Ambush in a Hotel Room

I step out of the shower and grab a towel off the rack, wrapping it around my dark hair until it resembles a turban. There's really no need to do that when I'm getting ready for bed, but it's a habit after showering that's never left me. So is keeping my wedding ring on when I shower.

I retrieve another towel from the rack and begin drying my body in front of the bathroom mirror. I get distracted by the need to admire my lovely curves, my plump breasts with their cute pink areolae, and my smooth belly reaching all the way down to a carefully trimmed patch of dark pubic hair. My toned legs are also freshly shaved and the envy of any woman.

Once I'm all dry, I don't even bother wrapping the second towel around my body before exiting the bathroom. There's a double bed facing the huge flatscreen TV on the wall. I forgot to close the drapes before showering, and although the nighttime view of the city and the orange smudge of sunset on the horizon is gorgeous, I'd rather not let random people see my tits.

I pull the drapes closed and pick up my silk nightrobe, slipping my arms through the holes and tightening the cord around my waist. It's a bit too small for me. It barely contains my bust and the hem barely covers my ass, leaving my thighs completely bare. I don't have anything else to wear if I need to answer the door, but I certainly wouldn't go out and about with this on.

I removed all of my makeup before taking my shower. I've already brushed my teeth and used mouthwash. There's nothing more for me to do tonight except get into bed and go to sleep.

The door buzzer rings, startling me.

What the hell? The hotel has already been locked up for the night and the staff do their cleaning rounds during the day. Who could be ringing my door at this time of night?

The buzzer rings again, and I'm equal parts annoyed and paranoid. There's no good reason for anyone to be calling at my hotel room, let alone at ten o'clock at night, and my instincts as a woman traveling alone tell me to pretend that I'm not available.

The buzzer rings a third time, and I approach the door against my better judgement. As I peer through the peephole, I'm confused to see no one on the other side of the distorted lens. I roll my eyes as it occurs to me that someone's playing a stupid prank.

I almost jump out of my skin as the buzzer rings yet again. Is it malfunctioning or is there really someone on the other side? With a trembling hand, I put the chain on the door and squeeze the handle hard before turning it.

The chain only allows the door to open about four inches, and it's more than enough for a pair of bolt cutters to appear and snap the chain in one go.

I scream and scramble to get away from the door as a man with broad shoulders and big arms barges into my room. He drops the bolt cutters on the floor and slams the door shut behind him, trapping me in the room with him before he closes in on me.

I practically dive onto the bed and scrabble on all fours towards my handbag sitting on the chair in the corner. My hand is already inside the bag fishing for my canister of mace when a pair of strong male hands grabs my ankles and drags me back onto the bed.

I scream again, and this time the intruder clamps one of his hands over my mouth and kneels on top of me, imprisoning me beneath his weight.

"Not another sound," he growls in a husky voice, "is that clear?"

Tears of terror are brimming in my eyes, and I nod vigorously.

"Good girl."

My attacker then rolls me onto my back and forces his way between my bare thighs. My skimpy robe falls open, giving him an eyeful of my full breasts and the patch of dark hair crowning my crotch. I also get an eyeful of him dressed in a black shirt and pants, and no mask to conceal his square jaw with prominent cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.

My hands are free, and I go straight for his face so I can gouge out his eyes, but he's too fast and too strong. He pins my wrists to the bed and presses his pubic bone against my crotch. The look on his handsome face is warning enough: don't you dare fight back.

Next, he takes my wrists in one huge hand and retrieves a pair of zip-ties from his belt with the other hand. He deftly slips them over my wrists and tightens them with a single tug.

"I have money," I plead with him. "You can take my bankcards. Take my phone. The handbag alone is worth more than the cash I have."

"Didn't I tell you not to say another word?" He warns me dangerously.

I bite my tongue in fear as it occurs to me that if he wanted any of those things he would have taken them already. I still want to believe that he'll just rob me and be on his way, but I have a horrible feeling about what he really wants.

My fears are confirmed when he pulls the folds of my robe open and begins groping my breasts. His hands are like bearpaws as he fondles and kneads my breasts like so much fleshy dough. I have no choice but to lie there and allow him to molest me, even as the knot that's forming in my stomach steadily tightens in anticipation of what he's going to do next.

