Big Fan of Your Wor

Note: The subject depicted is a fictional creation and claims no relationship to any living person or persons. No character's thoughts or actions should not be taken as any kind of commentary on or depiction of any actual person or persons.

As many note with these sorts of stories, this is all well and good for fantasy and stories but the real world demands consent and respect. Heavy noncon here, dark content. If that's not your thing you might want to avoid.

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She wondered what she was doing as her motorcycle crossed Nevada, and Utah, and as it climbed ever slowly upward on its way. She wanted to find him, she knew that much. After that...

She had paid some nerd who looks at Google maps all day to look at captures from the old videos and tell her where to look. He figured out Wyoming just from the mountains you could see behind the barn.

There was one movie where he picked up a girl hitchhiking, and that had given away the closest major road. She knew what the house and barn looked like from the front. So she had the state, the road, and the house. She would find it.

She wanted to see the barn, she knew that much too. She had watched the videos over and over again, masturbating but also just taking them in. No one had ever done BDSM porn like this, and she knew that no one ever would again.

The art, the vision, the unyielding sadism, the gear, despite the promise of the internet nobody had come close to what this one guy had cranked out for the decade prior to life moving online.

So was she here to convince him to make more porn? To finally get online? She didn't know. She knew other girls had come out here to model for him, hundreds of girls over the years. Had any come unsolicited like this? Was she coming out here to model? The thought scared her, she had admitted to herself one night before masturbating to the idea for the 10,000th time.

She knew he had initially rejected online entirely, and at the time he had done so it made sense. But now, with streaming video in HD, maybe he would feel differently? Did he even know that digital transfers and scans of his work had circulated for decades among people who knew how to appreciate honest and real depictions of...of girls like her.

To be depicted in one of his videos or magazines as a depraved and humiliated masochistic slut...everyone seeing her for exactly what she was? The thoughts got her through some long nights in her tent, making her way east on a shoestring budget.

All of the girls in the movies were referred to as holes, like it was a name. "Beg for it, holes," or "holes, what did I tell you about gagging?" The later fans of the work had eventually numbered them to make discussion easier, Holes 1, Holes 56, etc. On some of those nights in that tent, she thought of herself as Holes 176.

Maybe she was just coming all this way to shake his hand, praise him as a genius. Maybe share a drink, pick his brain. Maybe just that and she'd be satisfied, turn around, head back to the Valley. Not that there was much there waiting for her return.

He actually saw her first. He came into town once a week to get his mail, his groceries, and he always had a late breakfast at the diner before he got in his van and went back out to his little house in front of the barn. He hadn't touched the barn, the cave, the pit, any of it, in years.

He thought about the pit when he saw her, just happened to see her sitting at the counter of the diner with a bowl of soup, asking for more crackers, drumming her nails on the counter.

He thought about those nails scratching on the walls of the pit, desperately seeking a hand hold on the smooth, carefully chiseled walls. She'd quit as soon as one or two nails broke, he figured.

His thoughts were always doing that, running women he saw through the various tortures he had come up with in what he thought of as his past life. His gaze lingered on her back a little longer than most, taking in her hair. Curly waves of reddish auburn hair fell down her back, reminding him of a girl he had known what felt like 100 years ago.

He shook his head and left the diner. He never would have thought about her again even a single moment for the rest of his life, had he not seen that exact hair flowing out from under a motorcycle helmet making its way up his driveway.

The bike raised a cloud of dust and from his second story window he could see the hair running in the breeze. The early afternoon sun cut through the dust and he thought to himself

christ, what is this

.

He didn't answer the door. Why would he? He didn't know this girl, had no use for her, so he just stared from a tiny tear in a papered-over window as she stepped off her bike, took a photo of the house with her phone, then just strolled up and pounded on the door.

Whoever she was, he figured she'd knock, wait, get bored and go away. His first clue this was going to go different was that she waited a really, really long time. She'd knock, call out his name, then wait. His old name, he couldn't help but notice, the one he hadn't heard in years. Not the one that was on his mail, although after a solid hour she tried that one too.

Then she walked off, heading around the side of the house, leaving him to scramble to make miniscule tears in different papered-over windows. Through the new tears he saw her come around the house and take a picture of the barn, then head in that direction.

He knew why she was there. She was no thief, not with the pictures. She was no missionary, not with his old name in her mouth.

She was here because she was a filthy slut. Like every other slut he had known, adrift in the world, she was drawn to that barn for reasons she didn't fully understand. He could have helped her understand, once upon a time.

He wasn't sure the barn would open. It hadn't been opened in years, and despite the amazing craftsmanship of the friend he had long since lost contact with, he didn't know if the door would open or the system would work like it was supposed to.

The system was a trap. The door opened on a hallway that ran away at a 90 degree angle, which was important because if it was full sun outside you needed a solid ten feet for the light coming through the open door to fade.

The light had to fade because if it didn't, nobody would step through the second door. They wouldn't step through because they'd see that they were stepping into a cage, and people had a natural aversion to that kind of thing.

