Patience

You swipe the key card in the hotel room door and gratefully enter the room. You look around, surprised at the size and space. In retrospect, you muse to yourself, you shouldn't have been surprised given how much you'd had to pay when you went to collect your key. He'd obviously told the staff that you would be settling the bill when he'd been at the hotel earlier.

The looks you'd received from the hotel reception staff when you checked in were knowing. They'd obviously clocked you as a hooker, and not an especially high-class one at that. Your face had burned with bright shame as you'd paid for the room and then received the key along with both an envelope and a small parcel.

It was bad enough that he'd made you buy the cheap stripper heels — no, strike that, they were too slutty for strippers — and the contrasting sheer tights, but then your instructions had been that they were all you were allowed to wear beneath your coat.

Travelling through the city on public transport had been an exercise in ensuring that your short coat stayed down and that your legs stayed together. This was not helped by how slick the nylon between your legs had become as people instantly assessed you with their eyes and classified you as: Whore. One. Cheap.

Every judging glance, moue of disgust, mutter of “for shame” sent a bolt of energy right to your clit.

As if that needed any help right now. His instructions had been firm: no orgasms for the last month.

That hadn't meant no arousal, though. Oh no, that would have been too easy.

Between being banned from wearing panties and having Ben Wa balls in your — his — cunt for hours at a time, you'd been horny constantly. Then there was the mandatory hour of edging every night before sleep, where you had to kneel at the side of the bed and hump his cunt against a pillow, generating only enough friction to get you hot and wet but nowhere near enough to get you close to cumming.

So far you'd ruined two pillowcases with your juices.

Bringing your mind back to the present, you put the package down on the bed and take the envelope in both hands. Opening the flap, you find a handwritten note on thick, expensive paper. Typically, it’s brief to the point of being terse.

Take your coat off. Apply the items in the package to your body. Before you close the last cuff, start the remote-control app on the phone. Wait near the bed facing the door, on your knees.

You breathe heavily. It’s clear you're not going to get many details of his plans for you this evening.

You hang your coat up whilst you summon the willpower to open the package. Once you open the wrapping you find yourself with a small selection of items. Ideas of what might be in store begin to flit through your mind as you survey them: an open-mouth full-face latex hood with a zip closure, a Lush vibrator with phone, a large ring gag and a pair of handcuffs.

The bastard colour-coordinated the hood with my tights. Of course he did.

Knowing him, you take a moment to place a cushion on the floor for your knees. You could well be there some time.

You stare transfixed at the items, indecision playing through your mind. You wanted this. You've paid for this.

You pick up the Lush as if it's radioactive, contemplating the future you.

Sighing internally, you reach into your tights and push the Lush inside yourself. Picking up the phone, you can see that the app is connected to the device but not online yet, so you go online.

Almost instantly a message pops up from him:

Turn on remote control now, slut. You have 5 mins to be finished readying yourself.

You hurriedly turn on the remote control.

You put the phone down on the bed and address the other items. You struggle to pull the hood over your hair and head, snugging it tight before zipping the closure.

It’s skin-tight, as if you have a second latex skin. The world disappears from your eyes, nose and, to a lesser extent, your ears. Everything sounds slightly muffled through the hood.

Reaching blindly, you find the ring gag. You have to stretch your jaw hugely to fit it behind your teeth and, when you do, your mouth is held wide open with no possible way to close it.

You quickly begin to drool. You'll be a mess of drool down yourself to match the leakage at the other end soon.

You collect the cuffs from the bed by feel. As you do, there's a buzz from the Lush, causing you to jump.

That's a warning that time is getting close.

You carefully kneel in the stripper heels and put your hands behind you, closing the cuffs one at a time around your wrists.

As you click the second cuff closed and settle into your kneeling position, the Lush starts to buzz in earnest. It builds rapidly until it's soon at a level that won't quite bring you off. Not without more stimulation, at least.

The buzz modulates, wavering up and down but somehow getting you no closer to that precipice.

You soon lose track of time, the maddening buzz in your crotch the only thing you can think about. Even the pain in your knees isn't enough to distract you from the buzzing intruder.

Soon your cunt juices are soaking through the nylon at your crotch and they're being joined by the river of drool from your mouth that drips down onto your chest and then again into your crotch.

You hear people talking and walking in the corridor, the normal traffic of the hotel in the early evening as you kneel there, an object being toyed with remotely.

He's playing the Lush like a maestro, never quite letting you cum but never letting you forget it's there.

Soon you're humping the air with your crotch, looking for more stimulation, unable to reach with your hands cuffed behind you.

You daren't move from the position he wants you in. You know it would not be worth moving for the price you would pay.

You don't know how long you've been there. It could be minutes, it could be hours, hell, it could be days at this point. You lost track of time long ago.

You hear a noise outside the door.

Footsteps.

Is that...

Heels?

The key beeps in the door and it's definitely heels, the clip-clop unmistakable.

Then there's a pair of masculine steps, heavier, firmer.

There's a sharp feminine intake of breath. You realise that the woman — it has to be a woman, right? — has seen you.

Hooded, gagged, cuffed and fucking the air with your denied cunt.

There's a murmur and you hear the heels walk past you, not stopping, to the corner of the room where you vaguely remember there being an armchair.

You hear it squeal as it's dragged closer, probably for a better view. There's a rustle and the sound of nylon scraping as she is apparently told to sit down.

You vaguely hear the breathing from behind you getting heavier, accompanied by a wet sound.

You realise immediately what's happening to you.

He's brought along another slut and he's going to use you as both a fluffer and for cleaning up after.

You're not going to get any release tonight, and not even the satisfaction of a fuck either.

You've been the girl in the chair, bringing herself off at the degraded example of what might happen to her that's been presented to her.

You know that she's going to be getting fucked to within an inch of her life and that you're going to be the before and after, but nothing else.

Then you feel a firm hand on your head, stroking it.

Then you feel the questing cock push through your gag, the exposed glans brushing against your tongue as it makes its way in.

As your Master starts to thrust into your throat, you have a realisation.

Wait, he's not circumcised...