I try not to squirm as he fondles my breasts, and his hands explore the rest of my body freely. As his hands move elsewhere, he brings his mouth down to my nipples and begins licking and sucking on them. He's surprisingly gentle with my nipples, and I feel little tingles of pleasure as he teases my sensitive areolae.

Then his mouth moves further down my body, planting kisses across my belly and even on my pubic patch. Then he forces my thighs open even wider and plants his mouth on my crotch. It's impossible not to squirm as his lips make contact with my labia, his tongue licking and slurping across my pussy lips and sensitive clit.

I'm ashamed of my wetness as he licks and sucks at my pussy, even sticking his tongue inside my vagina and using his fingers to massage my clit. I can feel the pleasure blooming in between my crotch, and if it weren't for his huge hands forcing my thighs to remain open, I would have squeezed his head between them.

I can definitely feel an orgasm approaching, and the shame of my pleasure is turning my cheeks red. Why is this animal doing this to me? Why not just have his way with me and be gone?

I don't want to get inside his head, but my guess is that he wants to humiliate me by using my own body's pleasure against me. To make me feel good about the way he uses my body for his own pleasure. If that's his goal, it's working.

I realize that I'm thrusting my crotch back at him as he goes down on me. His tongue is working mercilessly on my clit and his lips caress and smother my pussy lips like a slice of watermelon he wants to suck dry. I'm shamefully wet and I can feel my juices flowing from my entrance.

I can't hold my pleasure down any longer, and I buck my hips and squeal through gritted teeth as I climax. My orgasm blooms up from between my legs to the base of my belly, and I think I even squirt a little onto his face. He keeps his face buried in my crotch and continues sucking and licking my pussy whilst holding my thighs open with both hands.

My orgasm is still ongoing as he withdraws his mouth from my pussy and loosens his belt. It's a surreal feeling coming down from the peak of an orgasm from spectacular cunnilingus while my heart starts pounding out of my chest in fear of the prize that he'll claim next.

Once he's undone his belt, he pulls his pants down and kicks them off, revealing an absolute monster of a penis. His erection is easily eight or nine inches long and a little over two inches thick with a shaft that arches gently upwards. Below hangs an impressively large sack; each testicle is at least the size of a golf ball and brimming with the means to change my life forever.

I'm trembling all over, too weak with fear to fight back as he closes in once again, positioning himself between my open thighs and lining the tip of his enormous cock up with my vulnerable opening. I barely notice the painful welts the zip-ties are leaving in my wrists or the sound of my own whimpering as he slips the head of his cock in between my pussy lips.

I'm so grateful that he licked me to an orgasm before penetrating me, because my sexual juices make his incredibly thick cock just bearable as he stretches my vaginal walls to their limits. I can't help but moan in discomfort as he pushes his penis inch by strained inch inside me.

My rapist manages to push all nine inches inside me, bottoming out with a satisfied groan.

"You're gonna be the best one yet," he growls with sick satisfaction.

The implication that he's done this before to other women goes right over my head as he begins to thrust inside me. His strokes are slow are first, allowing me to get used to his unusual length and girth. I moan and whimper in response to each inward thrust. Despite the copious amounts of sexual fluid flowing through my pussy, his cock is really stretching my pussy to its limits.

My rapist leans forward until his chest is against mine and he grinds his body against me while he humps me. I stare at the ceiling. I stare at the drapes. I stare at anything to avoid making eye contact with this beast. Anything to distract myself from the pain of being penetrated against my will, and even more so from the treacherous feeling of pleasure between my thighs.

The more his thrusting cock stimulates the walls of my vagina, the more juice flows to make his penetration of me smoother and easier, and the more a second latent orgasm brewing in my pussy grows in strength. I close my eyes and imagine that this is just a dream. A horrible, sexual dream in which a nightmarish demon rapes me in my sleep.

He's fucking me faster now. Having ensured that I was accustomed to just how long and thick he is, he begins to thrust harder and faster inside me. He's still too big for me, and my vaginal walls squeeze his intruding girth, no doubt making my sex tunnel feel like a vice made of warm, wet, female flesh. Judging by the grunting noises he's making he seems to like that.

