Journey To The House (Part One)
For little-three and of interest to honestlyinnocent7
It’s late on a Wednesday evening. You’ve just got into the hotel from a long and tiring day at work in London. You decide to have a shower, and are part-way through undressing when a loud and insistent knocking starts at your door.
“Who is it?” you call, wrapping a towel around yourself.
“Hotel security,” replies a deep, gruff voice, “please open the door.”
Puzzled, you open the door. A massive man, easily over six feet tall, blocks the doorway with his bulk. He brushes past you, the sharp scent of his cologne striking you as much as the obvious expense of his tailored suit. A smaller man steps in behind him, smiling at you, pulling behind him a large and rigid traveller’s case. He closes the door, and says “It’s always better when they open the door willingly. Grab her.”
You don’t have time to say anything when the huge man’s massive hands, like paws, grab you and fling you onto the bed. He moves fast, grabbing both your hands in one of his and holding them firmly above your head, his other hand holding your neck, his bulk leaning against your legs, pinning them against the foot of the bed. The towel is askew, your tights and underwear the only things protecting your modesty now. You open your mouth to scream, to yell, to do something, and the little man shakes his head, putting a finger to his lips. Something in the way he looks at you makes you close your mouth, your eyes widening even as you struggle to breathe against the crushingly effortless pressure of the big man.
“This won’t take a moment,” says the smaller man, “don’t worry. Too much.”
You struggle, or try to, but the big man barely moves a muscle, his weight and strength far outmatching you. You hear the case clicking open, and the little man rummaging around. He stands over you, suddenly, a damp cloth in one hand. He clamps it over your mouth and nose, and as you realise – finally – that you’re being abducted, your last conscious thought is that their ties are identical.
It’s dark, and stuffy, and hot. Your knees are pressed up against your chest, your hands taped in front of, and to, your ankles. Your head is squeezed between your knees and your mouth taped shut. You can’t see, but your eyes are open. A moment of panic, and you start to try and wriggle, but you meet hard, nylon covered surfaces all around. Suddenly there’s a click, followed by another, and the case you’re in opens, and you fall out into the hands of the big man.
Your eyes take precious seconds to adjust to the light and in that time he rips the tape from your wrists, ankles and mouth, his meaty hands tossing you around with ease. He picks you up, and spins you around, and as he does so you take in something of your surroundings. It looks like a white-painted metal box, with a bare metal floor. There’s a harsh electric light, and a strange chair made of metal tubing welded to the floor. There are open metal cuffs on the arms and legs of the chair. He spins you about again, and pushes you backwards into the chair. Deftly, quickly, his hands guide your legs and arms into the cuffs and lock them shut, immobilising you, your legs spread, your naked – naked! you realise with shock – cunt open towards him, your tits pointing out and up, bouncing as you heave deep, panicked breaths. You start to talk and he clamps his hand over your mouth.
“No talking from you, little one.”
Your eyes widen and he smiles, wolfishly, his eyes obviously travelling across your open and restrained body. He reaches behind him and brings round a dull, black, rubbery shape. In one swift motion he slips it over your head, zipping it shut behind you. It’s tight. Very tight. So tight, in fact, that you can’t open your mouth. There is a small hole under each nostril, and it forces your eyes closed again.
Immobilised, blind, gagged, you start as you feel his hand gently tracing up the inside of your leg, his thick fingers probing at your cunt. You snort, and shake your head, but it makes no difference, and those giant fingers slip between your lips and rub themselves inside your pussy. You’re wet. You know it. He knows it. His other hand squeezes your exposed tits, mauling them, pinching your nipples, pulling your flesh, even as his fingers – three, maybe, or is it four – fuck you, gliding in and out, filling you as thickly as a cock. Your snorting becomes ragged and desperate, your chest heaving as you can feel yourself building to an orgasm under the relentless assault of his hands. The shame and embarrasment only makes you more aroused, and you cum, bucking and grinding as much as you can. He laughs, and his fingers slide out of you, pulling your wetness with them.
Cold metal replaces them, locking into your cunt with a dull and final thunk. Seconds later, a wet, lube-coated point probes your arse, pushing into it, widening your arsehole and shoving inside until it, too, locks into place. You try and move, and can’t. The metal poles are rigid, stopping you from doing anything. You moan. You want his fingers back. The horror of your sudden desire makes your head droop inside the tight rubber hood, and your cunt gush. Then a buzzing sound, and a vibration against your nipples, first one, then the other. You arch your back as best you can, pushing into the vibrator as it runs across your chest and down towards your cunt. It settles on your clit, and doesn’t move again. Between ragged gasping snorts for air you guess it, too, must be locked in place.
