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Aprologue:the induction of isabel
by adrian hunter

 

First dates always made Isabel nervous, but
this one was going to set the record.

She tugged nervously on the hem of the micro
latex miniskirt that encased her hips like
electrical tape. But try as she might, she
couldn't budge it down a millimeter.

She felt cool air circulate around her naked
crotch. Hope I don't drop anything at the
restaurant, she thought to herself.

Not that she could bend down in these
thigh-high boots with heels that turned walking
into a tightrope act.

Well, he had insisted on dressing her.

And she had most definitely asked for it.

Isabel was tired of dating lukewarm men who
practically curtsied when they talked to her.
She knew she was good looking, but she really
didn't need all the fawning that seemed to
define masculinity in the 1990s.

She wanted steak, and life kept serving her
artfully-arranged fish sticks.

So she tried the personals. Same old story,
only the men were older.

Then a friend recommended computer dating.

At first, Isabel laughed. She had thought
getting fixed up by a microchip went out with
Earth Shoes and mood rings.

But then her friend explained the concept of
on-line services, and Isabel became very, very
interested.

Talking through a keyboard to anonymous
paramours sounded like a science-fiction
version of the old CB radio fad, but Isabel
admitted the concept had definite
possibilities.

So she bought a modem for her old computer,
jacked into a bulletin board she saw advertised
in a magazine, and signed on.

A few days later, she sat down and scanned the
possibilities. Swingers, fetishists, gays,
piercing . . . nothing clicked until she saw
the bondage "room."

Isabel had always harbored a secret longing for
what some discreetly called "rough trade." Good
girls don't fantasize about total submission,
she had always told herself.

But she knew better. The mere sight of
handcuffs would send her mind buzzing in a
million dark directions. And the thought of
being bound and gagged by a man to do with as
he pleased made her shiver with electric
desire.

And here it was, a digital dungeon where she
could be the princess in peril for hundreds of
anonymous disciplinarians. Isabel soon found
herself to be a most popular chat partner as
she willfully disengaged her rational sense of
proprietary and let her newfound friends spin
webs of dominance and erotic torture around her
responses.

She soon learned the sinful secrets and
dreadful surprises of the bondage world . . .
butt plugs and nipple clamps, the infinite
variety of whips, paddles, canes and crops,
thick leather and rubber, and the burn of the
rope. She played the slave, the hooker, the
mistress, the harem girl, the spy, the wayward
wife and the bitch who needed a lesson, all
with equal gusto.

While many tried to arrange a face-to-face
rendezvous, Isabel was wary of the consequences
of reality beyond the modem. Most of her
on-line suitors lacked that certain something
she felt she needed if she was going to put her
pussy on the line. She wanted her dream date to
fulfill her needs, not treat her like a blow-up
doll.

Late one evening, she found him. His handle was
MARLBORO (hers was PLAYWITH), but she soon knew
him as Ron.

When they first chatted, he never once
mentioned bondage, or even sex. This was a
first for Isabel, and it definitely intrigued
her.

In on-line subsequent conversations, they
simply got to know each other. Hobbies, likes,
dislikes . . . they seemed to discuss
everything but why they were using the bulletin
board in the first place.

Then he popped the question.

"Would you like to spend a week with me?" he
asked.

Isabel's fingers shook as she held them
motionless over the keyboard. On the one hand,
she wasn't sure she wanted to meet anyone from
the BBS in person. On the other, if she was
ever going to explore her fantasies beyond the
bulletin board, Ron was definitely the man to
help her find her way.

"Yes" was her one-word reply.

"Yes??" was his response.

The game had finally begun.

"Yes, master," she dutifully typed back.

"Who's 'master'? I was merely expressing shock,
disbelief and no small degree of wonder at your
unexpected reply."

Isabel typed back :), the universal computer
smiley.

During their exchanges before their rendezvous,
Ron asked Isabel for her measurements. After
she gave him the basics, he messaged back
requesting a detailed breakdown, including her
shoe, neck, head, thigh, calf and shoulder
sizes.

This conversation made Isabel swoon, especially
when he advised her to "pack light . . . you
won't really be needing your own clothes."
Visions of leather and lace circled in her
brain like sharks smelling blood, her
apprehensions colliding head-on with her
mounting excitement in a train wreck of lust
and panic.

