Siren7

Chapter 7

Room 236

copyright 1997 by Pat Powers

Going to Room 236 of the Executive Standard Hotel was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. It was a LOT harder than going to my first meeting with Abernathy, because I knew exactly what I was in for, this time. I knew the little geek would be waiting there with his ropes and his gags and his cuffs and his collars -- waiting for me, his chosen victim.

And the really insane part of it was, I was going. And the really, REALLY insane part was that something in me was looking forward to it. A lot.

I thought then that maybe I had gone a little too long without dating.

But then, I knew that if Abernathy didn't have those tapes to dangle over me, I wouldn't be walking down this hotel's carpeted hall, wouldn't be sliding the Ving card into the door, wouldn't be stepping into the room to face Abernathy.

"Nice to see you again," Abernathy said. He was sitting on the bed, dressed in the same bathrobe, watching a video. I looked at the screen. It was me, going down on Abernathy in slow stop motion. Abernathy was sitting there watching an image slide of his dick sliding down my throat, and looking up at me and smiling.

"Good video," Abernathy said.

"It's blackmail," I said, staring at the image. It was disgusting, but I couldn't help it. It was that vanity thing. I wanted to see how I looked, even swallowing a man's dick with a leather collar around my throat. I looked slutty. Real slutty. And kind of grainy. And kinky. And very feminine.

"It's beautiful," Abernathy countered. "There is no blackmail. I offer you choices, you make them. And you've made the right choice again, I'm happy to see. Now, off with your clothes. They look so hot and uncomfortable."

I was in fact dressed a little warm for the weather -- black capri pants and a big floppy gray sweatshirt, pumps and a black ribbon in my hair It was a style of dress that was very much in fashion among college women. I was still young enough to wear it, and it had the advantage that the floppy shirt minimized the apparent size of my breasts.

I guess I figured that at some level I figured that if I didn't look that good in terms of how I dressed, Abernathy might leave me alone. You'd think I would have figured out that men are a lot more interested in what lies beneath the clothes than in the clothes themselves, by then. But some part of my mind hadn't made that connection.

As before, every light in the room was turned on. In the bath of that pitiless white light, I peeled off my sweatshirt and dropped it on the floor ... under Abernathy's directions.

That should have made me suspicious ... suspicious that Abernathy's directions were intended for video cameras, and not just his own immediate pleasure in watching me undress. That and all the light. But the portion of my mind I called the Thrummer was too strong by then, and I became all silent and still inside, which was reflected in a certain silence and stillness on the outside.

Besides, what was there to say to the bastard? He knew what he was doing, and he didn't care.

"Approach me. Turn around. Cross your hands behind your back," Abernathy said when I was naked. I did as ordered. Felt the leather cuffs encircling my wrists. Heard the soft clink as Abernathy linked them together. Felt Abernathy's hands running down my ass and the back of my legs.

"Turn around," Abernathy said.

I turned around.

' "On your knees," he said.

"Open your mouth," he said. "Now, suck my cock."

I had sworn this would never happen again, but here I was, naked, bound, and sucking Abernathy's cock in a strange hotel room. Again. The TV set still showed the videotaped version of last week's session. But I wasn't watching. And I knew I wouldn't until he ordered me to. Then I knew I would. I just didn't know why.

"Don't worry, I'm not planning to hit you with it," Abernathy said as I apprehensively eyed the six-foot long, inch-wide dowel he was carrying in his hands. "Hands behind your back, as if for binding," Abernathy said.

I obediently held my hands stretched out behind my back, wrists together. It wasn't easy, because my legs were held apart by leather cuffs attached to a spreader bar.

Instead of tying my wrists together, Abernathy slid the dowel between my arms and my back.

"Bring your hands together in front of you now, as if for binding in front," Abernathy instructed me.

When I did so, of course, that brought my arms up against the dowel, so that the dowel was held against my back, nestled in the crooks of both elbows. Abernathy seized my hands and locked as set of leather cuffs around my wrists with a short chain. With my feet in the spreader bars and my hands bound tight to my side, a gag in my mouth, I was helpless -- which was of course what he was after.

Abernathy put his hands on my shoulders.

"Kneel, slave girl," he said sternly, and forced me down. I sank to my knees, but with my feet spread far apart I had absolutely no way to balance, and would have toppled over if Abernathy hadn't held me up.

"Guess you can't kneel, after all. Well, you can still perform obescience, however. It'll just have to be from a prone position."

With those words, he let me fall to the floor.

I had a great view of his feet. He stood before me for a moment, looking down at me, no doubt deeply satisfied by the way my legs were spread wide by the spreader bar, and the way my arms were reduced to decorations by their bonds.

I knew he felt that because at some deep level, I felt it too.

"Crawl, slave, crawl," Abernathy said, and I knew he knew I couldn't manage much movement bound as I was, and I knew that was the way he wanted it.

I knew just the way he wanted it. I wanted it that way, too. Just not with him. Not like this.

I crawled, or more accurately, wriggled across the rug to Abernathy. By rolling my whole body from side to side, and pulling myself forward with what purchase I could obtain from my fingers, knees and my shoulders, I was able to slowly make my way over to Abernathy. My breasts dragged painfully across the rug, my breath, limited to what I could draw in through my nostrils by the gag in my mouth, came in rasps, and my hands were damn little use at all. Didn't matter. I had to crawl.

When I stopped at Abernathy's feet, just a yard away, I was about to pass out from lack of breath. My nipples were really worked over.

"Took your time, slave," Abernathy observed. "Still, it was fun to watch. Now kiss my feet," Abernathy ordered. "Oh, I know you're gagged -- just do your best through the gag. Minister to my feet as if you were not gagged."

I was tied naked and spreadeagled on the bed, my head tilted back, a huge cock gag half out of my mouth. My pussy also had a dildo projecting from it.

I hated that cock gag. It was huge -- about ten inches long and thicker than any man's penis ever was. About eight inches of it stuck out of my mouth, which meant it was two inches deep in my mouth. Elastic bands were hooked into the back of the gag at one end, and the head harness I wore at the other end. The elastic was stretched taut enough that the gag would, left to itself, penetrate deeply enough into my mouth to choke me. So I had to clench my teeth to keep it out.

Towards the end of our "relationship," Abernathy sat on the bed beside me and grab the projecting end of the gag and push into my mouth until I did gag and hold it there, and watch me writhe and struggle and choke and cry, letting up only when I was on the verge of passing out. Then, once I showed signs of recovering, he'd do it again. And again. And again.

I hated that cock gag.

Once he'd weakened me that way, he would tighten the elastic so that keeping the gag from choking me took all my strength. Then he's sit and watch me while the cock gag slowly forced its way into my weakening jaws, until he had to rescue me to keep me from choking to death.

I made the safe sign the first time he did it, and Abernathy duly removed the gag. When I was recovered enough to talk, he asked, "What's the problem?"

"Can't breathe," I gasped.

"Of course, you can't breathe, he said. "I'm choking you. It's part of the game. Taking you to the edge and back is one of the things you like."

"NO!" I said.

"Yes," Abernathy said. "Now, don't make the safe sign again unless you're prepared to end our relationship."

I almost did it right then and there. Walked out on him, and let him show the world his damned photos and videos. But I didn't. I had too much invested. Instead, I opened my mouth and let him slide the damned thing in again. And hated him with every fiber of my being, as the world diminished to a struggle to stop gagging.

After that, I cried when I saw him with it in his hands, but I never would make the safe sign, or leave.

I honestly do not understand why I did not make that safe sign. He could have killed me. Maybe the same stubbornness that made me look for print journalism jobs for four years.

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