tagBDSMTo Sleep, Perchance To Dream

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

byReefkeeper©

As Karen began to climb up through the layers of unconsciousness which constituted what she assumed was a very deep REM sleep, the first thing she became aware of was the pain in her left hip. She tried, without moving, to remember anything which she might have done the previous day which could have been the cause of her discomfort.

She remembered the Sambuca shots she had downed at the Parrot and she distinctly recalled a pleasant bottle of Merlot with dinner, although for some reason she couldn't quite put a face to her dining companion. Why did dinner remind her of olives? Karen didn't like olives, whether black or green.

Definitely green, the memory fragment somehow linked dinner with green olives. Who was that man? Karen could almost make out his face, but his image remained a shadow. She smiled to herself in the recesses of her mind, a rather hunky looking shadow, too. She almost remembered that she thought so last night, too. She distinctly recalled leaning over and brushing her left breast against his right upper arm last night at dinner. It was a ploy she'd used successfully many times before. After all, what was the point in lugging a pair of DDs around every day since puberty if you never used them to get what you wanted?

Grand Marnier! It was definitely the GM which she concluded was the cause of the throbbing in her head, but how, she wondered, could that have contributed to her hip's soreness?

Of rapidly escalating immediacy was the awareness that she was getting at least chilly, if not downright cold. Her mind roamed to the various parts of her body hoping for some area of warmth which she hoped might represent a blanket. With a blanket she could pull it up to better shield her from what she now realized was a very cold room. Finding none, she allowed herself to swim up a layer or two closer to interacting with a day she was not looking forward to.

"Oh!" she thought as she realized that the pain was simply her hip's protest against the particularly hard surface upon which she had been sleeping. That which she had assumed to be her bed was in reality, she now knew, a concrete floor. This realization was far enough outside the framework of her normal experience that she began to apply sufficient pressure to her hands so as to push herself into a sitting position.

It was at this point that Karen discovered her hands were bound with duct tape. She sighed and mumbled barely above a whisper, "And the hits just keep on coming." Suddenly she remembered, "My panties! I had just reached under the table in the restaurant and removed my black lace thong and was putting them in his pocket when my tit brushed against his arm. He told me to remove my panties so he could get at my pussy!" In the restaurant?

Now it was her bladder's turn to protest in a manner which although now mild she knew would rapidly grow in immediacy. She forced her eyes open and processed the incoming data which seemed to indicate she was sharing a stark windowless room with a large number of cardboard boxes emblazoned with the legend "Smithfield Van Lines" and a single sixty watt Sylvania bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. Her brain rebelled against the large size of the boxes reasoning that because of their names they should be more...ham-sized.

Ham! Olives! She had taken the olives off her salad and put them on a saucer. Her date had said something about hating waste and had told her to remove her panties so he could insert the olives inside of her! Her hands flew to her jeans and even though she was bound she was able to unzip her jeans and insert a finger between her labia. Nope! No olives!

The room was definitely not, she concluded, her dorm room. She hoped her anthropology paper was still in her room but she was mildly frightened that she might have had it with her in the bar and if so she had no idea where it might be. That paper represented 2/3 of her grade! Wait a minute! If she was hanging in the Parrot it would have been after class and she would have been in her jeans and tank top. When she was in the Prime Rib she was wearing her black cocktail dress. Now she was back in her jeans. Sounds like a lot of changing!

She also wondered in passing where her shoes and bra might have gotten to. With those enormous tits of hers she rarely went anywhere without support, and the concrete was damn cold under her bare feet. The door opened and a slim man, clad in a ski mask, came in and placed a tray on the boxes. She called out to him, "Excuse me, what the Hell is going on here?" He whipped around and backhanded her across her cheek. It knocked her back on her ass. He went to the door and let himself out.

It hadn't required a key so she went to the door but found it to be locked from the outside. She went to the tray. It contained a crystal glass, a pitcher of what looked like ice water, and an empty pitcher with a post-it which read "urine". Karen dropped trou and squatted. She doubted whether she'd ever pee in a Baccarat pitcher again. She buttoned her jeans and poured herself a drink. She almost choked. "Vodka!" She sighed, "...just keep on comin'." She drank the entire glass.

Karen forced her face into a wry grin as she thought, "I've GOT to start going home with a better class of boys!" She lined up four of the boxes, stretched out, and tried to get back to sleep.

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