As she struggled with the laces running up the
front of the jet-black bustier Ron had selected
for her, Isabel realized its too-small size was
intentional. She had to pull the two ends of
the string together as tight as she could just
to keep her nipples covered, and when she
finally succeeded in knotting them, her breasts
were half-exposed and bulging over the top of
the garment like balloons.

Long latex gloves completed her evening's
ensemble.

She stared at the unfamiliar reflection in the
hotel room's full-length mirror. Who is this
little tramp, she asked herself, and why is she
smiling?

She had expected Ron to pick her up at the
airport, but instead she was greeted by a
driver holding a sign with her name. He had
whisked her through the outskirts of the city
to a nice midtown hotel where she was already
registered. When she got into her room, she had
found a box that contained her outfit and a
bouquet of roses. Black, of course.

Not knowing what else to do, she had gotten
dressed. Ron had thoughtfully provided
everything she would need, including a
tight-fitting pearl choker and matching
earrings. Everything, that is, with the notable
exception of underwear.

Her nervousness increased exponentially as she
teetered around the room on her tall spike
heels. Was he coming here? Was she supposed to
go somewhere dressed like this? What in the
world had she gotten herself into?

Her reverie was interrupted by a gentle knock
on her door.

She pulled it open a crack, and saw a bellhop
standing outside.

"Ma'am? A gentlemen has asked me to escort you
downstairs."

He held a full-length fur coat open for her.

"Th-thank you," she said as she stepped out of
her room and slipped her arms into the
luxurious sleeves.

Here we go, she told herself.

When the elevator doors opened, she quickly
scanned the lobby, but no one matched her
vision of Ron. The bellhop led her through the
foyer and out the front door to a limousine
waiting at the curb.

The driver opened the door as she approached.

She peered into the blackness, and felt a huge
surge of relief.

The man she presumed was Ron smiled warmly as
she crawled into the luxurious interior of the
stretch Cadillac. He looked, well, normal.
Regular build, nice features, pleasant face,
sharp suit, clean shoes, no apparent
deformities, discrete cologne . . . what was
his problem?

After exchanging awkward greetings, Isabel
couldn't believe what she blurted out next.

"Why do you waste your time on a bulletin
board?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," he
calmly replied. "I could be mistaken, but I
think it has something to do with the way I
hope you're dressed underneath all that lovely
fur."

Despite the darkness, Isabel was sure he could
see her blush.

"Actually, I'm probably as relieved as you
are," he continued. "You're far prettier than I
could have ever expected. Did everything fit
well?"

Isabel was surprised to hear herself laugh as
she described her struggles with the bustier
laces.

"My apologies. Women often exaggerate their
chest measurements, so I thought it would be
safer to err on the small side."

Isabel was thrilled how instantly comfortable
she felt around Ron. He entertained her by
pointing out the local sites as they whisked
down the road, and she found herself almost
forgetting she was dressed like a top-rate
hooker on a date with a man she first met while
trolling for trouble on a bondage bulletin
board.

Then it hit her . . . what was his trip anyway?

Throughout their computer courtship, Ron had
carefully avoided any mention of his desires or
his plans for her. Unlike all the other guys
she had encountered on-line, he had talked
about everything but dominance and submission.
No tales of imagined torture. No "are you wet
yet?" No orders. No nothing.

The costume he chose for her was elegantly
wicked, and she loved it, but it was nothing
really out of the ordinary, at least in this
neighborhood.

"Isabel? Earth to Isabel . . ."

"Huh? Oh, I'm sorry, I was thinking to myself."

"About what?"

"About you."

"I'm flattered. Care to be more specific?"

Isabel paused. "I was wondering . . . just what
you had in mind for tonight."

"Oh, nothing extreme. Dinner and maybe a show
afterward."

Isabel was now more confused than ever. Was Ron
just being annoyingly coy?

But she had to admit, she was tingling from the
tips of her latex-enclosed fingers to her
straining toes at the bottom of her boots.

They finally arrived in front of the
restaurant, and Isabel began to understand the
game.