It’s only now, locked down and vibrated, that you realise the metal box is moving, and that you must be inside a van of some sort. But then that realisation becomes pointless as the vibrator works away, inflaming your clit, pushing you over the edge, your full cunt and arse driving you into an orgasm, and then another, and another, until you’re rolling into a multiple orgasm, your head tossing and turning, snorting and grunting and moaning under the hood, through the rubber, the big man’s hands slapping and pulling and pinching and twisting your tits and flesh. Your hands clench and unclench, your toes curling, and then the vibrator stops, and you scream as best you can with frustration and release all together.
It takes a moment for you to realise that the van, too, has stopped, and then the metal poles are sliding out of your wet holes, the cuffs unlocked, and the big man grabs you, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Cold air hits you, caresses you, teases your throbbing cunt, and you realise you’re outside. You’re limp, unresisisting, concentrating on breathing through the hood’s holes, and the noise and motion of the men walking across gravel only matters to you when it stops, and a door opens, and you’re dropped to the floor.
The hood is unzipped and you gasp for air, blinking in the light, only to squeal as a hand grabs your hair and hauls you upright, yanking your hands behind your back. A belt is slid behind your elbows, pulling them tightly together, and then your hands are forced into an armbinder, which is quickly locked in place. Your elbows are almost touching now, and you gasp as your feet are kicked apart and the little man locks you into a legspreader. The big man yanks your head down, forcing you into an L shape, and the man behind you slips a collar around your neck. The big man clips a chain to it, and the little man attaches that to your leg spreader, keeping you there. A hand slides a bulb into your mouth, and more hands fasten the straps that are attached to it around your head and face. You gurgle as it inflates, filling your mouth, forcing your tongue down, holding it in place.
A cock suddenly and without ceremony slides into your gaping, wet, cunt, firm hands grabbing your hips, and as the two men in suits step back the cock fucks you, hard and fast. Every forward thrust pushes you off balance, and the hands on your hips pull you backwards in response, back onto the thrusting dick.
“This is to help condition you,” says a crisp, clear voice, “although you are one of the few who … enjoy … the experience. This is good,” as the fucking speeds up, “because it will make things easier for all involved.”
You can only grunt in response, your voice choked off by the bulb in your mouth, the speed and ferocity with which you’re being fucked preventing you from forming a coherent thought. From the sides, the men in suits step in again, attaching clamps to your nipples, hanging weights from them, and running their hands across you. The little man has calloused fingers, the big man soft and nimble. Whoever’s fucking you pauses, cutting off an orgasm, elicting a gurgling cry of frustration even as a thick rubber plug is pushed into your arse, and as it begins to vibrate the cock begins to pound away at you again, making the weights swing wildly, pulling and yanking on your nipples.
The men step away again, and suddenly, without ceremony, the man fucking you pushes you, hard, and you fall awkwardly to the floor, your legs wide and your dripping cunt exposed. A boot pushes into your labia, rubbing your juices across it, and a mocking laugh cuts through the air.
“So this is my newest cunt,” comes a sneering voice, and you look up, awkwardly, squinting against the light, straining against the chain. A slender man, dressed in black, with jackboots, a riding crop tapping lightly against his thigh. He has dark hair, a closely cropped beard, and a vicious cast to his face as he wipes his toecap on your hair.
“Up you get,” he says, pulling you to your feet, “and let’s sort out this needy little snatch of yours.” He pushes a dildo inside you, inflating it, then locking it off and taking away the tube and bulb just as you start to snort with the pain of it filling your cunt and pushing against the still vibrating plug. He holds out his hand and a naked man with a glistening erection passes him what looks like a strange collection of metal until he locks it in place around your waist and crotch – a chastity belt. It holds the plug and dildo firmly in place and you moan as he slaps it, sending a pulse through your abused cunt.
He twists his hand into your hair and strides away, pulling you along behind him. You soon realise that there is a tiny nub of metal placed just next to your clit – close enough to tease, far enough away to prevent you from cumming from it. You squeal and snort and gurgle in frustration, and he merely laughs again. “I see you’ve noticed the frustrator. You’ll learn to enjoy it, cunt.”
He pushes open a door, and leads you into a small, white, tiled room. In one corner is a cage. In the middle of one wall, a small box. In the ceiling, square in the middle, a hook. He unfastens the chain from the spreader bar and collar, and hoists your arms up behind you, attaching the D-ring on the armbinder’s tip to the chain, and the chain to the hook. He pulls you taut, ignoring your squeals of protest as you rise, painfully, onto your tiptoes, ropes of drool running past your lips and onto the floor.
Opening the box, he lifts out a shiny black object. He shakes it out, and it falls into shape in front of you – a catsuit. He drapes it over the cage, and takes out another object. A hood. It’s eyeless, with obscenely inflated red lips in a wet-look glistening ‘O’ shape, and a silvered zip running from just above the nose across the top of the head and down to the back of the neck.
“Some of your new clothes, cunt.”
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