Prisoner in Paradise Ch. 02

When the door opens you hear a cheery, 'Hi honey, I'm home,'

As if he was walking onto the set of a cheesy 60's sit-com. He finds you limp in your bindings, soaked in sweat and stewed in your own juices. Gently he removes the blindfold with one hand (the other is holding some bags and a box) and stares down at you, grinning,

'Did you miss me darling?'

Still in 'Leave it to Beaver' mode he asks,

'What's for dinner?' Looking around as if searching for the kitchen stove,

'Haven't started yet? Never mind. You just forget about cooking for tonight sweetheart. I'm going to take you out for a swell dinner.'

With that he places what he has been carrying on the table and heads for the bathroom. You hear the bath taps running when he comes back and unties you.

'I want you to get all clean and then pretty yourself up. We're going out tonight.

With that he gently pulls off your panties and removes the spent vibrator from your abused ass hole. Suddenly serious he looks at you and gasps,

'God Almighty! You're bum is so wide open I think I could get my hand in there.'

Seeing you flinch away in fear brings him back to a modicum of normalcy.

'Don't worry pet, not on the agenda.' Seeing you slightly reassured he then has to add, 'Yet.'

Laughing at your expression he helps you to your feet, your legs wobbly, and leads to the bathroom. On the way your eyes catch the box and you feel compelled to ask,

'What's in the box?'

More laughter ensues and he merely says,

'Curiosity killed the cat sweetie. You'll have to wait till after dinner to find out. I like surprises and I think you will too.'

Once in the bathroom his playful mood continues. He climbs into the huge, sybaritic, luxurious, steaming bubble bath with you and washes your hair for you. The scalp massage he gives you makes every muscle go as limp as over-cooked pasta. You revel in the feeling of getting really clean after so long.

After a few minutes he climbs out and rinses off under the shower, bellowing as he turns the water to cold for a final burst. You watch him, unconcerned in his nakedness, admiring the firm muscles in his thighs and arms. Despite yourself you enjoy the sight, especially the contrast off his tanned back with the whiteness of his hard buttocks. Tearing your eyes away you sink beneath the water and wash between your legs just a little harder than necessary.

When you surface he is no longer in the bathroom and you hear his voice from outside,

'Hurry up and finish Karen. Don't want to be late for dinner, I've made a reservation.'

You do as you are told and walk out swathed in a towel. Hugh has obviously been back to his own hostel and gathered some of his clothing. You realise that these clothes are probably his 'best' but they are still scruffy, irretrievably wrinkled and do not appear to be completely clean.

You bite your tongue on the comments you feel like making. You instinctively know that, by his standards, he has probably made a big effort and would probably be crushed if you said what you think. Your eyes catch the clothing laid out on the bed.

He explains, his gaze intent, 'I thought I'd speed things up by picking out some things for you.'

As you see the selection your heart starts to beat a little faster.

'Put them on,' he says in a voice that brooks no argument.

Knowing that protest is futile you sit on the edge of the bed and roll the white lacy stocking up over your feet.

'Hold ups' you think, to your relief, as you put on the selected skirt. It is really more of a beach sarong, very sheer and split to the waist. Any garter belt would have shown through completely.

As you pick up the blouse you realise that showing off your garter would have been the least of your worries. Again he has chosen something white. Not just sheer this time, but transparent. No sign of the lovely silk camisole that you had purchased to go under it, to ensure decency. No point in asking for it either you realise. As pointless as asking about panties probably.

You slip on some strappy white sandals and pose in front of the mirror, one foot forward to examine yourself. Your first thought is that you may as well be naked. One leg protrudes from the split in the skirt, exposed to your stocking top and beyond. You may as well be topless for all the blouse conceals. You look like a different woman, nothing like the old Karen. The effect of this image is immediate and surprising.

Your nipples harden and your pussy starts to moisten.

Hugh stands behind you and his breath on your neck causes goose bumps and more wetness between your legs. Guiding you to the dressing table he pushes you into the chair and simply commands, 'Make-up'. He rests his hand on your shoulder and watches in the mirror, making suggestions. At his insistence you use the brightest colours and in greater quantities than you have ever dared before.

