By Adrian Hunter


Caitlin decided he had to keep the bed linens and bath towels in the
other closet by the kitchen.  She could probably use a knife to
unscrew the hinges, or maybe the hasps holding the padlock(s).  And
if that didn't work, there had to be an axe around here somewhere to
chop firewood.  Once she got the door off, she would fashion a toga
out of a sheet, or maybe cut a hole in a blanket to go over her head
like a poncho…

"And then what?" the annoying little voice asked.

Hike 10 miles to the next house?  In your bare feet?  In a blizzard?

And then what?  Confess to the woodchucks in their decrepit trailer
with a satellite TV dish on the porch that her new boyfriend had
abandoned her nude body in the wilderness?

And then what?  "No, officer, I wasn't kidnapped."  Technically.

"I'm going to head to the village to pick up some supplies," Joe had
announced after commanding her to take off all her clothes, then
packing them in her suitcase (current whereabouts unknown, suspected
in the trunk of his car).

"Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone."

No, the trouble would start as soon as he returned.

This will teach you to pick up guys on the Internet, she told
herself.  He looked so good in ASCII, too.  Single.  Handy.  Rugged.
Kinky.  But when he had typed "how far do you want to go," she never
expected the answer to be "110 miles due north," much of it on dirt

"It's just a little one-room cabin in the mountains," Joe had told
her, "where I keep my secrets secret."

She opened one of the shutters and peered at the last vestiges of
the weak winter sun waning through a tree-cluttered skyline.  Snow
flurries danced and swirled in the wind like a volcano erupting
sideways.  His tracks in the driveway had pretty much disappeared
under fresh fall.

She hoped the chains hanging from the center beam in the ceiling
weren't the ones meant for his tires.

The wood-burning stove was practically radioactive with cremation-
level warmth, but Caitlin still considered turning on the electric
heaters along the baseboards.  Can't be too toasty, she decided,
given the distinct lack of alternatives to protect her pink skin.  As
soon as Joe's headlights had disappeared over the ridge, she had
methodically searched every cabinet, bureau, box and cubbyhole for
something to wear, but found nothing beyond the usual housewares,
plenty of canned food and bottled water, even an extra package of
toilet paper.  So thoughtful.  So thorough.  What's not to like?

His taste in art, for one.  A matching set of framed black-and-white
prints lined the walls, each one with a small handwritten number in
the corner and "Photograph by Irving Klaw" typeset along the bottom
of the white border.  Judging by the hairstyles and lingerie worn by
the models, the images were probably produced in the 1950s.  But
Caitlin couldn't decide if the overall context of the depicted
bondage scenes was either menacingly modern or totally timeless.

Definitely the latter, she rued when she couldn't find a clock.  But
the search had led her to the first (unlocked) closet; instead of a
single rod for hanging clothes, it boasted a row of vertical wooden
slats between the narrow walls running from floor to ceiling, and
dozens of wide leather straps hanging on the door.  It even had its
own little heater--so thoughtful, so thorough--although she didn't
imagine how hot it might get with the door closed.

"This place is a fucking medieval dungeon masquerading as 'Little
House in the Woods,'" she said out loud as she inspected the myriad
hooks and eyebolts screwed almost at random into the log walls.  Cue
marauding Indians with a taste for white women…stop that, Caitlin.
It's the 21st century; redskin warriors only scalp palefaces at the
blackjack tables in their faux-rustic casinos dotting once-civilized
states like Connecticut.

There was a row of cupboards built into the wall next to the living-
room area, all but one secured with imposing steel like the linen
closet.  Not so thorough after all, Caitlin grinned.  But her smile
was short-lived when the open door revealed nothing but a polished
wooden box that measured six inches deep and maybe a foot around its
four edges.  Taking a deep breath, she lifted the hinged lid to find
a collection of plastic, silicon and latex dildos--no, make that butt
plugs--arranged side by side in two rows like expectant cigars, their
exact dimensions neatly cut out in a bed of foam padding.  There was
a total of 12 devices; the smallest looked like a beige robin's egg,
while the largest, a conical black blob divided into three
increasingly wider sections, would scare an elephant.  Many of the
prods were wired to battery control units which undoubtedly produced
vibrations of various tones and temperaments.

What made the cumulative effect even worse was the pair of oversized
dice nestled in the corner of the container.  Sure enough, each plug
was numbered on its base.  Despite the sauna-like conditions she had
created in the cabin, Caitlin shivered as she deduced that #7 was
also most likely electrified via the metal bands running up the sides
of its exterior.

Overcome by a sudden urge to use the toilet, she ducked into the
small room next to the unlocked closet, flicked on the light, and
turned around to sit on the throne.  Her hand reached out
instinctively to close the door, but as soon as she realized there
was no reason to be modest, her fingers reported something heavy.
And leather.

She pushed the door closed, and almost screamed when her eyes
registered nothing less than a human garment bag, laces bristling
from the top of the head all the way down to a single high heel that
had to be at least seven inches tall.  Her breathing didn't improve
when she turned it around and saw the padded blindfold, gag and
zippered flaps over the breasts and crotch regions.  The gleaming
blackness of the surface was punctuated by thin ridges that shaped
the leather to conform to the wearer's legs, hips, waist, torso and
neck.  Corset stays.  None too flexible, either.

Looks like my size, Caitlin gulped as she wondered how many women
had been mummified in this contraption before her.

Before.  Her.  Another gulp as she noted the metal rings scattered
down the sides and remembered the chains hanging from the ceiling.

Okay, this is ridiculous, she admonished herself.  He's going to
show up any minute, arms overloaded with plastic sacks and 12-packs
of Sam Adams.  Was there a bar in town?  Was he bragging to the
locals about his latest catch?  She realized she had never seen him
drunk.  Did he get ditzy?  Or just more dangerous?  Than this?

She found herself looking forward to Monday morning, although she
wasn't sure if she would spend much time sitting at her desk, or
anywhere else, for that matter.

Back to the window, watch the darkness descend in lockstep--to coin a
phrase--with the flakes.  Maybe some candles would make things more
cheerful.  Pull open a random drawer in the kitchenette, bingo, but
these look like the emergency kind, no matter, we'll just pull off
the shrinkwrap, hmm, the label reads "BDSM Waxplay-100% Low-Heat
Paraffin"...well, it's probably not a good idea to have an open flame
under these circumstances, but it's definitely time to add another
log to the fire, and why does Joe have several hundred clothespins
dangling from a long length of twine stretched over the sink?

Gotta find a distraction.  Check the bookshelf, let's see, an Edgar
Allen Poe anthology, a row of battered paperbacks about some place
called Gor, Anne Rice, a few James Bond adventures, who's F.E.
Campbell anyway?

Oh.  Apparently, you can indeed judge a book by its cover, although
it's to miss with titles like "Penitent Prisoner," "Invitation to
Enslavement," "Valley of Captive Maidens" and "Chained Destiny."

Prequels to her imminent autobiography.

After refueling the stove, Caitlin plopped down in a large wooden
chair, and felt the cushion slip backwards.  Peering between her
naked thighs, she saw the beginning of a contoured circular hole in
the seat.  And then she noticed the fact that the four thick legs
were bolted to the floor.

He'd better remember champagne.

Copyright © 2003 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do not
repost nor repurpose without permission.

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