There's definitely another orgasm on the way for me. Maybe he's taking his time to ensure that I experience another orgasm by him before he finishes. Maybe he's already had practice on the other women he's raped. It makes me think of a sick joke made by some radio host in the 70s about how, if rape is inevitable, women should just lie back and enjoy it.

The awful irony is that it's not bad advice. There's nothing I can do to stop this monster from fucking me all night long, and the intense physical pleasure is undeniable, so I may as well let the pleasure of the impending orgasm wash over me.

There's still enough of a sense of dignity left in me to resist that idea. I don't want to give this beast the satisfaction of thinking that I enjoy this, and I try to suppress the growing pleasure.

It's too little, too late. I'm already thrusting my own hips back at him. My body is responding instinctively to the presence of his penis thrusting inside me, and the promise of his seed. The relentless stimulation of my pussy by that huge thrusting cock of his is too much to bear.

I squeal with involuntary ecstasy as another orgasm overwhelms me, blossoming like a tongue of fire licking up from pussy all through my gut. My rapist grins with sadistic delight as I cum on his cock, and he presses his body against mine and humps me even harder.

His cock is like a piston ramming inside my cunt, thrusting at high speed and higher force. The wet slurping of my sexual juices as his penis slides back and forth inside me combines with the dry slapping of his crotch against mine. On top of that, I'm moaning like a shameless whore as my orgasm continues to ravish my body.

Then my rapist reaches his own limit and thrusts all nine inches inside me, snarling like a beast as his cock twitches and pulsates as he ejaculates. I feel the first spurt of cum flood my vagina, and it gives me hot-and-cold chills to realize that he's raping me bareback. The second spurt is just as powerful, followed by a third and a fourth until the fifth and sixth spurts become dribbles.

My rapist and I are both panting as intense sexual pleasure floods our bodies and overwhelms our senses. My wrists are so tiny that the zip-ties come loose. I'm so glad to not have the plastic leave painful welts on my skin anymore, but it's a tiny consolation after I was just raped.

I wrap my arms around my rapist's powerful shoulders and back. What else can I do with them? His full bodyweight is resting on top of me, and I can't move until he decides to move. I'm too exhausted and overwhelmed to move even if I could. He got what he came for; now I just wish he would get off of me and get as far away from me as possible.

Finally, my rapist lifts himself off of me, but not before holding my jaw in his hand and forcibly kissing me. I squirm and try unsuccessfully to move my mouth away from his, but he holds me still and forces his tongue into my mouth. It briefly crosses my mind to bite his tongue off, but that would just make him angry, so I open my mouth and make out with my rapist.

I can taste the faintest traces of mint in his breath. That's considerate of him.

He keeps making out with me, his lips sliding wetly across mine the way they slid across my pussy earlier. His tongue probes my mouth like a tentacle, and I can't help but kiss him back. I hate him for it, almost as much as I hate him for what he just did to me, but the passion with which he kisses me triggers my own instinctively passionate response.

Then he breaks off the kiss and smirks at me. "You enjoyed every second of that, didn't you?"

I don't answer as he withdraws his cock from my pussy. I feel a sudden emptiness and a trickle of warm liquid leak out of my vagina, followed by more silent tears as I contemplate the fact that a stranger just raped me in a hotel room. And I don't use birth control.

"I see you got free of the zip-ties," my rapist observes as he climbs off the bed, "you'd better not get any ideas or else I'll have to punish you."

I want to retort to that, but I hold my tongue and watch as he removes his shirt. My eyes widen at the sight of his well-defined pectorals and six-pack. A man with such a body shouldn't need to rape women; most women would gladly jump into bed with him if only he would ask.

Why is he stripping naked at all? Why doesn't he get his clothes back on, collect his tools, and leave? The answer comes as he pulls back the covers and climbs into bed.

"Get under the covers."

"Why?"

The one-word question escapes my mouth before I realize it's a bad idea to talk back. My rapist responds by yanking the covers back even further and forcibly rolling me onto my stomach.

"Because I told you to," he growls into my ear.

