Suite #6

by Ty M Goode

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© Copyright 2010 - Ty M Goode - Used by permission

Storycodes: MM/f; drug; bond; straps; gag; harness; bag; transport; kidnap; nc; X


The “hotel” had certainly seen better days.  A sign of constantly changing  times, the once stately private residence had long since been converted, to house travelers and vacationers.  Typically, those of lesser financial means. 

The two men walked casually through the entrance, unconcerned about security.  This probably due to the fact that there wasn’t any.  Dressed neither for business nor holiday, their attire was so nondescript as to render them almost invisible.  Each carried a small duffle, the effect helping to further blend them into the background. 

They climbed the secondary staircase used primarily by the residents.  Their pace was unhurried and seemingly without urgency.  It mattered little, for no one was present to witness this.  When they reached the targeted room, there was no stereotypical glance at a scrap of paper or matchbook, confirming they had the right place.  Each had memorized the hotel’s room number.  Room #6.  They were, after all, professionals.  That’s why they’d been called upon for this task.

Appearing as if they had every right to be there, one leaned against the wall, while the other made short work of the woefully inadequate lock.  Easing the door open slightly to peer in, it was confirmed that the room was silent and dark.  It should be, at 2:45 a.m.  They slipped inside the room like ghosts.  The lock was re-engaged, reinforced by a battered kitchenette chair wedged under the knob.

Management referred to this room as a “Suite”.  This because, in addition to the tiny area that served as living room, dining room and kitchen, it boasted a closet sized bedroom.  The communal bathroom was down the hall.  Both late night visitors were mildly surprised, when they found the original, circa 1920’s bedroom door unlocked.  But why should it be?  The tenant surely wasn’t expecting guests.

Easing this door open, their eyes were greeted by a small room, bathed in a garish pink light, from the hotel’s marquee outside.  In the center, prone on a twin-sized bed that took up ¾’s of the available space, lie their target. 

It took less than fifteen seconds to ready their equipment.  Normally, a job like this would be undertaken in a way that raised as little fuss as possible.  However, their instructions had been made clear.  The “mark” was to be made quite cognizant of what was happening.  Their compensation richly reflected the additional risk.

Mindful that a squeaky floorboard or jostled furniture would alert their prey, “speed” was the watchword for this operation.  As one, they leapt on the bed.  Although unrehearsed, the attack was nonetheless quick, brutal and efficient.  They straddled their quarry with their legs, trapping her under the thin sheets that covered her.  Her eyes flew open in confused shock, just as the chloroform soaked cloth clamped down over her nose and mouth.

Her bleat of alarm whispered past the rag in a soft “hhmmnnngh!”

Instinctively, she began thrashing.  But their weight, in addition to the bed linens, trapped her limbs most effectively.  She drew in a breath to scream for help, confused as to why this burned her throat and lungs so.  Her head began to pound, ears assailed by the roar of a thousand freight trains.  Her wild eyes looked up, catching a glimpse of the two dark silhouettes.  She saw no compassion in the glinting eyes that peered back at her from behind the black cloth masks.

She willed herself to writhe even harder, but her body now felt strangely detached.  She watched, as the room began to grow darker, the glare of the sign outside fading, something the moth-eaten blinds on the window had been unable to achieve.  Disjointedly, her last thought was, that she hoped this wouldn’t make her late for work.

The one with the rag, held it in place for a few more seconds after her eyes had rolled up.  Though it was doubtful that the mark was playing “possum”, caution had kept the two of them out of the penitentiary thus far.  Lifting a lid, he noted that her eye was responsive, yet unseeing.  The cloth was dropped in a baggie and tossed aside.  Now, the real work was to begin.

From their satchels, came an assortment of neatly bundled leather goods and 2 more sealed baggies.  The contents of one, a contribution from their employer.  Experience helped them to efficiently sort through an inventory plentiful enough to restrain 3 victims.

The bed covers were thrown back, her T-shirt and panties ripped off.  Each man would have to be dead, not to appreciate the full curves and narrow waist of their slumbering target.  Any temptation was quickly beaten back, their instructions implicit.  Deviation from the plan, would lead to incarceration at best.  Worst case scenario would be a long sleep with the fishes.

First, her lax fingers were balled up into fists.  Over each hand, slipped a tight leather pouch.  Once buckled around her wrists, the idea of picking at any of the restraints with her fingers became a fairytale.  They rolled her over on to her stomach.  Each was pleasantly surprised at how limber she was.  Her elbows met behind her back using very little encouragement.  1” straps below and above the joints, ensured that they stayed that way.  Additional straps of the same width clamped her arms together at the forearms and wrists.  A padlock went through the rings stitched to the tips of the leather mittens.

A plethora of 1” straps turned her into a mermaid.  Her legs were soon fused together at instep, ankles, calves, below and above the knees, mid and upper thighs.  The tight leather bands sunk into her firm muscles, making them bulge on either side.  A narrow strap was even used to cinch her big toes together.

