A Cryptic Text

I had received a cryptic text message. “Nikki be at the Anton Hotel at 11:00 AM, rm 240. Sharp.”

I went a bit pale. The message was certainly terse, but spoke volumes. I knew what I had to do. Dress and appear as demanded. So I did.

That morning I got myself ready. Even as the butterflies were in my stomach, I applied my makeup and did my hair. Whomever I was meeting, I needed to put on a proper appearance. Too sloppy, and he would think I didn’t take him seriously. That would be bad. Too sexy, and he would think I was slutty, perhaps. It had to be just right. Emphasizing my femininity, and yet projecting a proper set of values as a woman.

So I selected a black satin pleated skirt, and a chiffon blouse. I hated pantyhose, thinking they were a turn-off, so I wore lingerie, always. Garter belt, stockings, and panties. By now I was so adept, I could put them on without a thought.

I arrived at the hotel, and made my way to the room. The hotel was a cheesy kind of affair. Old, and reasonably maintained, but two stories, and all rooms faced the common courtyard and parking lot. It was a long walk to the end of the building. Of course, it would be the top story and the last room. When I arrived, the door was ajar. I knocked, and said hello, but there was no response. So I pushed the door open and went in.

The room was clean, as if the maid had just serviced it, and all I saw to tell me it was rented was a single box with a bow on it and a card.

“Open me” was all the card said.

Inside was another card, with a butt plug and a tube of lubricant. The card said simply “I am watching. Wear the plug.”

I looked around, and couldn’t figure for the life of me how I could be seen, but after long moments of consideration, I sighed and shrugged. I lifted my skirt, but found the pleats too difficult to manage, so I sat on the bed, and lay back, exposing my crotch to whomever. Yes, it was being slutty, in a way, but I saw no real way to deal with it otherwise. One way or another, this creep was going to get his jollies. This way, at least my face was covered by my skirt as I felt around to make it all happen.
It took some effort, but I got the plug in my rear. It was once it was inside me I knew I was really being watched.

I felt a tingle as it vibrated, intermittently. It made me squirm on the bed, and I had to stand, to try and ease the sensations. It didn’t help.

Back on my heels, I looked about and noticed a second card, and a small bag. I didn’t need the card to tell me to open it, though that is what it did. Inside the bag were several rolls of long black satin ribbon. That made me curious, so I looked deeper into the bag. At the bottom was another card.

“Tie these around your wrists and ankles, one end each, then lay on the bed. I will contact you then.”

I sighed again. This was getting melodramatic, but I had to give credit. Whomever was doing this knew his stuff. It took wisdom and experience to be this creative and convoluted. All the while, I had to bite my lip softly and mew as the vibrating plug worked on me, and made concentration difficult.

After doing as the card bid, I lay on the bed, taking the timer to properly arrange my skirt to its fullest length, and I placed my hands on my stomach, interlocking my fingers, as the ribbons dangled off each side of the bed. It was then the plug went crazy on me, and sent varying waves and frequencies of power through me, until I had a climax, crying out as I shivered on the bed. Then it stopped, and I lay there, gasping for breath, my limbs askew.

I must’ve dozed off, for I did not hear the door open, though I belated realized I had never really closed it, and my next sensation was my wrists being pulled back and up by the ribbons, as I startled awake.

I could not see who was doing this, binding me helplessly, but I still hissed and demanded to be released. I was met with silence, but my ankle was next yanked open, and pulled back, lifting my legs widely and nearly bending me in half. I tried to thrash and kick, but I was far too late. With a growing sense of dread, I knew I was going to be raped. That was when the vibrations began again, and I got the first look at my own tormentor. It was someone from a fetish website, a guy called Art.

I tried to talk with him, negotiate my way out in between moans and soft writhing from the plug inside me, but he would have none of it. He planned to torment me, even break me, and do this to me not only for hours, but for months and years to come. He was going to make me his sex slave….

I growled to him. “No! Stop this at once! Let me go and I won’t speak of it again. But do this to me, and you will never hear the end of it.”

He just leered at me as he undressed. “That is what I was hoping for…” Then he climbed aboard the bed, and started molesting me, at my ankles, then my calves, and working his way up my thighs, until his teasing caress finally reached my crotch. Pulling my thong aside, and pulling out the suddenly silent plug, he replaced it with something else. Him. Then he had his way with me. For years.