It could be somewhere quiet but public. Where you would stand out - a coffee shop in a
book shop perhaps where you would be an anachronism, a little lost and slutty as
others finish their Christmas shopping.

You would wear what you were instructed to wear, clothes that would be inappropriate
for the weather and that might turn a head. Jeans, tights, a blouse cut a little low
and short on the sleeve so that the skin on your arms would goosebump when you slipped
your coat off, heels that cause you to stumble.

You would remove the coat and sit, ordering the drink that you had been instructed to
order. You might have been instructed to slip to the bathroom after five minutes to
remove the jeans and swap them for a short skirt, confirming who you are and making me
smile. Perhaps some others in the shop might notice. Perhaps not.

After ten minutes you would go to the bathroom as instructed again, this time removing
the tights, returning to looks from customers of amused bewilderment at why on earth
you would be losing your tights in the middle of winter in a bookshop. The suppressed
giggle, the muttering. That soft stroke of humiliation as you wait, anticipating what
is to follow. The whispered chuckles of those watching you, you wondering which I am.
You blush a little, conscious you are wet, embarrassed that this whole charade is
arousing.

As you sit down at your drink again, you notice a slip of paper and a twenty pound
note, the paper with a hotel name and a room number on it, both placed on top of an
envelope marked "open on arrival". You finish your drink hurriedly and gather your
things, carrying your coat as instructed - not certain why you are following the
instructions of someone you don't know, but feeling that you should. Part of the play.

At reception heads turn as you walk in, stumbling on heels that are too high, your
legs and arms clearly cold. You enquire at the desk and a small oriental woman smiles
and says "ah yes, Jess? You are expected" and a swipe key is handed to you.

You head for the lifts, the staff trying not to chuckle as you totter. You feel
stupid, embarrassed. Did the words on the envelope mean open on arrival at the hotel
or at the room? You have to choose and you choose outside the room.

You read:

"You are probably in the corridor.

Remove your heels.

Remove your brassiere.

Take the plastic sack that you were instructed to bring from your bag.

Coat, heels, jeans, tights and bra in the sack.

Unbutton the top two buttons on your blouse, enter the room, drop the bag and close
the door."

You tremble, fingers fiddling with the buttons, then slip the card in the reader, your
fingertips cold on the door as you push it open.

The low lights of the room are soft on your eyes and you can feel the texture of the
carpet under your feet. You take uncertain steps forward and drop the bag, turning
around to close the door.

"Wait there," the voice is clear, not harsh, but hard.

Chapter 2

Your breath quickens and you feel your legs begin to tremble.

"Hands flat on the wall." The words are quietly, assuredly spoken. "Higher. Above your
head. Apart."

You feel the faintest caress on your arms, the hairs rising, the back of a hand being
run across your neck before a fist balls your hair tightly jerking your head backwards.

"Eyes closed."

 As you close your eyes, a silk scarf is tied tightly across them, the knot pinching
your hair and making you gasp. You feel hands slide up in front of you, unbuttoning
your blouse and then the warmth of hands cupping each tit. There is a perfect contrast
of sensations - the warm grip of hands that you know will hurt you in the moments to
follow against the slight brush of the cold wall, your nipples swelling to bursting.

You gasp again as the hands squeeze roughly and then take the material of your blouse
and rip it roughly from your shoulders. You wonder what on earth you will wear to
leave when your ordeal is over.

You hear me step back.

"On your hands and knees."

You oblige, reaching out tentatively to touch the carpet.

"Hear, like a well trained little bitch."

You crawl forward, waving your hands a little in front of you so that you don't
collide, attempting to remember the layout of a room you saw in the halflight.

"Stand. Lose the underwear."

You stand nervously, slipping each foot awkwardly from your underwear, trying not to
overbalance. You know the skirt will not preserve your modesty much longer and you
feel yourself flush as you moisten and drip a little onto the inside of your thigh.

"Turn and bend. Hold your ankles."

You turn and bend, your ankles apart, sliding your hands down the length of your legs,
aware as you lean forward how your breasts hang and your cheeks part, hating yourself
for loving the humiliation of exposing yourself to a total stranger.