Arranging her limp, but restraint-stiffened form to a sitting position, a web of leather straps was dropped over her shoulders.  The multitude of straps soon assumed the shape of a body harness.  Her arms were rapidly crushed against her spine by means of straps encircling her shoulders, above and below her breasts, mid-torso, waist and hips.

In front, the harness formed two hoops.  Although her B-Cups didn’t provide a lot to work with, they soon bulged regardless, once the buckles on the hoops were drawn tight.  Placed once more on her stomach, the firm mattress mashing her ballooned breasts, the final strap came into play.  Attached to the waist strap at the navel, was a belt longer than its cousins.  After some firm poking and prodding, its tongue snaked through the apex of her bound legs. 

Once the twists were worked out, it was brought up and fed through a “D” ring on the outside of her wrist binding.  Then it was doubled back along the same path.  Care was taken to position the padlock on her mittens, between the full globes of her ass.  When the slack was drawn out, the strap’s tip was still four inches short of the buckle.  But the hired hands weren’t about to give up. 

While one held the deficient strap, the other placed his hands up the mark’s shoulders.  Then he placed a knee in the middle of her back and arched her spine backward.  The first was pleased to see that he could now buckle the strap through its third notch.  The mark’s leather encased fists dug two craters into the firm muscles of her derriere.

Holding her unconscious form upright, the one who’d done the honors with the crotch strap, proceeded to fashion her long, naturally curly ringlets of dark hair into a ponytail.  He did so at the crown of her head, rather than in the back.

“She must have dyed her hair black.”  He pondered absently.  They’d been told the mark was a brunette.

“Probably some lame attempt to disguise her appearance.”  He thought.  “Fat lotta good it did her.”

Just as he was binding her tresses tightly at the roots with a couple of turns of electrical tape, the target moaned softly.  Certainly, the discomfort of her bonds, hastening her recovery.  They’d finished not a moment too soon.  One of the two remaining bags was opened.  The man in front removed the gauze pad and began rubbing it vigorously over their captive’s face. 

The acrid smell of alcohol worked almost as well as smelling salts.  The girl jerked (to the limits of her bonds) and weakly tried to turn her face away.  As she rapidly became more aware of her condition, her eyelids fluttered and she struggled to form a question.


That did it. Her eyes flew open with total clarity, as the contents of the last baggie were being shoved into her mouth.  For the hired hands, there was a brief, apprehensive time when she raised quite a ruckus, before enough material had been crammed between her teeth.  Fortunately, there was more than enough fabric to do a proper job.  The one doing the stuffing was glad they habitually wore rubber gloves for jobs like these, having been told the history of the gagging material.

When all but a few, petal-like tufts of cloth were wedged behind the woman’s teeth, the man nodded to his partner.  Right on cue, the man reached around, holding a 1/2” leather strap.  The strap passed between her pearly whites, the ends drawn around back.  With her hair conveniently out of the way, he was able to thread, then buckle the strap brutally tight.  No doubt a few short strands of her hair were yanked out by the roots. 

Her mouth was pulled into a pained grimace, her tightly stretched lips peeling back off her teeth, which clenched down involuntarily on the huge mass of packing.  The mark let out a wail, which quickly turned into a choking fit as her gag reflex was triggered.  Struggling successfully to get herself under control, she tried once more to call out.  The resulting hum sounded like a growling stomach.

The final touch was a wide band of thin neoprene.  One side of the bandage had been treated with an industrial-strength adhesive.  Starting within a whisker of her nose, he used his thumbs to smooth the matte finished rubber down across her mouth to her chin.  Although she bucked hard to prevent this, the “gentleman” behind her, gripped her skull like a vice.

With initial contact made, he carefully smoothed the swathe out across both cheeks, making sure there was nary a wrinkle.  As he neared the ends, he had to slip his hands out of the latex gloves, they being stuck fast to the adhesive.  Donning a new pair, he used scissors to cut free the gloves and a small portion of the gag.  He pressed the remaining flaps down smoothly, near her ears. 

Sitting back, he could clearly see her jaw working frantically under the stretchy, sticky wrap.  He could see too, the lines of her full lips, her incisors and the small portion of packing that didn’t fit.  The outline of the gag strap shown noticeably, dimpling her cheeks on its trek behind her head.  It was clear that she was trying to bellow for all she was worth, yet what came out sounded like an exasperated sigh. 

Frustrated (and more than a little bit panicky), she began thrashing her head like mad, in a vain attempt to throw off the crushing gag.  A thickly padded leather collar was quite easily buckled around her throat, stilling her head by more than seventy-five percent.  The other twenty five would be taken care of shortly. 

“I hope you’re enjoying what your chewing on.”  He said, conversationally. 

“It’s the boss’s boxer/briefs.  He told us that’s what happens to nosy reporters who “dick” around where they don’t belong.”

