Red
The high-low assortment on the wooden desk includes monogrammed hotel paper, lubricant, and the menus of surrounding take-out spots. My consciousness hovers above my body as I square off each pleasure item, as though to say, “Fuck me rough, but keep the communal space free.”
I’ve never done this before—but currently I am so present in my own pleasure journey that I’ve conceived an elaborate plan to be surprised and brutalized to the height of my consent. I want this. I want to be taken and stripped and humiliated and used—but housed within the safe boundaries of my fantasy. The overwhelming suspense rests in the back of my brain as I brush my teeth, wash my face, and mentally prep for my in-action plan.
Even though I know the time range he will arrive, the anticipation sends electric sparks through my whole body and erupts the moment I hear the hotel door crack open. I stand frozen until a light knock on the door springs me into performance mode. Think: Less badly acted porn scenario—“Oh No! Who Could It Be?!”—and more real, genuine concern for the next few steps I take toward a new headspace where this is real and I need to, simply, get the door.
Then, he is on top of me, forcing my body into the manicured hotel bed using his brawn-sizing and verbal cuts to pin me against the pillows. My legs kick away as I adhere to the side of the bed, trying to get out of reach of his hostile grasp.
Everything goes dark even though the room is brightly lit by cream-colored hotel lamps. A black hood is roughly thrown over my face and constrained around my neck; my panic is visceral as my breath grasps at the only air available and prods the mask up against my mouth. The small traces of oxygen decelerate my fight as I succumb to him ripping my panties away from my legs and grabbing at every single part of my body he desires.
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