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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage
Subject: Title story: "Room Service" Author: Anonymous 112415742
From: TheXfan <ryzij@poczta.fm>
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Date: Fri, 20 Jul 2007 06:04:51 +0000
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Room Service
Part one
Scene: a hotel room, the likes of which would be instantly recognizable to any
business traveller. The shades are drawn, but the last rays of the city's late
afternoon sun filter in through the gaps. The room shows no signs of having been
used it is pristine or as much so as a harried hotel chambermaid can make it in
a long day's work.
Dominating the room is a queen-size bed with an elaborately-filigreed headboard.
On the bed, a woman. A faint fragrance of exotic wood-spice-musk wafts almost
imperceptibly from her. Oddly, she is motionless. Her parted legs are drawn up
slightly in front of her her silk blouse is completely unbuttoned down the
front. The navy wool skirt chosen after much morning deliberation is now hiked
up, exposing her belly, sex and thighs. Her hands are behind her back,
supporting her upper body. Her head is thrown back, lips moist and parted, as if
in ecstasy, and she is tightly blindfolded with a man's silk tie.
And still she is motionless.
The room's air conditioning unit comes to life of its own accord,
unnecessarily, and the chill makes her nipples harden underneath the loose
silk. The crisp sensation reminds her, as if she needed reminding, how she came
to be in this place.
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A workday too much like any other. Jeanne dropped off the afternoon mail, an
assortment of advertisements, technical journals, and seminar announcements with
a rueful "Boy, you really made out today!" wen pretended to groan and stagger
under the load, then grinned at Jeanne's retreating figure. A shame that nearly
all this stuff would end up in the recycle bin more trees cruelly murdered in
the name of silicon. A creamy white envelope wriggled loose and fell to the
floor. "Nice stationery," she thought distractedly. "Maybe I can salvage part of
it." She slit open the envelope and extracted a single matching sheet, perfectly
typeset in 8 pt. Times-Roman. She read:
It is time.
Tonight, purchase the following:
-A man's navy velour bathrobe. -A man's silk tie in dark blue or crimson paisley
print. -One half-ounce of Yves St. Laurent's Opium
the perfume, *not* the toilet water. -A tube of Colgate toothpaste, winterfresh
gel flavor. -A garter belt and stockings.
Tomorrow, call in sick.
Take a long bath, washing your hair and cleansing yourself
completely. Observe scrupulous oral hygiene. Dab tiny amounts
of the Opium under each breast, on your vulva and on each wrist.
Take an underwire lace bra and cut the fabric cups completely
out of it. Dress in it and the stockings, no panties.
Outer garments should be conservative: a silk button-front
blouse and skirt. Place the previous evening's purchases in an overnight bag.
Leave at noon and drive into the city. Enter the seediest
adult bookstore you can find and, in a loud voice, ask
to see the largest dildo they have in stock. Make sure
everyone in the store hears your request. Buy it, and
a medium-size butt plug.
Drive to the Hotel Meridien, where there is a reservation
in your name. Tell the desk clerk you will be staying only
one night, but that you expect your husband to arrive in
about an hour and that he is to be given a room keycard
when he arrives.
Once inside the room, hang the robe in the bathroom. Then display yourself as
follows: Kneel on the bed
facing the door, knees wide apart. Pull up your skirt
so that your nether lips are clearly visible to anyone
who enters the room. Unbutton the blouse completely and,
using the tie from the bathrobe, knot a figure eight about
twelve inches long. Blindfold yourself securely with the
silk tie, then place your hands behind you and slip them
into the figure eight.
Await your master's pleasure.
Gwen started guiltily how long had she been reading this astounding document?
She looked again no signature, but there was none needed. Hastily she folded the
paper and slipped it into her purse, then locked her office door.
But would she obey these commands? He was two thousand miles away (or was he?)
he'd never know (or would he?) if she tossed the note in the trash. She could
stop answering her mail. She could pretend that the last year of submission-by-
mail had never taken place she was skilled at fooling lovers into thinking she
was "normal". But she'd enjoyed the mind games he touched a part of her no one
else ever had.
"Why the hell not?" she murmured.
That evening, she made her purchases as directed and spent a restless night
filled with half-imagined, half-remembered images.
The next morning, freshly bathed, shampooed and scented, she made the drive into
the city. It didn't take long to find a scummy-looking adult bookstore. The
interior, with its overblown images of phalluses, inflatable sex dolls and other
essential "marital aids", frightened her speechless ...
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