You can sense his intention. He obviously wants 'tart' make-up and you give it to him. Lots of dark mascara and eye-liner. You paint your lips with the reddest lipstick you can find. Examining the look you add more. Thinking off Courtney Love you smear it round the edges of your mouth. The sharp intake of breath from behind you and the tightening of his hand on your shoulder tells you that you have done well. In a moment of inspiration you open the blouse and colour your very swollen red nipples even brighter with the lipstick.

Hugh seemingly can wait no longer.

'Come Karen, time to go. I have made a booking in the hotel's best restaurant for us. It is very busy, totally booked out. I had to bribe the headwaiter AND the General Manager to get us a table. Nearest the dance floor of course. Only the best for you darling.'

As you turn from the mirror he takes up the lipstick.

'Just one finishing touch I think.' With that he applies the lipstick to your forehead, making a few strokes. Dropping it on the bed he steps back to examine you.

'Perfect!' is the verdict, 'Let us depart.'

But as you do he steers you so that you cannot look in the mirror near the door. Your head is jumbled with too many thoughts for anything to come out coherently. All you do know is that you do not feel very hungry.

He takes your arm and places it under his. You walk through the gardened paths to the main part of the hotel, for all the world like a perfectly 'normal' couple. Other guests are headed in the same direction and you are thankful that the dark hides your appearance. You feel your rouged nipples crinkle in the cool evening air. You are aware that every step you take in your slit skirt exposes your leg, right up to the groin. The feeling of cool breezes wafting over your knickerless pussy is strangely exciting. It makes you wonder why you had never gone out without panties before now.

All hope of escaping notice evaporates as you reach the entrance to the restaurant. The foyer is all marble, chrome and mirrors as well as being very brightly lit. The head waiter looks up from his lectern as you both approach. He does a quick double take before approaching and shaking Hugh's hand, greeting him like the very best of customers returning after a long absence. He does a near perfect job of pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary. Only the occasional hungry glances, from the corner of his eye, betray his interest. You catch sight of yourself in a mirror and immediately understand his attention.

Back-lit by small spotlights you see that such clothing as you have on has become virtually transparent. You may as well be standing there naked. You cannot understand why the dinner-suited flunky is not more curious about your clothes, or lack of them. Frustratingly you are not close enough to the mirror to see what is written on your forehead.

As you wait for the waiter to grab two menus, a fat, porcine European man comes into the vestibule with a tiny Thai girl on his arm. His eyes bug out as if on stalks when he catches sight of you, making his resemblance to a pig all the more apparent. He makes a noise that can only be described as a snort, a snort of lust. The girl, obviously a local prostitute, tugs on his arm in admonishment. His reaction is to raise his other hand as if to strike her. Hugh watches the tiny woman cringe back in fear. He looks the corpulent tourist up and down, disgust on his face, before taking your hand and leading you after the waiter. You can feel 'Mr Piggie's' eyes burning into your back like lasers as you walk away.

Quickly you are ushered into the huge restaurant. The place is like an indoor jungle. The ceiling is glass and many feet above. Vines tumble from hanging baskets. A huge airy cage contains a myriad of colourful tropical birds, squawking as they begin to roost. You notice 20 foot tall palm trees are growing inside the room. You also can't help notice the conversation drop to nothing as you walk in. The same reaction as at the pool is evident. The men unable to do anything except stare, the women offended, sneering, trying vainly to regain the attention of their partners.

One woman does look at you differently. You see this woman, about 30 years old, sitting alone. She is attractive, bespectacled, short dark hair. She is not looking at you with contempt but her actual feelings are harder to read. You lock eyes for a few seconds as Hugh continues to lead you towards your table.

You have never been the centre of attention before. You find the feeling intoxicating, regardless of the bizarre circumstances. Your table is in the middle of the room and beside the dance floor. The waiter pulls out a chair for you and you sit. As you do, your split skirt falls open and you just know that the waiter has a perfect view of your neatly trimmed bush. You make no move to regain your modesty, a reaction that surprises you even more than it does the waiter.

