The Aftermath

You hear a door quietly close, the latch clicking, the handle rattling back into place, shaking you from a glorious slumber. As your eyes adjust to the morning, you begin to take stock of your surroundings. The early morning sun cascades light across the room through the large sliding doors that lead to a balcony overlooking golden sands and clear ocean water. The furniture is modern, sleek, minimalist. Around you lay discarded bedding, pillows strewn everywhere, the covers hunched at the base of the giant bed. And uncomfortable feeling sits between your legs, the crisp white linen soaked with the nights endeavours, your thighs sticky from dried sweat and your own pleasure. You try to smile and roll away from the mess, to get comfortable, trying to remember what must have been a beautiful, passionate night. The tight feeling at your wrists suddenly snaps back the true memories of that night.

A night out with work. A reward for you and your colleagues for smashing that deadline. A few drinks at a local bar, before heading to a club. The long queue bypassed as you and your colleagues are waved by, Tara from accounts caressing the muscle-bound club bouncer as he waves her by. The thumping bass from the music taking over as you're handed a drink. Throwing it back, you grab Pascal, the French IT guy who you'd flirted with since he arrived 6 months ago. He stares at you, admiring your diminutive figure, your curves hugged by a classic black dress, barely covering your pert round backside, barely contain your chest. He pulls you close, running his hand down your back, gently squeezing your ass, before pulling you away from the group, onto the heaving dance floor, watching as the music takes hold of you, not a care in the world. The bass seems to get more intense, each thud shaking your brain around inside your skull. Dizziness takes hold, you struggle to stay upright. As you fall, you are grabbed. You look hazily through the ever changing colours of bright flashing lights to see your saviour, then darkness...

You look down at your wrists, bound tightly with pure white rope, your elbows bound the same. Your legs are wide apart, each ankle with a rope wound uncomfortably around them, forcing them in opposite directions. A small gust of wind through the partially open patio doors sends a cold chill over your naked body. As you try to pull an ankle free, the rope tightens, cutting into your milky white flesh. The binds on your arms are even more uncomfortable, pinning your elbows tightly together. You try to scream. Muffled noises, nothing more. Your mouth feels open, yet blocked, a rubbery taste on your tongue. There's something there, forcing your lips apart. You start to notice warm drool running down your chin, dropping onto your chest. You try to scream again. And again. Writhing against the ropes binding you to the bed. 30 minutes pass. You accept that no amount of thrashing, writhing or muffled screams of desperation are going to free you. Your body is dripping with sweat, your exertions combined with the rising sun warming the room through the large glass doors. You collapse back down into the sweat soaked sheets, panting for breath.

Across the room, the large television mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed flickers into life. A royal blue screen, flickering with distortion like a vintage video cassette player. A small white triangle appears in the bottom corner, the word 'Play' next to it. Tracking lines flicker across the screen as it turns back, before an image appears. A girl, bound to a bed, a large white ball gag between her lips, the sunlight casting shadows on the left side of her body. It's you. The out of focus images moves as you do, her hips bucking as you do, her back arching as you do. You let out another muffled scream, fighting your binds again, desperation levels increasing rapidly...

The pink and sky blue neon lights highlight the edges of the furniture. A bed. A dressing table. A wardrobe. A large television. Your vision is blurry. A thick French accent speaks softly over the sound of soft electronic music and the echoes of the traffic outside.

"Ready?" it asks, seductive and rasping. Lips plant themselves onto yours, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue as it teases yours. You weakly try to push away, your arms lacking strength.

"No, plea-" a weakly whispered plea for him to stop falls from your mouth between kisses. Hands caress your curves like a thousand tentacles, touching every inch of you. He grabs your arms, pinning them above your head,. His gentle touch dramatically changes as he rips your black dress from your frame in one rapid motion. The chill of a spring night breeze cause your nipples to harden, your skin to break out in goosebumps.

"No, Pascal... please... I don't wa-" your voice trails off as the neon lights fade to blackness, the music silenced as you pass from consciousness into slumber again...

The sun now pours through the glass, the room fully illuminated with its basking springtime glory. The television flickers with images of you, occasionally pulling at your bindings. The sounds of the morning commute outside is interrupted by the rattle of a the door again. Your eyes immediately dart in the direction of the sound, widening as the door opens. Two men alerter, strangers. One tall, built like a Greek god, his dark brown skin glistening in the morning light, his tight white t-shirt barely holding his muscle back. The other man is shorter, stockier, his body less impressive, but his face, while unrecognizable, is like a combination of every handsome gentleman you'd ever encountered. You scream again, hoping they are here to save you. The taller man walks over, running a hand up your leg, over your hips, tracking a finger up the middle of your stomach, gently cupping your left breast in his soft, large hand. He says nothing, pulling the white rubber ball from your lips, the saliva covered rubber dropping down onto your chest.

"Please, help me..." You groan softly, as he climbs onto the bed, sitting astride you. He pulls his tshirt off, tossing it aside. He leans over you, silencing your pleas with his kiss. The other man walks to the window, covering them with a large set of horizontal blinds, reducing the sunlight to a few tiny peeks between the slats. You hear music start to play, the same electronic beat you hazily recall from the night before. The same 1980s lighting highlights the minimalist furnishings. The memories of what happened still hazy. The mind is going crazy, trying to take stock of what is going on. Where are you? Who are these people? Where is Pascal? How do I get out of here? Those thoughts vanish instantly as you feel something press between your legs, before it's length forces its way inside you, causing you to cry out loudly. A hand clamps over your mouth as the man atop you begins to drive into you. You feel as if you're being torn apart, the discomfort almost unbearable. The hand leaves your lips, allowing you one long scream of pain, anguish and desperation.

"Maybe someone will hear me, save me" you think to yourself. The hand clamps back over your mouth, this time holding something. It smells strange. But not unpleasant. The sensation in the room begin to fade, just like they had done the night before. Lights vanish, music silences, even the savagery atop you seems to disappear as you drift off into another enforced slumber...