Elegantly-coifed couples shared intimate tables
illuminated by soft candlelight. What in the
world were they going to think of her slinky
slutwear?

"Let me help you with your coat," Ron said as
they stood by the maitre d's station.

As she slid out of the bulky fur, the
restaurant grew ominously quiet.

Isabel felt her entire body blush as all eyes
swiveled in her direction.

The maitre d' arched an eyebrow high enough to
qualify as a rocket launch, and led them to a
table in the middle of the floor.

As Isabel sat down, she could feel the stunned
disbelief in the room. For his part, Ron
jauntily ordered champagne and acted as if
nothing was out of the ordinary. But Isabel
could barely read the menu as a sense of shame
and humiliation overwhelmed her.

Do they think I'm his mistress? His prostitute?
His slave?

Then she realized that she was all three.

Ron smiled at her across the table.

"You look absolutely ravishing, Isabel."

She felt another blush creep into her cheeks.

"Can you imagine what every man in this room is
thinking right now? You've blown their
circuits, my dear. And their wives will
probably despise you later tonight after the
lights go out."

This concept magnified Isabel's mortification
to the point where she could barely croak out
her order to the leering waiter.

After they had finished their salads, Ron
reached into his pocket and slipped something
round and hard under the table to Isabel.

"Why don't you excuse yourself to the ladies'
room?" he grinned.

"Oh, and you may need some of this."

He reached into the butter dish, scooped some
out, and passed it to her as she stood up.

Isabel hurried across the restaurant and
followed the signs to the restrooms. She was
relieved when she found the women's lavatory
empty.

Once safely inside a stall, she examined the
object in her hand. It was a wooden ball about
an inch around. Attached to it was a flat round
base the size of a quarter.

She looked at the butter in her other hand.

It slowly dawned on her that she was holding
her first butt plug.

Isabel began breathing heavily as she greased
the sphere.

Reaching underneath the miniskirt, she
positioned the ball against her puckered hole,
gulped, and eased it into her rectum.

Her virgin ass clenched tightly around the
intruder, sending new, indescribable feelings
of fullness through her gut and groin. When she
stood up straight, she uttered a soft moan of
pain and pleasure.

"Are you all right?"

The strange voice jolted her back to the
reality of her situation.

"Yes, thanks," she replied.

The woman fixing her hair at the sink glared at
Isabel as she washed the excess butter off her
gloved hands.

"You should be arrested," the woman hissed.

"So should your husband," Isabel replied.

The matron's chin dropped and her mouth formed
a perfect "O" as Isabel strutted out the door
and did her best to feign indifference to the
stares and her own internal discomfort.

"Hope everything went in all right," Ron said
as she sat down.

"Oh yes," Isabel chirped breathlessly as she
shifted uneasily in her chair, trying to find a
position that she could bear for more than a
minute.

"Good. Ah, here's our dinner."

Isabel forced herself to eat at least half of
every serving on her plate, but it took extreme
effort to keep her thoughts focused on her
fork, Ron's casual conversation and the immense
discomfort boiling in her groin. She squirmed
involuntarily and soon felt tiny beads of sweat
popping out beneath her arms and across her
forehead.

When dinner was over, Ron mercifully waved off
the waiter and called for the check.

Isabel stood up uneasily and threaded her way
between the other diners as she headed toward
the door. She felt the eyes of every male
mentally undress, no, rape her. Every male,
that is, except her date, who continued his
witty banter as she struggled into her coat.

The limo was waiting outside.

"I thought it might be nice to get a little
culture tonight," he said as they pulled away
from the curb.

"I do hope you like opera."

After three hours of incomprehensible arias,
Isabel was beyond detonation and rapidly
approaching complete meltdown. Of course they
were seated in a box with some of the town's
swankiest citizens, all of whom had massive
coronaries when she had removed her coat.

Ron seemed to thoroughly enjoy both her
predicament and the bellowing divas. At some
point, Isabel realized she was in the clutches
of a bonafide professional, a torturer who made
the Marquis de Sade look like Pee Wee Herman.

And she literally had to sit on her hands to
keep herself from the sweet relief she so
desperately craved

 

continue

 

copyright © 1999 by adrian hunter. all rights reserved.
please do not repost nor repurpose without permission.

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