With a groan, she opened her eyes, but it was still dark. Something was covering her face, obscuring her vision and making it hard to breathe. A soft fabric, sleek and stretchy, she found as she twisted her head side to side. Immediately, regret set in. The motion caused a wave of pain and nausea, and she vaguely recalled being talked into one more drink by a new co-worker at happy hour the night before. Slowly, she tried to take stock of the situation.
"
Did I pass out in bed and wrap my sheets around my head?... No, these aren't my sheets. Oh, God, did I hook up with someone? Am I taking the hungover walk of shame from who knows where? Christ, Karen, you are a mess.
"
These thoughts were replaced by a more pressing concern as a voice cut through the haze.
"Sir, I think it's waking up," a woman said, a clinical detachment in her tone that triggered a cold trickle of fear down Karen's spine. Then a jolt of recognition. This was the co-worker, whose name she couldn't recall. The new hire who kept suggesting more and more elaborate cocktails to her as the night rolled on. The one who said they should get one last drink as the others began winding down and heading out the door. The one who offered to walk with her to the corner to meet her Uber.
As the pieces fell into place, the hangover (was it just a hangover?) was pushed aside by adrenaline. Senses that had been slow to the scene began a cascade of information on her surroundings and condition. Some kind of hood over her head, arms and legs not pins-and-needles from sleeping on them, but restrained by leather cuffs. The thin mattress under her was definitely not her own, and the chill she felt was amplified by her utter lack of clothing. She tried to lift her head toward the voice (
Maggie? Melody? Something with an M
..., she searched her foggy memory in vain), and a new item joined the list. Something around her neck, keeping her down on the mattress. A clinking sound told her there was a chain involved.
The soft, low thump of heavy boots from somewhere behind her drew Karen's attention from the restraints. "Help, please! I don't know what's happening," she hoarsely cried, as the boots came to a halt. There was no reply, but a rough hand slid from her hips up her belly and to her chest. Her nipples, stiff from the cold and over-sensitive from both the nudity and the adrenaline, suddenly bloomed to white-hot pain as fingers twisted them, focusing her attention on the presence looming over her. Even deprived of sight by this hood, she was aware of him.
"Quiet. No one here is helping you, bitch. So keep your mouth shut until you're told we need it open." A soft laugh came from whatever-her-name-was as the man let go with a final, rough pinch.
Resisting the urge to argue, to demand an explanation, Karen held her tongue and waited, her body tensing with fear and anticipation. There had to be a reason, a way out, but this was not going to be the moment. Enduring and surviving was what she needed.
"Girl, you're sure it's this one? We can't keep dropping them in the woods if you're wrong."
"Sir, I'm certain. I saw the birthmark on its ass on the bathroom camera we put in."
CRACK! A slapping of hard flesh on flesh and a whimpering filled Karen's ears like a gunshot. "Damn it, girl. Don't fucking talk. It can hear us."
A mumbled apology followed, and Karen soon felt both their bodies over her. His hands gripped her knees, forcing them apart, as her hands pushed Karen's shoulders down, pinning her in place and exposing her. His calloused finger traced a line up her thigh, following the curve of tensed muscle into her center. In spite of herself, the thought crossed Karen's mind that if she'd known someone would be this close to her pussy, she probably would have trimmed up a bit. Several sexless weeks had killed the motivation to shave, and her bush was well grown in.
His hands continued roaming over her, taking in her shape and examining her curves. A single finger traced a circle around her asshole, pushing a little, testing her. She was stuck in her head, unable to process enough to fight back, and willing her body not to respond or betray her. The inspection continued as he worked up her torso, squeezing her breasts roughly and pinching her nipples again, not as hard, but enough to spring them back to attention. She felt the weight of his body as he leaned over her, his hips against hers, though he had the advantage of clothing. She could feel his hardness, smell his sweat, and the awareness of her vulnerability would have been arousing if she wasn't being held prisoner by strangers.
Not strangers,
her inner monologue corrected.
