No Good Deed

Something soft and heavy was draped over his bound hands. A jacket. "Hold this," she commanded. He instinctively gripped the jacket, the fabric muffling the clink of the metal. "Which room?"

"Room 114," he said, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears. "It's just over there. Ground floor."

"Lead the way," she said, her tone making it clear she was following, not walking with him.

He began to walk, the awkwardness of his bound hands forcing him into a stiff, shuffling gait. He was acutely aware of her presence behind him, the sound of her footsteps matching his own. He felt exposed, ridiculous, and more alive than he had ever felt. They reached the door to Room 114. He stood there, helpless, waiting.

She moved past him, the scent of her perfume – something expensive and floral – cutting through the night air. She reached into the jacket he was holding, her fingers brushing against his, and fished out the key card. The lock clicked open, and she pushed the door wide. "Inside," she said.

He stumbled into the room. It was a standard hotel room, clean and anonymous, with a large bed, a desk, and an armchair. The air was cool and sterile. She followed him in, closing the door with a decisive thud that sealed his fate.

"Wallet," she said, holding out her hand.

He fumbled with his jacket, trying to get to his back pocket with his cuffed hands. It was an impossible task. She sighed, an impatient sound, and reached around him, deftly extracting his leather wallet. She opened it, took out his driver's license, and held it up. She pulled out her phone and, with a series of rapid clicks, photographed the card. Then she aimed the phone at his face. He looked directly into the lens, his expression blank. Click. She typed for a moment, her thumbs flying across the screen.

"Sending them to my cloud," she said, without looking up. "And to a friend. Just in case." She put his wallet on the desk and slipped the phone back into her pocket. "Kneel."

The word was a physical blow. He sank to his knees on the beige carpet, his bound hands pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back. He looked up at her. She made no pretense that he was anything other than a useful tool, a means to an end. She was already moving, unzipping a holdall he hadn't even noticed her carrying. From it, she produced a strip of black leather.

"This is a blindfold," she said, her voice flat. "You will wear it. You will not speak unless you are spoken to. You will not move unless you are told. Is that clear?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Nichola.”

The slap was hard and fast

“Yes, what? She repeated

“Yes, Mistress “

“That’s better.” She stepped behind him, and the world went black as the leather was secured tightly over his eyes. He was plunged into darkness, his other senses sharpening instantly. He could hear her moving around the room, the rustle of clothes, the zip of her holdall being closed. He heard the click of the bathroom door, then the sound of the shower starting.

For the next fifteen minutes, he knelt in the darkness, listening to the sound of running water. He imagined her under the spray, washing away the grime and frustration of the past two days. He felt like a guardian, a statue, waiting for his mistress to return. The water stopped. He heard the shower door slide open, then the sound of a towel being used. More rustling of fabric. He waited.

"Stand up," her voice came from right in front of him.

He struggled to his feet, his knees stiff. He felt her hands at his waist, deftly undoing his belt and the button of his jeans. She tugged them down, and he obediently stepped out of them. Then his underwear. He felt a rush of cool air on his skin and, despite the fear and humiliation, he felt himself begin to harden. He heard a soft, breathy sound from her – a smirk, he realized. She was amused by his involuntary reaction.

"Pathetic," she whispered, and the word was both an insult and a caress.

His shirt was next. He felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade against the fabric just below his collar. A penknife. She cut downwards with a steady hand, the sound of the tearing t-shirt loud in the quiet room. She cut it from the hem to the armpit on both sides, then pulled the ruined garment from his body. He was now naked, blind, and cuffed, his arousal standing out like a flag of surrender.

She grabbed his arm. "Bathroom. Kneel."

He allowed himself to be guided, his bare feet shuffling on the carpet and then the cold tile of the bathroom floor. She positioned him, pushing him down until his knees were pressed against the hard ground. She placed him behind the door.

Something soft was pressed against his lips. His underpants. "Open," she commanded. He complied, and she shoved the fabric into his mouth, filling it completely. He could taste himself, the cotton absorbing his saliva. Then he felt another strip of fabric being wrapped around his head – a piece of his own t-shirt – and tied tightly at the nape of his neck. It was a brutal, effective gag. He could make no sound but a muffled grunt.

She wasn't finished. He felt her working at his ankles, using the remaining strips of his t-shirt to bind his legs together, just above his knees. He was completely immobilized, a naked, kneeling package of flesh and frustration. He heard her move away, and then the bathroom door clicked shut, plunging him into an even deeper, more suffocating darkness.

He knelt there, time losing all meaning. His knees ached. His jaw throbbed from the gag. The cuffs bit into his wrists. He was a prisoner in a tiled box, listening to the muffled sounds from the hotel room beyond. He heard the soft murmur of a television. He was an object, forgotten.

Then, a new sound. A knock on the main door of the room. His heart leaped into his throat. He held his breath, straining to hear. He heard Nichola's voice, muffled by the door. Then a man's voice, deep and confident. A moment of silence, then some giggling – Nichola's. The man spoke again, his words indistinct.