He was a little surprised by her reaction.  Instead of a look of abject revulsion or horror, her brow seemed to furrow almost quizzically.  He shrugged it off, their work far from done.  As he’d been carrying out his monologue, his partner had been busy, laying long, 2” wide straps across the bed.

Although it would prove to be unnecessary, a padded leather blindfold was secured snuggly in place.  This would greatly emphasize her helplessness.  Together, they easily lifted their writhing subject, placing her seated across the straps on the bed, her fused legs stretched out before her.  One knelt across her shins, while the other pressed against her shoulders, slowly folding her at the waist.  No matter how she fought them, she soon found her breasts mashed against her thighs.  From there, things got worse.

The three long straps were buckled tightly at her neck, elbows and forearms.  Because there were three, each one could be tightened individually, which created a modicum of slack in the other two.  Working back and forth, they soon had her folded so severely, that breathing was almost impossible.  And if breathing was difficult, crying out for help would be out of the question. 

With her nose was planted between her knees, one last strap around her legs and head made the arrangement permanent.  The final touch was a thin cord connecting her ponytail to her fused toes.  When it was drawn tight, her feet were arched back, redundantly locking her legs straight.

All present in the room had not forgotten about the crotch strap, the “mark” most notably so.  The stiff leather band had zero give to it, thus, something else had to.  It sank into her soft folds and burrowed into her ass crack until it pressed against bone.  It was instantly intolerable and she tried to tell them so.  Keyword, “tried”.  So precious was every molecule of air, that she couldn’t waste them on frivolous things like begging for mercy or calling for help.  She had no choice but to suffer in total silence.

They left her there on the bed, robbed of even the ability to roll over on to her side, and began straightening up.  All of the unused restraints went back into their bags.  They cleaned up their trash, dumping it into a black trash bag.  Then, they set about gathering up the mark’s personal items.

Clothing, books, toiletries, everything went into the garbage bag.  When they’d finished, not a sign of her remained.  A typewritten note describing another job offer was left on the coffee table, along with an envelope containing the next three month’s rent in cash.

Returning to the bedroom, a deceptively strong nylon duffel bag was unfurled.  The mark was slipped into it, ass first.  A cable tie was threaded through the grommet’s at the opening and drawn closed.  With the other’s help, one of them was able to shoulder the burden with little effort.  From every angle, it looked as though he was carrying a week’s load of laundry.  The fact that there was a helpless female inside, would have been the last thing to enter an observer’s mind.

The other man picked up the remaining bags, took one last look around and joined his partner at the door.  They exited, just a couple of dudes heading for the all night Laundromat.  Their egress from the hotel was uneventful, not too many people prancing about at 4:00 a.m. in the morning.  They strolled around the corner.  The van, which could be misidentified as any number of General Motors vehicles, stood waiting for them.

Another casual look around and the back doors were opened.  The trio crawled inside.  (Well, two of them crawled, one just went along for the ride).  Instead of releasing the mark from the duffle, the cable tied open end of the bag was raised to an anchor in the ceiling.  Once clipped off, it hung there, not unlike a boxer’s heavy bag.  The van started up and eased slowly out of the alley.  Their trail was cold before the van’s tail-lights faded in the distance.


The Super walked down the hall, carrying a small tool box and whistling a tune-less jingle.  He’d been meaning to fix the door for a couple of weeks now.  Setting down his tools, he stood, hammer and brass nail in hand.  With his index finger, he twirled the metal numeral on the door upright.  When positioned properly, he tapped the nail through the proper pinhole.  He stepped back and admired his handiwork.  The “9” sat on the door, straight and true.

He hoped he hadn’t waken the young lady up.  Probably not, her job had her working strange hours.  A strikingly beautiful girl, Acindina Bikakis had arrived from some small Greek isle just five weeks ago.  He’d given up on trying to pronounce her name, instead settling on “Cindy” for short. 

He felt that stir of youth when her face came to mind.  Jet black hair and a body that just didn't quit.  Yup, that one was a real looker.  Possessing a decent command of English, she’d obtained a job waitressing at one of the casinos.  He thought of knocking on the door, then changed his mind.  Rent wasn’t due until next Friday.  He figured he’d see her before then.  Best to just let her sleep.


Down the hall in the REAL room #6, the hammering had woken its occupant.  Traci Vincent glanced at the clock and realized she was late.  The brunette hopped out of bed and rushed to get dressed in her skimpy uniform.  She figured three more days of masquerading as a coat check girl at the local mafia hangout and she’d have enough dirt for a real juicy story. 

A part-time reporter for the South Jersey Courier Post, this hotel was all she could afford on her meager pay.  And it wasn’t even a “suite”.  It didn’t matter though.  She’d overheard enough conversations at the club to send more than half its members to the Big House.  As long as she wasn’t discovered over the next couple days, things would work out great.  No one knew she was here.  She wanted to walk into the editor’s office, slap the story on his desk and watch his reaction. 

“Yup”, she thought to herself, “my life’s about to take a dramatic turn.”


To Be Continued???