Looking up you notice that Hugh, waiting like a gentleman for you to be seated, has seen the whole event. His smile and nod of approval cause you to lower your face and blush with pleasure. You marvel at how quickly his approval has become important to you. Then you try to drive those thoughts from your mind. This is your best chance to escape. Someone must ask about your outrageous garb, your shocking make-up. Then you will have a chance to unmask Hugh as a blackmailer, holding you against your will, forcing you into depraved acts. Someone must ask, surely?

But no one does.

The house band, 4 Thai men in velour tuxedos and a Eurasian girl in a cocktail dress take the stage, having missed the excitement of your entrance. They launch into some schmaltzy 'lounge act' numbers as the waiter comes to take your order. Hugh orders for the both of you, again without asking your preferences. You can't hear what he is saying as the band is a little loud.

('I met him on a Sunday and my heart stood still, the doo lon lon lon, the doo lon lon.')

When your prawn, sea grass and ginger soup arrives, another man accompanies the waiter. His 'uniform' dinner suit does nothing to conceal his authority. He has an air about him that says 'important'.

'Someone has complained,' you think,' and this is obviously someone from the management. This is my chance to escape. Surely they will have checked the register and found out that only one person checked into your room.'

These thoughts produce such a confusing welter of emotions. ('What will I say if he asks me about Hugh?') You hardly dare to breathe as he walks up behind Hugh, claps his hand on his shoulder and says................................................ ....................................................................................................................................................................................................... 'Good evening Mr Hugh. Is the table to your satisfaction?' The breath goes out of you in a long sigh. Is everyone in this hotel in on Hugh's evil plan? As you watch Hugh stand and pump the newcomer's hand, you realise that any chance to reveal the truth has probably passed.

Hugh makes introductions.

'Darling this is Gunter, the General Manager. He helped 'organise' this table for us at such short notice.'

Turning his attention to you for the first time Gunter picks up your trembling hand.

'You must be Karen, ja?'

His eyes quickly glance at your forehead and, after pressing your fingers to his lips he asks,

'Is everything to YOUR satisfaction madam?'

His English is almost accentless, but you can hear the extra emphasis he is placing on his words. You realise that he is not asking about the soup. His question is reinforced by the quizzical look, a hint of concern in his eyes. You realise that this is the chance you think you have been looking for. A silence descends. The band, who had been murdering Frank Sinatra,

('Start spleding the news, I'm reaving today.')

fades out. Hugh's mouth opens and shuts, but you hear nothing. The only thing that exists in that instant is Gunter. You know that if you asked him, asked him right now, for help - then he would help you, help you escape.

An eternity passes in a second. You draw what seems to be your first breath in a decade before you whisper,

'Everything is fine Gunter, just.....perfect!'

He gently releases your hand and steps back, smiling, relieved and pleased.

'I am very gratified to hear that. I shall leave you to enjoy your meal in that case.'

Hugh rises and intercepts him, beginning an intense conversation just out of your hearing. Whilst they are distracted, you take up a knife and try to use it as a mirror to read what is written on your forehead. It is still impossible to make out. The men finish their conversation and Gunter half bows to you, a new, unfathomable expression in his eyes, before leaving.

Hugh resumes his seat, bubbling with barely suppressed excitement. The question in your eyes is ignored. Hugh will only venture,

'What a lovely man. Swiss you know? All the best hoteliers are.'

Looking at your plate he notices that you haven't touched your soup.

'Not hungry darling?'

Suddenly you realise that you are and pick up your spoon.

When the soup is finished Hugh looks up and asks, in a matter of fact voice,

'Karen? I want you to get under the table and suck my cock?'

Having given up your gilt edged 'Get Out of Jail Free' card only a minute ago you see no reason to quibble now. Ignoring the stares of the people at nearby tables you duck your head and disappear under the tablecloth. Hugh's cock is already unzipped and throbbing.

'No time for niceties,' you decide and attempt to swallow his shaft in one gulp. You only have time for a few strokes before you feel his hips thrust forward, banging your head on the underside of the table. His prick expands in your throat and then starts to gush like an open fire hydrant. Swiftly your mouth is full of hot, salty spunk. You swallow as much as you can as his penis deflates between your lips.

As gracefully as possible you crawl out and resume your seat; just as the waiter arrives with the main course. In horror you realise that a trickle of sperm is running down your chin. You hope the man arriving with the plates won't notice. Fat chance!