"Where is he?" the man asked, his voice clearer this time.

"In the bathroom," Nichola replied, her tone casual.

The bathroom door swung open, flooding the small space with light. Even through the blindfold, James could feel the breeze from the room's A/C. He squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of intense humiliation washing over him. He felt he was on display.

"And you think he's worth the risk?" the man asked. He was standing right there, looking at him. James could feel his gaze like a physical weight.

"I've checked him out thoroughly," Nichola said, her voice cool and businesslike. "He's loaded. Not married. His closest family lives in Texas. He's perfect."

The words struck James like a series of physical blows. Loaded. Not married. Perfect. What the fuck was going on? He had been assessed, analyzed, and found to be a viable asset. The realization was terrifying; he was a target.

"Alright then," the man, Tom, said, a note of finality in his voice. "But first, I want to fuck you."

"Oh my god," Nichola breathed, and the desire in her voice was raw, unfeigned. "I'm so fucking horny right now."

James listened, trapped in his sensory deprivation chamber, as the sounds of their passion filled the room. He heard the rustle of clothes, the soft slap of skin on skin, Nichola's moans and cries of pleasure. She was vocal, descriptive, telling Tom exactly what she wanted, how good he felt, how big he was. He heard her begging, her words a mixture of profanity and praise that made James's own arousal ache in frustration. He heard the wet, rhythmic sounds of her taking him into her mouth, her muffled groans of pleasure. It was an auditory assault, a symphony of degradation that he was forced to endure, a silent, kneeling witness to a passion that had nothing to do with him.

The sounds reached a crescendo, a final, shuddering cry from Nichola, followed by a deep groan from Tom. Then silence, broken only by their heavy breathing. James knelt, his body rigid, the taste of his own underwear in his mouth, a prisoner in the dark.

He heard them move onto the bed. He heard the click of a phone, and Nichola's voice ordering room service. "The most expensive champagne you have," she said. "And some strawberries."

They lay there, talking and laughing, their conversation a casual backdrop to his suffering. They ignored him completely, as if he were just another piece of hotel furniture. He heard the knock on the door, the distant voice of the room service waiter, the clink of the ice bucket. He heard the pop of a cork, the pouring of liquid into glasses. They toasted each other. They drank. They ate strawberries. They talked about people he didn't know, places he'd never been. He was a ghost in their world.

After a while, the sounds started again. A slower, more languid bout of lovemaking this time. Nichola's moans were softer, more intimate. When they were finished, they both got up and used the toilet, their streams of urine hitting the water just feet from where he knelt. They still didn't acknowledge him. They washed their hands, climbed back into bed, and fell silent. Sleep.

James was left alone with his thoughts, his aches, and the profound, crushing weight of his own insignificance. He drifted in and out of a light, painful sleep, his body a knot of discomfort. The gag made his jaw ache, the blindfold made his skin sweat, the cuffs made his wrists burn. He was paying a high price for his fantasy.

He was jolted awake by the shrill sound of an alarm. It was a phone. He heard Tom groan, then the slap of the alarm being silenced.

"Time to go," Tom said, his voice thick with sleep.

James heard movement on the bed, the rustle of sheets. "Give me his car keys," Tom said to Nichola.

He heard her rummaging in the pocket of his discarded jeans. The jangle of keys. Tom's footsteps receded, and the main door opened and closed. He was alone with Nichola.

A couple of minutes passed in silence. Then Tom's voice, sounding distant, shouted from outside. "Hurry up! The coast is clear!"

Nichola moved quickly. He felt her presence in the bathroom again. "Up," she commanded.

Two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He staggered, his legs still bound. He felt the cold blade of the knife against the t-shirt fabric on his legs, and then it was cut, the pressure releasing. He was pulled from the bathroom, his bare feet slapping on the carpet, and marched towards the door. He was helpless, a mannequin being maneuvered by an unseen force.

The cool night air hit his skin as they stepped outside. He was guided across the car park, his bare feet grimacing at the rough, cold tarmac. He heard the click of his own car's remote unlock. The boot was opened. He was bent forward, his cuffed hands making the movement awkward, and then he was lifted and unceremoniously thrown into the cramped, dark space of the boot.

He landed in a heap, the smell of tire rubber and car cleaner filling his nostrils. The boot lid slammed shut, plunging him into absolute blackness. He heard muffled voices outside. Tom's, then Nichola's. He couldn't make out the words. Then he felt the vibration of the driver's door opening and closing. Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced through the layers of his submission. He was trapped. He was being taken. He was no longer a tool; he was cargo.

He felt the engine kick to life, the vibration resonating through the car's metal and through his bones. The car began to move, gliding silently out of the car park and onto the road. He was in the boot of his own car, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, heading into the darkness, driven by a man he'd never met and a woman who had just used him, degraded him, and handed him over. And as the car picked up speed, merging onto the motorway, a single, terrifying thought echoed in the void of his mind: what happens now?