WhipUrCunt

The leggy blonde in a white tank top and dark blue miniskirt sat in the back of the taxi as it left the airport. She had arrived from London, a lonf eight-hour flight, on instructions from her “special friend,” a man she had met on a BDSM membership website and with whom she had been chatting online for some months. Now He had asked her to come here to have a face-to-face meeting, to get to know one another and see if they were as compatible as they seemed to be online.

She had expected Him to meet her at the airport, but He had been very explicit in His instructions, which she had to admit, made the juices in her cunt flow down her leg: He had told her to take a taxi to a specific hotel, check in and ask for an envelope He would leave for her. Then she was to go to the room, enter it, strip and wait for Him.

After what seemed like an hour the white taxi pulled up in front of her hotel, “La Posada,” a non-descript tourist hotel in the center of the city. She was glad to be out of the taxi, with its air conditioning turned up full blast, causing her large nipples to very obviously show their shape through the clinging fabric of her top. “Probably did it on purpose,” she thought as she once again noticed the unconcealed gaze of the taxi driver, pawing her breasts with his eyes.

In the busy September street it was very hot, the high temperatures of a hot summer made even hotter by global warming hit her cooled body like a sandbag as she finished paying off the lecherous taxi driver who took his sweet time getting her small suit case out of the trunk of the car, paying more attention to her body than his job. Clutching her carry-on bag and purse in one hand and wheeling her suitcase after her she walked into the hotel.

Inside it was actually pleasant, which surprised her. Clean and airy, with an almost old fashioned feeling to it, the lobby had just a few people loitering inside and she was immediately attended by the receptionist, a young man about 25 years old.

“Do you speak English?” she asked.

“A little, not good,” came the reply.

Pulling out her passport she said, “My name is Sarah Jefferys, and I have a reservation.”

The young man smiled, “Si, I asked to give this you. . .” he replied, sliding a large manila envelope across the counter to her and taking her passport. “Here your key, room is five floor.  Left.  Bienvenidos a La Posada.”

She took the envelope, put her carry-on bag on top of her suitcase and threaded an arm through the straps of her purse and turned to walk to the elevators at the back of the lobby. Half way there, she stopped for a minute and opened the envelope and peeked inside. She could make out a blindfold and a folded sheet of paper. Smiling she resumed her walk through the lobby, catching the lone elevator as a couple got out, laughing, arm in arm.

The elevator was typical of hotels in South America, installed in an old building not designed for them. Able to fit about three, or at the most four, small people, it smelled of stale cigarette smoke, a lingering reminder of the disdain the smoking populace felt for the laws denying them their vice in public places. It rattled a bit going up, and finally stopped on the fifth floor and made her wait as the doors reluctantly opened.

Stepping out into the hallway, which was lit by corkscrew fluorescent energy-saving bulbs casting a cold, not very strong light, she started to her left as the receptionist had instructed her. Approaching her room, she noticed a man leaning casually against the wall, talking on his mobile phone with his back to her. No other people were in the hall, but he seemed not to notice her presence as she pushed the key into the lock and turned it, opening the door.

“I don’t know why He didn’t meet me,” she thought as she felt for the light switch. Suddenly a man’s hand clamping itself over her mouth cut short her complaint, and her left arm was bent into a painful hammerlock behind her back, pinned there and her long hair roughly grabbed, forcing her face up and back. She could feel a wadded ball of fabric being forced into her mouth as a gag, and her assailant’s body pressed hard against her from the rear. His thick, hard cock very obviously pushed against her left buttock and leg.  He quickly dropped his grip on her arm to use both hands to tie a second piece of cloth around her mouth, keeping the gag in place, and then everything went black as a black drawstring bag was placed over her head.

The man was very quick, and before she could react he bound her wrists behind her back with a plastic tie, pushed her onto the floor of the room, at the foot of the bed. Her left arm hurt from the abuse, and the bag restricted her breathing, making everything even more frightening.

Then she realized what had happened. Sure, He had set her up! Her favorite fantasy of kidnap and rape was being played out, and her kidnapper had to be Him. She was turned on and felt special that He would go to such trouble to make her deepest wishes come true. Naturally she would play her part to the hilt, put up resistance and eventually be forced to give in. So, what would be next?

She could feel her “abductor” fondling her breasts through the tank top, grasping the hem at the throat, and then, with a wrenching jerk, tearing it off her. She tried to say, “Hey! That isn’t funny! I like that top!” but the gag prevented her from doing more than making incoherent sounds. Then He did the same to her miniskirt. This was getting to be a bit much! He would have to replace the clothing, she thought.

After her skirt had been stripped off, there was a slight lull, as if her attacker was considering what to do next, and during it, she heard a key turn in the lock of the door. “Maybe He has invited another person to join in the scene,” she thought, “I wonder if it will be a man, or a woman?” A second later she could hear the door open and she could hear the original rapist suddenly move towards the door, and the sounds of a scuffle, quickly followed by a cracking, thudding sound and a heavier thud. Like someone falling to the floor. Like they were unconscious. It occurred to her how ironic it was that all she could think of at that point was, “Hey! That isn’t funny!”

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