They'd step in if you paid them. He'd done that with hundreds of women, they'd step through if you paid them and they knew they were on camera and there was a whole crew around and a designated advocate, who of course had to be another woman, there to hear the safeword and ruin an entire film and magazine and piss off 10,000 paying subscribers and generally just royally fuck up everything...

He lost his train of thought for a moment but rediscovered it as the barn door gave after she planted her feet and heaved. She stepped through and he saw her turn down the hallway and disappear out of sight.

The reduction in light meant that by the time you opened the second door you couldn't see the cage walls. And so you stepped in, and the door shut behind you, and then it was closed. No handle, no gaps, just shut and securely latched and 20 feet out there in the gloom were big steel cage walls.

It had never worked like that, of course. There were always the lights for the shoot and the camera crew and the designated advocate and so on, but the members needed it to be able to work like that, it was important to some of their twisted little brains and he loved his members. He knew what it felt like to have a twisted little brain.

The members who took the time to notice saw that if you took away all the stage lights, if you stripped it all back, you had something honest and real at the core. Those members he loved most of all.

So as he shuffled down the back steps and across the yard he waited to see her come out of the barn's main door, and when she didn't he assumed that the whole thing had worked just like he designed it, even after all this time.

He smiled and thought of María, the only person involved who had worked as hard as him, and he wondered if she was still alive. He knew she would welcome news that her contraption had functioned perfectly, if she was still out there.

He waited an extra five minutes for her to come out the front door. When she did not, he walked the long way down the barn and entered at the rear corner door, just a humble little door set into the wall.

She stared at her surroundings, then kicked the cage one more time to see if it would budge. It did not, and she was able to feel that its bars went directly into the concrete wall behind her and the floor under her, without even any bolts or anything to work on.

She wondered if she would be panicking if she hadn't instantly realized what had happened. She felt stupid. She'd seen this exact cage in a dozen films and even more magazines, some gorgeous woman looking frightened as she turned and scraped at the door or slowly made her way out facing a cattle prod.

But she had never seen the cage from the inside, hadn't seen it the way it looked as she stepped into the room, as she did an asinine "wait, is this..." while the door shut behind her.

She paced the 20 by 20 foot cage and looked out at the inside of the barn. Outside of the cone of darkness that seemed to cover this corner of the enormous room, enough light was leaking through the cracks in walls that she could make out the outlines of several things with which she was very familiar.

There was the rack he had first used to stretch Holes 8 until she confessed every detail of her sexual history. There was the hitching post where he had tied Holes 56 while she was kitted out like a glamorous pony.

There was the steel frame chair that could be turned into a giant electro toy, perfect for making Holes 19 earn the hard fucking one of his custom fucking machines was giving her.

She stared around the barn, trying to connect each vague outline to the videos she knew by heart. She was lost in this process when she heard a door open and shut somewhere on the far side of the room. She froze.

He crossed the room quietly, moving between pieces of equipment he hadn't touched in years, or some in decades, careful to avoid the constructed stages. They squeaked, all of them, but he could move between them on the dirt floor of the barn and make his way towards the entry cage, finally getting a look at whoever had come here and invaded his world.

But, he realized as he snuck up, he couldn't get a good look. The cage was still cast in darkness. Muttering curses, he headed to a corner of the barn where the control panel for the stage lighting was. Throwing a row of switches, he heard several bulbs pop and burn out, but at least a few fired up.

Returning to his vantage point (between a human sized dog cage piled high with crap and a reproduction of a vintage iron maiden Maria had labored over for months) he stared at his visitor. "Hello?" she called. He did not answer.

Her hair was once again the first thing he noticed, matted from being under a helmet but a striking color, a deep, rich yet subtle red. She wore a black riding jacket, unzipped to display large breasts under a white tank top. Natural breasts, his experienced eye automatically noted. She wore tight jeans that appeared to contain a respectable ass.

She was on the shorter side, and what he thought of as St. Louis Pretty. As in, pretty enough, sure, but once you get to Los Angeles it's a different game. A lot of St. Louis Pretty girls had been in this barn.

She reminded him of someone he knew, a model he had worked with, and as he struggled to place her he reflected on being in the barn again.

"Hello?" she tried again. He did not answer.

He didn't know how long it had been to the day or anything close to it, but he knew it had been a long time. The barn was a very special place to him, and he was struck by the gall this girl had to just stroll on in.

He wouldn't be who he was if his brain weren't going certain places, given the situation. He had filmed several hundred scripts in here, written 1,000 more, and many of them had just this kind of setup.

To actually be in one, living one, had him at a bit of a loss and he wanted to take some time to think. He snuck back to the control panel and cut the lights, then wove his way back out of the barn as she, sounding increasingly concerned, called out for whoever was there.

He did not sleep well that night. The house and barn were built such that he couldn't hear any kind of commotion she might be making, but what interrupted his sleep were racing thoughts and strange dreams, dreams that equated to looking at his life's work from a bird's eye view.

He saw a melange of scenes spill out before him and he awoke, heart racing. As his thoughts reviewed the events of the day he gradually settled into a place of certainty. This was not something to pass up. Life was too short, he had moved on from the business in a bitter way, and she was a pretty girl trapped in his barn.

Some things are meant to be

, he thought.

