by Ben Prescott
He stands naked in front of the 20th
floor window staring out over the city below. It is the night, and the myriad skyscrapers sparkle in the bluish moonlight
like shards of crystal. He finds the darkness, both in the hotel room and outside the window, intensely calming. It had been
a hell of a day, spent mostly with teeth voraciously clenched and blood vessels pounding. The endless boardroom cockfights
weren’t tiring so much as excruciating in their length and repetition. He kept it together, though; he always did. That’s
why the company paid him so much.
He grabs the phone on the desk beside him
without looking and pounds the button for room service, gripping the receiver so hard that he thinks he can hear the plastic
straining. He asks for the manager then orders his usual and slams the phone back into the cradle. While he’s waiting
he walks over to the briefcase on the bed and opens it. This is not the briefcase with his work things; those are stored in
the closet, out of sight. Before him is his private treasure chest, filled almost to overflowing with his toys.
Soon there is a knock, and he walks across
the room wearing nothing but the mask he has just put on. He undoes several locks and twists the handle.
Standing framed in the doorway is the Asian
girl, slim and pretty but with an edge, wearing all tight black leather. She walks in and he slams the door and redoes the
locks.
When he turns around the girl has already
discarded her clothes, and is now kneeling between the two beds, a hand placed against each bedpost on either side of her.
She has done this countless times before, and is not alarmed when he begins to bind each hand to the bedpost with lengths
of thin black rope. He does this briskly but with learned precision, then ties her ankles together. The coup de grace is a
bright pink plastic ball gag placed in her mouth between shiny, delicate lips.
He steps back and gazes up her body, from
the finely carved cleft of her buttocks to her gracefully arched back to her neon blue hair, which reaches down only to the
base of her neck.
He briefly removes his mask and places an
amyl nitrate popper to his nostril; a sharp torrent of pleasure instantly surges through his brain. He replaces the mask and
takes a thin, four-foot long leather bullwhip from his briefcase.
Soon he has worked himself into a euphoric
frenzy, beads of sweat flying as he flogs her again and again, the tension in his muscles melting away as a liquid warmth
flows through his body.
The girl’s back is now an inflamed
patchwork of lash marks; he tosses the whip aside. His cock has hardened, and climbs around so that he is facing the girl.
The ball gag is removed and flung aside, and she begins to felliate him. She is experienced but never mechanical, her head
moving in perfect rhythm as she balances him teetering on the edge of climax.
His eyes have just rolled back in their
sockets when the noise bores into his skull and his brain starts to bubble and throb with an acidic burn as he realizes that
the telephone has just rung.
He tears the cord out of the wall.
He turns back to the girl, who has decided
to stop felliating him; her eyes track down and he notices that he has gone limp. He grabs the phone and hurls it across the
room. It strikes the blank television screen, sending jagged white spider cracks through the reflection of his masked face.
The girl flinches, and the next instant she’s screaming, his left fist clutching a clump of hair, pulling her head back.
The right hand follows, snatching a fountain pen off the desk then plunging it into the side of her neck.
Fine red jets of blood spew into the air,
the girl goes limp, and his erection has returned from the grave with a vengeance.
The dead girl’s head hangs forward,
bright blue hair covering her face. He gently tilts her head back, then slips his cock between those glossy scarlet lips.
Her mouth is still warm and moist, and he begins to slowly thrust. After a few seconds a soft electric current begins shooting
through his body, and he feels himself start to levitate in ecstasy.
He has found a new way to cope with business-related
stress.
Copyright Ben Prescott 2005