'I hope you will find sperm is an excellent sauce to go with the swordfish,'

Hugh says, loud enough for the waiter, and surrounding tables to hear. Then he leans across the table. With a finger tip he wipes up the dribble of jism and offers it to your mouth. As the waiter watches in amazement you suck his digit clean. This public humiliation, combined with the extra morsel of his seed, makes you shiver with delight.

You look around to gauge the response of those at the nearest tables. Once again you catch the gaze of the woman sitting alone. She has a dreamy look in her eyes. Still staring straight at you she dips her finger into the mayonnaise on her table and licks it clean. Stunned you turn back to your food.

Half way through the meal Hugh produces a small, badly wrapped parcel from his pocket. Almost abashed he passes it to you.

'Here, for you, a present. The first treat from the 'goodie box' I bought you today.'

You start to unwrap it, but he stops you.

'First, tell me if you're wet.'

At your look of temporary incomprehension he asks, in a louder voice, 'Is your cunt wet?'

Ignoring the swivelling heads at nearby tables you slip your hand between your thighs. One probing finger proves what you had suspected, a hidden spring of juices virtually bubbling between your labia. You nod in answer to his question.

'Good. Open the present' is his response.

The wrapping peels away to reveal what you blushingly recognise as 'Ben Wah' balls.

Hugh asks,

'Do you know what they are?'

Again you can only nod in answer.

'Good! Insert them.'

Only for a moment do you consider asking if you can go to the ladies. Knowing such a request would be denied you shift your bottom forward in the chair and spread your legs. Your gift is two large balls, joined by a short length of cord. You press the first ovoid against your moist slit and press it home. It squeezes inside your vagina quite easily, assisted by your wetness. The second one is a little more difficult but eventually you work it inside, giving a little grunt as it slips in.

As you straighten up and look around you realise that every pair of eyes within range is staring straight at you. Ignoring their gaze you take up your knife and fork to finish your meal. The feeling of fullness in your cunt is sensational and you can't help jittering about in your seat as your arousal grows.

After a few glasses of wine you feel the need to go to the bathroom. Permission is granted and you stand to make your way to the ladies. The band notice you for the first time and completely lose the plot. The electric organ produces a noise like a fart and the bass guitarists stops playing all together. The girl singer does her best to carry on

('Come fry with me, we'll fry away.')

After only a few steps the devilish effect of the balls becomes apparent. Rolling together inside your pussy they push you straight into lust overload. Almost immediately you find it as easy to walk a straight line as you would to roller-skate on an ice rink. By the time you reach the ladies your pussy juices are running down your thighs and soaking into your stocking-tops.

In the powder room you stop for a second to finally have a close look in the mirror. Even in reverse the word on your forehead is easy to read, as easy to read as it has been for every one who has looked at you tonight. In bright red lipstick is the word 'SLUT'.

For a second you debate wiping it off. Then you realise that your clothes and behaviour tonight have made this sign totally redundant. You have become a slut and now you don't care who knows. Completing your mission you return to the restaurant, the word still in place, emblazoned like a badge of pride.

Hugh is waiting for you outside the door. He looks at your forehead and again you are thrilled to see his smile of approval. Taking your arm he says, 'Let's dance.' The band has slipped into some 'slow' numbers.

('Cly me a liver, I clied a liver over you.')

But Hugh pays little attention to the rhythm or the beat. With his hard cock pressed against you he simply concentrates on moving your hips to set the love balls in motion. Within only a few moments you are coming, clutching him as you moan and whimper, biting his shoulder to muffle the screams that are building in your throat. Before this holiday your orgasms had been solitary, well spaced events. Since Hugh 'captured' you it seems that you have suddenly discovered the ability to orgasm continuously.

You feel, rather than see, someone pat Hugh on the shoulder, asking permission to 'cut in'. With an evil smile at you he steps aside and lets the interloper take over. Suddenly you are swept into the grasp of a stranger and a different cock is being pressed against your groin. Before you can protest a couple of waltz steps set the balls moving in your pussy and you are overwhelmed by another flood of climaxes. All you can do is pull the stranger to your chest, grinding your spasming cunt against the hard bulge in his trousers to boost the effects of your climaxes.