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Subject: {ASS/M} Room Serviced by Adrian Hunter
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Room Serviced
By Adrian Hunter
He leaned down and picked up her shoes off the floor.
Not bad, he decided.
Probably Italian.
Nice lines.
Impressive heels.
Definitely expensive.
But not worth keeping.
He tossed them onto the jumbled pile of clothes in the suitcase and lowered the
lid, then spun the numbers on the combination locks before snapping the clasps
shut.
The concierge had promised that someone would be right up, but he realized
early evenings were inevitably complicated, even for a top-notch staff.
He refreshed his glass with another splash of scotch, added an ice cube, and
sat down to wait.
No reason to rush.
He dearly wished he could see her eyes when she heard the knock on the door.
That look of surprise, followed by fear and panic.
Growing wider and wider as she listened to the brief conversation.
Shut tight as she considered the implications.
And when she finally opened them again, her gaze would inevitably drop from her
reflection to the three items that stood alone on the long white vanity next to
the sink.
A small pair of scissors. A can of shaving cream. And a razor.
He imagined her fingers wriggling helplessly inside their leather coffins
attached to opposite ends of the shower curtain rod.
The intricate harness guaranteeing perpetual, inviolable silence. Nothing but
a big, fat, ridiculously realistic rubber penis to gnaw on.
Air circulating dully between her very spread legs. Toes balanced on the rim
of the tub.
And the inescapable mirror throwing back her shuddering nakedness for only her
to see.
For now.
Every hotel offers special rooms for the handicapped. One only had to ask.
Special handrails everywhere. An infinite variety of awkward possibilities.
Especially in the bathroom.
He stood up and stretched. Might as well get ready.
His valise faintly rattled as he set it on the dresser next to the bed. After
only a moment of deliberation, he began selecting specific items.
A feather.
Paintbrushes.
Assorted candles.
A vibrator.
More rope.
Cuffs for her thighs.
Butt plug.
A wide waist belt.
The clover clamps.
Hairbrush.
The roller with the points.
Tape.
A tube of lubricant.
His leather gloves.
Clothespins.
Condoms.
Crop.
He lay them out on the side of the dresser next to the headboard. Not that she
was going to look at anything except the pulley.
Very helpful, he supposed, for lifting an invalid in and out of bed. But he
doubted his planned application was included in the architect's original
blueprint.
Her clamped nipples would distend toward the ceiling in a manner some might
consider alarming. The other end of the rope would snake down to a metal ring
embedded in the gag where her mouth used to be.
If she moved her head to look at the bureau, or the clock, or whatever he
happened to be doing, well, once would probably suffice.
Probably should bind her breasts, too, "squeeze" being such a natural
complement to "stretch." Plenty of thin cord in the bag.
He walked over to the nightstand on the other side of the bed and removed
everything except the clock. When they started, he would reset it to 12:00 to
ensure accuracy.
He slipped the small pad of notepaper and cheap hotel pen into his back pocket,
smiling to himself as he imagined a page filled with tick marks.
Two simple questions, really.
How long could he keep her on the brink of orgasm?
How many orgasms could he draw out of her?
He sat on the side of the bed, forming a mental picture of her newly-shaven
pussy. The trick would be to start hard and fast, then back off to more
delicate stimulation.
Perhaps he should fuck her first. Bent over, ass plugged, wrists padlocked
behind her back.
Or maybe the floor, on hands and knees. Hard and fast. Like an animal.
His cock seconded and passed the motion. A unanimous decision.
Then, lash her to the bed in a defenseless spreadeagle.
Ropes taut.
Mittened hands, belted waist, cuffed thighs and ankles, all straining sideways.
String up her tits.
Knot what was left of the rope to the gag.
Then, start tormenting her clit.
Slowly.
Fingers, tongue, teeth.
Wait until she screamed.
Stop.
Check the clock.
Select a paintbrush.
Start again.
Watch her eyes carefully.
Stop.
Wait.
Light a candle.
Start.
Stop when her toes curled.
Note the time.
Switch to the crop.
Start.
Etc.
Ultimately, he would tape a clothespin to the vibrator, and clamp it securely
around her throbbing little knob. Let the counting begin.
The arrival of the bellhop, heralded by a soft knocking, almost surprised him.
He slid off the bed, picked up the suitcase and walked to the door.
"Good evening. I'd like you to put this luggage into your storage room. The
lady will not be requiring its contents for the rest of our stay."
"And when is your departure day, sir?"
"We haven't decided yet. No earlier than Sunday though. I'll let you know."
He handed the suitcase to the boy and slipped him a folded bill.
"Wow! Thank you! Have a nice week, sir."
"I'm sure I will."
He closed the door firmly and engaged its various deadbolts and chains, making
a mental note to call housekeeping and ask that they not bother with cleaning
until he called for service. Given the manager's well-compensated
understanding of his feelings toward leasing the rooms near theirs, no one
would have much reason to visit the end of this particular hall.
His hand
turning the knob
was greeted
by a muffled moan
from the other side
of the bathroom door.
***************************
Story archive: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Gallery/9911/door.html
Email: adrianhunter-at-geocities-dot-com
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