Day 1--Sabrina
So, there I was, finally. Three steps and a knock away from meeting
Geoffrey Sorenson, my host for two weeks. Instead of clearing out my
desk and moving to my new office, I had been sent to supervise the
photo session for the annual report at a studio whose location
redefines "remote." How absurd. Did the board still think I was
their cute administrative assistant, so eager to please? I couldn't
wait to introduce them to the new Sabrina Taylor as soon as I
returned.
It was a wonder I had found this crazy place. After an endless
drive, I had to ask for directions four times before I chanced upon
the small gravel road fighting its way around pines and firs toward
the "GS Studios."
When I wheeled around the final bend and drove past the large front
yard, I wasn't sure what to expect, but certainly not the modern two-
story edifice ahead of me. Bathed in the afternoon sunlight, the
white walls, orange-tiled roof and ivy swirls around the front door
made it look like a villa on the French Riviera. A very unusual
sight in such rustic surroundings.
I sighed with relief and pushed aside my gloomy thoughts. Maybe
this stupid assignment wasn't going to be so bad after all. Hell, if
there was a pool behind the privacy hedges, the place could pass for
a resort.
I parked the car, grabbed my suitcase out of the trunk, and walked
to the door, keeping my eyes fixed on the strange knocker in its
center. A grinning skull wasn't exactly standard issue in Cannes.
I knocked twice, and couldn't help smiling as I recalled all my
worst-case scenarios. Like how the association wanted to send me
away so they could elect a new director. Like maybe the chairman's
nephew, a spoiled brat who wasn't smart enough to run the coffee
machine, much less the council. Or the odd rumors about Sorenson
whispered after the last board meeting. It was just like me, always
expecting the worst, but secretly hoping for the best.
I was still smiling when the door opened.
--Geoffrey--
Damn! Another one broken. And this package read "extra large,"
although you can't really tell by looking. Maybe these were made for
the Japanese market, where they claim stupendous sizes on the box
while the rubbers themselves are actually smaller than regular.
I balanced the anal plug on its base next to the pile of foil
wrappers, making it look like a Christmas tree from a distant planet.
Well, maybe not being able to get a condom around it was a sign that
it was a little larger than--
A knock.
Another one.
About time.
I scooped up the plug and tossed it underhand into my correspondence
drawer, then swept the condom cases off the desktop into the trash.
Stay cool, I reminded myself as I hurried, then strolled, down the
staircase from my office to the entry hall. You've done this before.
I willed my most charming smile onto my face, and pulled open the
door.
"You must be Sabrina Taylor," I said as I motioned her inside.
"Geoffrey Sorenson. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance. I
presume my directions made sense. Can I take your bag?"
Et cetera. Smooth and social, yet faintly professional. A light
conversational patter to cover my brain's dangerous detour toward red-
line overload.
The chairman's pictures scarcely did her justice. Iwata was going
to pop a cork when the courier arrived with the sample rolls I would
shoot this afternoon.
And I would pay off my mortgage with the profits from selling her to
the highest bidder.
"Career opportunities, they keep you off the dock," I sang to myself
as I carried her luggage upstairs. No wonder so many of America's
Founding Fathers were slavers, too.
But I couldn't help being a bit nervous. Things were running too
smoothly. I saw, I conquered, I came. My old friend Murphy wouldn't
like that. His law is absolute; anything that can go wrong, will.
My talent-acquisition process was usually much more of a challenge,
involving all sorts of intrigue, as well as a fair share of danger.
First, I had to find the right kind of girl. Pretty, but not
memorable. Strong, but not muscular. Smart, but not sensible.
Restaurants were my preferred hunting ground, as no waitress wants to
be one forever.
Then came the persuasion part. A little flattery here, some
outrageous sums of money there...let the fish sniff the lure first.
Bring her to the house, open a bottle of wine, and start talking
about friends and family. If she has an abundance of either, take a
few sample photos and bid her adieu.
If not, convince her to stay the night. If she agreed, continue the
process for a week or two. One night, add a little something to her
wine to help her sleep.
Finally, something besides my camera would click. And the price of
the key was inevitably six digits, or more.
No, this one required more attention to the details. For one,
Sabrina Taylor wasn't some anonymous runaway contemplating an
alternative career in pornography. She had a real job, although that
would be easy to erase, given who had sent her to me in the first
place. The odds were good she had a full, active life outside the
office, too. Maybe even a boyfriend.
Luckily, I had two weeks to work all the angles.
Time to bait the hook.
--Sabrina--
"All settled? Great. Did you find everything you need? Brilliant."
Geoffrey escorted me through the living room to French doors that
led to a patio extending across the length of the house. A huge
swimming pool surrounded by lush lawns and tall trees dominated the
view.
Not bad for a photographer, I thought to myself. In fact, he'd have
to be one of the world's best to afford property like this. So why
was he bothering with a little project like an annual report for an
association?
Something was strange here. Money for nothing, and your chicks for
free? Maybe like the expense-report irregularities that seemed to
crop up with increasing frequency in the council's financial
statements? I made a note to do some research as soon as I got back
to the office.
In the meantime, I figured I might as well enjoy the generosity of
my most hospitable host, starting with what looked to be a delicious
late lunch waiting for us on a glass-and-metal table under an
umbrella near the pool.
