The Bully Pt. 15

Sex with black men was her final taboo, and the long-term implications of violating her only limit would undoubtedly stir deep shame within Lela, which in turn would only arouse her more. I could only hope that the two of them would not enjoy all three of my wife's orifices, but I knew that this was wishful thinking on my part.

Four hours later, after a brief courtesy knock, the door to the Honeymoon Suite opened slowly, and Lela entered the room supported by Samantha and the Head of Hotel Security.

"It appears that the bride may have enjoyed a little too much champagne, Sir," the Head of Security said tactfully. "Where do you think she would be most comfortable for the rest of the evening?"

I suppressed my urge to tell him that my wife would certainly be most comfortable if they had left her tied spread-eagled in the cold-storage room, so that she would be available for use by the Night Porters, and whichever other staff members were about to report to work. Pointing to the day-bed that occupied one of the bay windows, I stood by quietly as they half-carried Lela over there.

I wasn't sure of the tipping protocol in this situation. I had read the "Definitive Traveler's Guide to Tipping" book and knew that porters expected one or two dollars per bag carried up to your room. However, quite what the gratuity rate was for a Senior Security Officer to escort your semi-comatose wife back to the Honeymoon Suite after she had been gang-banged by the entire junior hotel staff, eluded me.

Samantha would barely look me in the eye, such was her palpable disdain for me.

"I dropped your jacket off at the Dry Cleaners on the second floor," the Security Head added. "It will be ready by the time you check out in the morning. If you need anything you can reach me directly by dialing extension one. Enjoy the rest of your stay, Sir."

I settled on not tipping him, as I reflected on the fact that however much I gave him, it wasn't enough. He had brought my well-used wife discreetly to my room, enlisting the help of the only guest at the wedding reception that I could completely trust. He had also taken my semen-soaked suit jacket to the Hotel Dry Cleaning Facility, instead of throwing it in the dumpster where it belonged. Ten dollars? Twenty dollars? One hundred dollars? It wouldn't have been enough.

"Thanks again for your discretion," I said as the Security Head let himself out of my room.

"What the fuck, Mark?" Samantha began angrily as soon as we were alone. "Were you involved in this disgusting behavior?"

It would have been fruitless to attempt to deny any participation of my behalf, so I merely avoided the question. Lela was slumped across the daybed, wiped out from her ordeal. Inexplicably she was wearing the piss-soaked veil that was hanging in the urinal trough, and Samantha motioned for me to remove it. Being constructed of delicate lace it wasn't very absorbent so it was damp rather than wet. However, it stank to high heavens, and I threw it straight into the trash.

There was an awkwardness between Samantha and I, as we helped Lela out of her wedding dress. Once the lace and taffeta dress was removed, the true extent of Lela's ordeal became apparent. Semen was still oozing out of both of her lower orifices, and there were bruises and red marks all over her ass and lower back. Lela had ejaculate dried all over her back, and her hair was matted with the congealed milky fluids of numerous men. Her bridal lingerie was completely ruined, and we ended up cutting it from her with a pair of kitchen scissors. One of the heels to her white fuck-me pumps had broken off, which is probably why they tied her ankles to the table legs.

Once Lela was naked I noticed several inscriptions written on her body in permanent marker, the most prominent and disturbing of which was "Property of Mr. Marshall" in huge letters across my new bride's lower back. CumSlut seemed to be the most common of these hastily-written messages, and I noticed this slur in at least five different locations. Someone, presumably John, had even blacked out Ratt's name on the back of Lela's neck, and the rehashed version of the tattoo read "John's CumSlut." Lela's body was also defiled with phone numbers, pejoratives in at least three different languages, and a rather personal slight towards me. "Mark is a cuckold" was written inside Lela's right upper-thigh, the demeaning cursive extending all the way to her labia.

"Did Danny Marshall do this large one, Mark?" Samantha asked angrily, as she recoiled in shock at the impropriety of this Senior Manager's behavior. "He is going to sorely regret this," she added ominously. "I will have his ass for this. Literally."

While Samantha seemed incandescent with rage at Mr. Marshall's behavior, her words didn't carry much meaning for me at the time, and we moved on.

"Turn her over," Samantha instructed me. "Let's make sure Lela has no injuries that require medical attention."

When we flipped Lela over onto her back, we were assaulted by an equally disturbing sight. Two stainless-steel nipple clamps were attached tightly to Lela's breasts, and it was obvious by the horrified look on Samantha's face that she had never seen anything like this before.

"What the fuck, Mark?" Samantha whispered as she reflexively covered her mouth. "Do these just pull off?"

"God no, Samantha," I responded, regretting the fact that Lela had ever introduced me to these horrendous implements of torment. "Let me loosen them. Lela may feel some discomfort."

I extended my hand to loosen the stainless-steel clamps, and predictably Lela let out an anguished howl as the blood rushed back into her nipples.

"How long do you think she has been subjected to that torturous device?" Samantha asked with a worried look on her face. "Will there be any permanent damage?"

"Lela wasn't wearing them the last time I took my turn," I began, thoroughly incriminating myself in the process.

"The last time?" Samantha said incredulously. "You went back for seconds, Mark? After we spoke?"

There was a stony silence between Samantha and I now, as we checked Lela for any additional injuries. Other than a few bruises, the ligature burns from the neck-ties, and some surface bite marks, she was in relatively good shape. Someone had written "John's CumSlut" across her abdomen in permanent marker, but that would disappear after a few days.

Inexplicably, after a thorough examination of Lela's broken form, a smile crossed my face. I knew that John loved nothing more than to rub my face in Lela's infidelity, and the fact that there were no references to black guys scrawled on her body, led me to believe that my wife had not been violated by the two security guards. I wasn't sure quite how Lela had dodged that bullet, but I knew deep down that she had been spared that indignity.

Samantha noticed my satisfied smirk and completely misinterpreted it.

"I am going to stay here with Lela," Samantha said angrily. "You can take my room, number 402. Don't lose my key card. They only issued me one when I checked in and I will lose my cool if I have to deal with any of the junior staff tonight."

Samantha's tone left no room for discussion, particularly as she was technically my boss in the office. We lifted Lela's naked, lifeless body from the day-bed to the huge matrimonial bed in the Honeymoon Suite, and Samantha covered up my wife's bruised and battered torso. Then she reached for the bag that the Security Head had placed on the table. Emptying its contents on to the floor of the Suite, she flashed me a disapproving look.

"Here are your ties, Mark," she said coldly as she tossed them in my direction. "I can't believe you restrained your bride with your fucking school ties. You do admit you went to Stanford, right?"

The ominous looking vibrating butt-plug was there too, covered in all kinds of nasty dried secretions. "Throw this is the trash on your way out, Mark," Samantha directed me. "I am turning my phone off for the night but I will call you in the morning and let you know when you may return to this room."