You hear a door quietly close, the latch clicking, the handle rattling back into place, shaking you from a glorious slumber. As your eyes adjust to the morning, you begin to take stock of your surroundings. The early morning sun cascades light a cross the room through the large sliding doors that lead to a balcony overlooking golden sands and clear ocean water. The furniture is modern, sleek, minimalist. Around you lay discarded bedding, pillows strewn everywhere, the covers hunched at the base of the giant bed. And uncomfortable feeling sits between your legs, the crisp white linen soaked with the nights endeavours, your thighs sticky from dried sweat and your own pleasure. You try to smile and roll away from the mess, to get comfortable, trying to remember what must have been a beautiful, passionate night. The tight feeling at your wrists suddenly snaps back the true memories of that night.
A night out with work. A reward for you and your colleagues for smashing that deadline. A few drinks at a local bar, before heading to a club. The long queue bypassed as you and your colleagues are waved by, Tara from accounts caressing the muscle-bound club bouncer as he waves her by. The thumping bass from the music taking over as you’re handed a drink. Throwing it back, you grab Pascal, the French IT guy who you’d flirted with since he arrived 6 months ago. He stares at you, admiring your diminutive figure, your curves hugged by a classic black dress, barely covering your pert round backside, barely contain your chest. He pulls you close, running his hand down your back, gently squeezing your ass, before pulling you away from the group, onto the heaving dance floor, watching as the music takes hold of you, not a care in the world. The bass seems to get more intense, each thud shaking your brain around inside your skull. Dizziness takes hold, you struggle to stay upright. As you fall, you are grabbed. You look hazily through the ever changing colours of bright flashing lights to see your saviour, then darkness…
You look down at your wrists, bound tightly with pure white rope, your elbows bound the same. Your legs are wide apart, each ankle with a rope wound uncomfortably around them, forcing them in opposite directions. A small gust of wind through the partially open patio doors sends a cold chill over your naked body. As you try to pull an ankle free, the rope tightens, cutting into your milky white flesh. The binds on your arms are even more uncomfortable, pinning your elbows tightly together. You try to scream. Muffled noises, nothing more. Your mouth feels open, yet blocked, a rubbery taste on your tongue. There’s something there, forcing your lips apart. You start to notice warm drool running down your chin, dropping onto your chest. You try to scream again. And again. Writhing against the ropes binding you to the bed. 30 minutes pass. You accept that no amount of thrashing, writhing or muffled screams of desperation are going to free you. Your body is dripping with sweat, your exertions combined with the rising sun warming the room through the large glass doors. You collapse back down into the sweat soaked sheets, panting for breath. Across the room, the large television mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed flickers into life. A royal blue screen, flickering with distortion like a vintage video cassette player. A small white triangle appears in the bottom corner, the word ‘Play’ next to it. Tracking lines flicker across the screen as it turns back, before an image appears. A girl, bound to a bed, a large white ball gag between her lips, the sunlight casting shadows on the left side of her body. It’s you. The out of focus images moves as you do, her hips bucking as you do, her back arching as you do. You let out another muffled scream, fighting your binds again, desperation levels increasing rapidly… Read more »