In the morning he got two large bottles of water and a can of chili from his pantry. He tore the label off the can. He entered the barn, again from the door in the far corner, and grabbed one item from the storage behind the main set before he again threw on the lights.

He returned to where he had stood the day before and saw that she was sitting, her back against the door that had shut behind her. Her jacket lay on the floor folded as if it had been a makeshift pillow. He left the gear he had grabbed just where she couldn't see it and stepped forward with the can and the water.

She stood as he approached, and he stopped fifteen feet short of the cage and they looked at each other for a moment.

"Holy shit," she said, "It's really you."

Not that he needed confirmation, but that would do nicely. "I don't know what the fuck you're doing here," he lied.

This triggered a flood of words. "Oh my god," she started, "this is all a misunderstanding. I'm a fan, just a huge fan of your work, and I came out here to meet you and, I honestly don't even know 'and' what, I just really wanted to meet you and talk about your work, and what drove you, and what you created, and how much it spoke to-"

"Shut up," he cut her off, and he was pleased when she did. "You're lying, you came out here to steal from me and kill me and steal my ranch."

Her eyes opened wide at this accusation. *Nooo,"she gasped, "I would never! I have loved your work for years and I just needed to-"

"Shut up!" he yelled this now and had to stop from smiling when she shrank slightly. "I have no idea who the fuck you are and I have no reason to trust you. I brought you water and something to eat because I don't need some junkie thief dying on me out here and bringing all kinds of attention my way."

This was a bit of fanciful business on his part, he was so far out of the way that a dozen drifters could wander onto his property and die and nobody would notice.

She appeared to be considering the best way to respond to being called a junkie thief and he decided to spring on her hesitation. Reaching back where she couldn't see, he brought forth a pair of handcuffs and threw them so they clanged loudly off the cage bars and fell to the ground.

She stared at them. "What are those," she heard herself say even as her brain registered that they were a pair of vintage figure eight English cuffs, first seen on Holes 6 as she waited to be caned for spilling some of the water she had been given, and seen again in countless movies.

She wanted to grab them and cradle them and examine them.

"Don't be stupid," he called to her. "You know what they are. Put them on so I can give you this safely." He held up the water and the can.

"This is all a misunderstanding," she said again. "I've already called for help and my friend will be up here today and I will just be on my way."

This was a lie, and not a particularly good one. You could get cell service in town, but it died well before you got out to his place. And it was only one tower, so you couldn't even triangulate.

If anyone cared to look, something he instinctively doubted was the case, her cell record would show she entered the general vicinity of town, then later she left. No one had seen the two of them together. Maybe she was just another idiot camper headed for the deep hills, never to be seen again.

"Put them on," he said again, "or you will be very thirsty and very hungry by the time your friend gets here." He was pleased both that she was not panicking but that the introduction of the handcuffs had made her scared enough to offer a bad lie. His playing into it apparently worked, because she picked up the handcuffs.

They had such weight to them, she noticed, nothing like modern cuffs that she had begged boyfriends to put her in.

"Outside the bars," he called. "Put your hands through the bars and put them on."

She sighed. Whatever her little adventure was meant to be, it was rapidly spinning out of her control, if it had ever even been in her control. Maybe something had drawn her here? In any event, she had spent the night pushing on every square inch of the cage. There were no weak spots, no give.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she tried. With her hands through the bars she wouldn't be able to move from the side of the cage and she recognized the tightening restriction for what it was. "I'm really, really sorry. I just want to go home. I'll just go, okay?"

"Put them on," he said. No shouting, just a firm, direct command from someone who expects to be obeyed. Something in her stirred, something she was very irritated to realize was horniness, as she recognized his Dom voice from all the movies.

She looked down at the handcuffs again. They were art, a gorgeous patina playing along the marks made when the raw metal was hammered into shape. She put her hands through the bars and closed the cuffs around her wrist, struggling for a moment with the unfamiliar closure but managing to leverage it against the bars to shut it around her other wrist.

He approached her warily, taking the cap off a bottle of water and holding it out to her. He placed it against her lips and tipped it and she drank all but a drop that trickled down to her chin. He repeated this with the second bottle and she finished that one too.

He placed the can in her hands and began walking away. "I'll let you know when your friend is here," he called over his shoulder.

"Uhhh" was all she could think to reply before he disappeared behind the equipment.

He wasn't sure exactly how long to leave her. Different people could hold out for different lengths of time, and for some people stress and excitement gave them extra resolve rather than cutting them short. So he waited all day, until the sun was good and down, not just dropping below the mountains, before he started his return to the barn.

Peeking at her, he found things exactly as he had expected. There was a dark dampness in her jeans, centered on her crotch, and she was dancing from foot to foot as discomfort started to turn to exhaustion. That all was easily predictable, but the can was the real variable.

The can, crudely opened, lay on the ground. That was a good sign. It meant she was tough, resilient, or just that she knew enough about cans to know that they weren't that thick. Hammer it on well-set steel bars until it cracks, then hammer until part of it sheers off or open.

She'd managed that, which also meant whatever her internal state she hadn't panicked and she had maintained focus. Dropping the can even once was fatal to the effort.