rails.
No, they were bolted. And more padlocks for the hasps.

The handcuffs were also permanently to the top rung installed via an eyelet
bolt and a lock through the center link.

She bent over to secure her feet, then reached up and snapped a cuff around one
wrist.

Oh shit, I'm supposed to reply. With her free hand, she reached between her
legs and worked the pager control pad with her thumb.

There you go. Supper's ready, dear.

Vivian put the black box back into its pocket, took a deep breath through her
nose, and completed her self-imprisonment.

She felt her body tense, especially in her still-plugged bottom. Her chest
trembled from the combination of a pounding heart and chugging lungs. She
strained to listen for the slightest noise in the hallway, her eyes jumping
from the door to the TV screen with herself starring in what looked like a
halfway-decent bondage vidcap.

When the pager went off, she instinctively tried to reach for it, and almost
fell over.

Oh, that's...that's...

Not going to stop until he gets here.

The first reminder came a minute later. Then another long blast, followed
rapidly by a third.

He's sending multiple messages, she realized.

He could send dozens...hundreds...

She trembled involuntarily and pushed her groin out in a futile effort to
dislodge the machine from its frilly holster.

Reality dawned on her with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Oh, lord.

He's going to use the damn thing to make me come.

Slowly.

Randomly.

Eventually.

And he's going to see every minute of it.

And so am I.

___________________________________________
Story archive: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Gallery/9911/door.html
Mail: adrianhunter-at-geocities-dot-com


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