You feel my hand on the inside of your leg, stroking upwards, just caressing the lips
of your cunt before sliding down the otherside. I can hear your breathing quicken.

"Lose the skirt and resume position."

You fumble awkwardly with the zipper and step together to lose the skirt, now
completely naked save the scarf across your eyes. You wonder how you look, long limbs,
shaved, spread.

"Spread yourself further." You reach behind, still bent, the blood still rushing to
your head, and splay your buttocks, a hand on each cheek, revealing the pinched bud of
your anus. You feel my hand in your hair and fingers working your cunt as you
concentrate on holding yourself open. When my fingers are suitably wet, and your pussy
is burning with the ache to come, you feel me tease the entrance to your ass,
massaging gently before forcing my fingers inside, two wide.

The pain causes you to start, and you wheeze a groan. I work you anally with my
fingers as you continue to grip tight, enjoying the whiteness of your knuckles and
your increasing dilation.

Suddenly, I thrust you forward onto the bed. You feel a collar slipped around your
neck and buckled in place and instinctively you throw your hands to your throat. I
slap you firmly on the ass and clip a leash to the collar, telling you to get on the
floor again on your knees.

You slide down, and I remove the scarf. In front of you, the other side of the room,
is a bowl of water. I crouch next to you and pulling your face to mine I watch as I
attach a bulldog clip to each nipple, squeezing the blades of the pincer hard. You
wince and I smile.

I walk you across, the floor, each "step" of your crawl causing your nipples to burst
with pain. I pause at the water.

"Drink it, like a silly little bitch."

As you lean forward you are conscious of me pulling your wrists behind your back and
binding them tightly. Then, a second sensation, of me pushing a candle into your ass,
filling you, stretching you. The sound of a match causes you to flinch and as  you lap
at the water you know that hot wax is sliding down the candle shaft to the tight pinch
of your skin.

"Finish it. Then the candle goes out."

You lap furiously, water everywhere. You finish and I laugh, snuffing the candle
easily and causing you to start suddenly by whipping it from you in a quick movement.

"Over the end of the bed."

You stand, straining against the leash, and I follow you to the bed where you kneel
hurriedly.

"Higher, you daft slut." You strain to raise your ass higher and you try not to flinch
as you hear me unbuckle my belt.

"Twenty five strokes and you will count each one - and be grateful for it."

The pause before the first lands seems to last ages. And then there is a moment of
coldness before a fire spreads across your buttocks in a line.

"One - thank you," you whisper, near-winded.

The blows continue and you know you will stripe, thick dark red lines that make you
shift uncomfortably in your seat. As you gasp your thanks for the final stroke, you
feel the fist in your hair again as you are dragged to the floor. As you open your
mouth to protest you feel it filled with the swell of an engorged cock as your throat
is pumped ferociously. Gasping you swallow, the spent juice of a stranger dripping
down your lips.

You are thinking you are done when, having come, I withdraw and push you to the floor.
You hear a chair being moved and then quietly spoken one word:

"Sit."

You look at the chair, placed in the window, the curtains drawn back and look to me,
hoping I don't mean it. I nod and you shuffle slowly to take your place, beaten.

"Spread."

Docile, you spread your legs, and feel bone pressed to the angle of the chair as your
ankles are bound tightly.

My fingers slide inside you and your head droops, angry and bitter at the pleasure you
are taking in such degradation. You feel the pressure of pleasure building like a
weight of water, desperate for release and you know that it will come, regardless of
what you want.

As you climax you strain against your restraints. I smile, biting gently on your
swollen nipples. And then I leave you there in the seat as I rest a while, lying on
the bed to watch you silently as  you spread your legs and show your cunt to the
world, grateful that we are several floors high.

After an hour or so, as you feel yourself drifting to sleep, I untie you.

"Stay until you hear the door."

You do so, desperate to turn but somehow bound in place by mere words.

At the sound of the latch you turn. Your clothes are in their bag, your skirt and
panties on the floor. Your shoes though are gone as are the ruins of your blouse.
Instead, on the bed is a white t-shirt, "His slut" written across it in your lipstick,
a small card with just an email address printed on it resting nearby. Five words are
scrawled on it in blue ink:

"You will ask for more."