He pulls the covers back over the two of us and then reaches over to the light switch. He flicks the switch and plunges the room into darkness. I'm now in bed with my rapist. I can feel his naked body pressing against mine while his cum leaks from my pussy.

Why is he still here? Is he planning to have his way with me again?

"I think you enjoyed that almost as much as I did," he taunts me, whispering into my ear.

"You're a beast."

"And yet you had twice as many orgasms as I did," he points out, the gloating triumph dripping from his words the way his seed is dripping from my slit, "and the night is still young. I don't think I'm quite finished with you."

That was my fear, but there's nothing I can do about it. I just need to survive the night and wait for him to leave, then get as far away from here as possible.

* * *

I'm curled up on the couch reading an eBook on my tablet. Night has long since fallen, and the drapes are closed. My position is getting uncomfortable, so I move my swollen ankles and feet out from underneath me and try my best to stretch my legs.

I've tried my best not to think about that night in the hotel room; and when it does inevitably cross my mind, I pretend that something completely different happened: I met a guy at the hotel bar and spent a boozy evening with him. It was a one-night stand. A slutty hookup that a grown woman with a husband and two kids shouldn't be having.

That would have been shameful enough if it had actually happened that way, but it gives me far less shame than the dreadful truth. I'd much rather pretend that I cheated on my husband while on a business trip than relive the fact that I was raped on my business trip -- let alone the humiliating fact that my rapist had given me multiple orgasms.

My rapist had fucked me three more times that night, each time trying to last as long as possible, prolonging each rape until he'd forced me to endure one vaginal orgasm after another. It was simultaneously the worst night of my life and the most amazing sex of my life. My rapist had given me the most incredible sexual experience a woman could ask for.

That's not even the most profound thing he gave me.

I put my tablet down and reach under my T-shirt and caress my swollen belly, anticipating and dreading the fateful day which, if the estimated due date is correct, is less than a week away.

I don't feel bad about carrying my rapist's baby in my belly. Despite the fact that my waistline and breasts have grown so much that most of my pants, dresses, and bras no longer fit; despite the inconvenience of swollen ankles and a shrunken bladder; despite the mood swings and food cravings; and despite the impending ordeal of labor, I don't regret keeping this baby.

The sound of footsteps makes me flinch and I look with relief to see a man with metal-rimmed spectacles perched on a big nose with an even bigger smile lighting up his face and his brown eyes. He's carrying a pair of teacups, each filled with steaming brew for the two of us.

I return the smile and gratefully accept the teacup, inhaling the fragrant steam before taking a tentative sip. It's green tea, my favorite kind of tea, and I'm limiting myself to just one cup per day. I move my legs so that my husband can sit down next to me with his tea. He takes a long sip from his own drink before setting it down on the table.

"How's baby number three?"

"Punching and kicking all the time," I answer, patting my pregnant belly, "I think he wants to get out of me as soon as possible -- and the feeling is mutual."

I sigh as I utter that last statement and put my teacup down on the table.

"I'm glad you came around to having a third child." My voice is full of sadness as I speak, "I know the girls were a lot to handle, but three is just the right number."

"If you say so," my husband replies, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice, "but I still kind of wish you'd have gotten an IUD like I suggested."

"We've talked about that; I don't like anything invasive."

My husband is trying to be supportive, and he seems happy to be a father again -- or so he thinks -- but the announcement that I was pregnant again after mutual agreement that we were finished having kids had come as a shock to him.

My heart burns at the necessary deception I'm imposing on him. I can hardly bear to lie to him about the baby's paternity, but if I tell him the truth, I'd have to tell him about what happened to me in that hotel room nine months ago.

* * *

We arrive at the hospital just as the sun is beginning to set. My two daughters are staying with their grandparents while my husband and I prepare for what promises to be a long night ahead. My contractions are about ten minutes apart as my husband helps me to climb out of the car and waddle the seemingly infinite distance from the parking lot to the hospital doors.

While hubby handles the paperwork and answers the receptionist's questions, I lean forward and rest my head and arms on the front desk. The pain is bearable for now, but my mind keeps flashing back to that awful night at the hotel.