THE LIBRARY: Trying Out Part 36

{This story originally appeared on BDSMARTWORK and features some amazing art by Steve. We thank them for letting us share it with you here}

Claire screamed and screamed and screamed into the padding, her body warping on the fetid bed cover with each one. But it did almost no good. Her wrists were still lashed behind her, her ankles likewise cinched, and the band of ridiculously tight drainage tape wrapping her head held the shammy firm in her stuffed mouth.

Claire Holden collapsed onto the stained, burned motel bedclothes, her stupendous breasts jiggling in the absurdly tight white latex top.

He had dressed her as some sort of anime vixen: the white sleeveless, scoop-necked, midriff-bearing top barely big enough to contain her nipples let alone her orbs; a belted latex microminiskirt barely big enough to cover her ass and cooch; black latex opera gloves; and ludicrously pointed black patent leather ankle boots.

“Fifa,” he had breathed, or something like it, when he first dragged her in here. She thought he was going to attack her for sure when they both heard a car beeping from the front office. He had wanted to ignore it, but then worried that whoever was out there might come looking.

The mauling had been bad enough. He had spent what seemed like hours in the dank, dark back office rubbing, pawing, slobbering, and rutting against her, then decided the absurd bondage he had wrapped her in was cramping his style. So over her nose went the sodden, nauseating rag, and, when she woke up, he had just dumped her on the bed in this new get-up.

The girl rolled over to look longingly at the doorway. “Help,” she cried, but even she could hardly hear it.

She swung her bound legs over the bedside and sat up.

She listened intently and could just make up muffled, distant, voices. If she coud hear them…? “Help,” she called again. Nothing.

Claire looked down at herself: beautiful breasts bulging and smooth thighs gleaming, the ratty dark orange carpet beckoning….

The shapely little girl propelled herself up to her feet and stood on the painfully high heels unsteadily. She was a dancer, she told herself. She’d been en pointe. She could do this. The abduction, the captivity, the assaults … it had to end, now!

She hopped forward, her breasts bobbling, her luxurious hair swinging. She made it – she was still on her feet. Then her head jerked up and her eyes widened. The unmistakeable sound of feet on gravel were approaching.

“I’m really sorry,” the deskman was saying, “but that room’s not available.”

“But it’s the one farthest from the road,” came the slurred, petulant reply. “It’s the one I want!”

“Help!” Claire shrieked into the shammy stuffing her sealed mouth, her toes digging into the carpet, her shoulders straining, sweat pouring down her forehead. “Help me!”


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