--Geoffrey--
"I hope you don't mind Chardonnay," I said as I poured another
generous helping into Sabrina's glass. "The Beaujolais wasn't worth
the cost of cork this year."
My guest giggled pleasantly, and shielded her eyes from the sun. We
had been chatting for more than an hour, and the glorious spring
afternoon was well on its way to its rendezvous with twilight.
I stood up and wandered over to a wooden cabinet where I found a
bottle of coconut oil and some ostentatious Swedish sunscreen for her
face.
"It's too nice to sit inside, and you don't want to singe that
lovely skin of yours," I said as I proffered the exotic condiments,
knowing how much better she would photograph with some color,
especially in contrast to the white parts my customers valued most.
"Damn, I didn't bring a bathing suit," she muttered. "I don't
suppose..."
"Of course I have a spare bikini," I said magnanimously. "You'll
find it in your bathroom. Top drawer of the towel cabinet."
As soon as she entered the house, I finished my wine in a single
gulp. Let's see if she's willing to try something new, I said to
myself. Something a little risque. Something out of the ordinary.
Something to scare Mummy.
Something she never expected.
--Sabrina--
Did Geoffrey really think this minuscule rag--nothing more than
three triangles and string--qualified as proper bathing attire? The
white rubber was so thin, it verged on translucent. And the shoe
situation was even worse. Instead of flip-flops or sandals, all I
could find was a pair of white mules with four-inch heels and straps
like spaghetti.
What kind of game was this guy playing? Contrary to the board's
expectations, "supermodel" wasn't listed on my resume. Neither was
prudish, but I hated to be jerked around, especially by strangers on
my payroll.
"Fuck it, and fuck him, too," I said to my reflection in the full-
length mirror, rendered blurry by my wine-soaked eyes. "I'll show
him who's running this show."
I shoved the bikini back into the drawer, slipped on the ridiculous
shoes, and headed for the stairs. Strangely, I had never felt so
self-assured in my life. Naked as the day I was born, I walked
through the French doors and headed straight for the chair where
Geoffrey sat with his mouth agape. All you could hear was the water
lapping against the sides of the pool, and the click of my heels on
the enameled tiles.
--Geoffrey--
"Where's your bikini, Sabrina? You'll need it to avoid--"
"Let's get something straight, Geoff-reeeey."
She drawled out my name like a naughty child pulling a piece of gum
out of her mouth.
"You don't tell me what to do. And I don't like jokes at my expense."
I stared at her in raging silence, my emotions ping-ponging between
panic and lust. Under normal circumstances, bad manners like this
would present an opportunity to accelerate the incarceration
procedure. And there was nothing like a little obstinacy to make the
training process more satisfying.
But there was nothing normal about this woman, starting with her
physical proportions, all of which would earn A+ grades from any meat
inspector.
I reminded myself to stop thinking of her like that. She's no corn-
fed cutie running away from a knuckle-dragging father who starting
fucking her before she hit puberty. My typical lightning won't blow
her fuse. And she didn't care about my money, so she wasn't about to
compromise her class by playing fetish doll for me.
This one was definitely different. What a pleasant surprise.
"I beg to differ, Sabrina. And so will you. Much as I enjoy the
show, please go back inside and put something over your skin before
you hurt yourself."
Instead, she flipped me off as she slithered into the chair next to
mine and stuck her hand across the table in search of the wine
bottle. I was sorely tempted to wrap a manacle around her slender
wrist, but I still needed an airtight alibi before I could engage her
in a more formal curriculum of behavior modification.
"The sun is quite strong, even this early in the season, so I really
must insist. If you need some assistance, I'd be happy to put the
bikini on you myself."
--Sabrina--
"I see."
Pretending to be calm, I took the wine bottle and filled my glass.
I needed a few seconds to formulate my reply. Angry, yes, but I was
interested, too. I didn't think Geoffrey was the kind of man who
failed. As to putting on the bikini himself, I had no doubt he
would. I played with the idea of letting him take the initiative,
just to see how he would manage to keep me still, but I wasn't going
to give him the pleasure.
I took a sip. Lovely.
"Like I said, you don't tell me what to do. However..."
Another sip. I needed this.
"I will put on the so-called bikini, but only because the sun is
much too cruel on my sensitive parts and I value them too much to see
them hurt."
He grinned. "At least you're reasonable."
I emptied my glass and got up, my eyes locked on his.
"While I'm gone, will you be so kind as to refill my glass, Geoffrey?"
I left him to savor his semi-victory and walked slowly back to the
house, silently cursing the heels with each step.
Once in the bathroom, I dug out up the white latex scraps. I was
going to look like a centerfold spread in a magazine sold exclusively
from under the counter. But I could handle it. If only I could
manage to tie the strings behind my back. Was I that nervous?
As I walked out of the bathroom, I lost my balance and stumbled,
twisting my ankle.
"Ouch! Damn stupid heels."
I made an angry move to take them off, but changed my mind just as
quickly. The day had been long; I was getting tired, not to mention
edgy, and the last thing I wanted was another fight. We would
discuss footwear tomorrow.
Taking a final look in the mirror, I decided woman's lib would wait
another day.
