I didn’t bother to shower or shave. What was the point? Instead, I laid on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, running through potential escape routes in my mind. My cell phone wasn’t working, so there was no way to call for help, unless I could get my hands on a phone from one of the staff, perhaps. By my count, there were three doors between me and freedom – my bedroom door, the one at the end of the hall leading to the huge lobby, then the one at the front door. As a runner, I didn’t have any worry that I couldn’t outrun them, but, with the silver band around my wrist capable of dropping me at the press of a button, I couldn’t risk an obvious flight.
If I could get a keycard, Laura’s perhaps, I could get away, I thought. Wait until the building was quiet, late at night, then ease my way out side. Whatever the range was on these bracelets, it had to be small. Even if it extended for a mile, I could be that far away in fifteen minutes, and get the damned bracelet sawed off somewhere.
I shut my eyes against another spike of pain, and I felt the unwelcome pressure of something being injected into my arm. It felt like a warm, creeping sensation, then dissipated.
To stave off whatever they’d given me, I stood and paced the room between the bed and the wardrobe, unwilling to let myself be sedated or doped with whatever the bracelet had hidden in its interior. It didn’t take long for the tingling to come, but I didn’t feel sluggish or sleepy. Instead, the tingling grew in intensity, and I saw colors bending before my eyes.
‘Acid,’ I thought, ‘or something like it. A hallucinogen for sure.’ I was tense, my teeth grinding together, my pacing taking on a more frantic urgency, but my brain was spinning out of control, twisting and warping, fixating on little things like the steady flash of red on the card reader by the door, or the sight of my eyes, black and dilated, when I passed by the mirror.
Eventually I returned to the bed, my fingers tracing my skin, fascinated by the stubble there, or by the tangle of dark hair I had. I was tracing the contours of my face when the door opened and Laura was there. God help me, seeing her made me incredibly horny, and images of me ravaging her whirled through my mind. I was consumed with flashes of her imagined figure, my hands on her bare skin, my cock pressing against her pussy and easing inside. I wanted her badly, but I couldn’t seem to speak, even to express those thoughts.
When she took me by the elbow and guided me out of the room, my nerves exploded with the sensation of her fingers on my skin. She was speaking, but I couldn’t focus on it, and I realized I was continually licking my lips, my tongue growing dry.
We moved through the lobby, the sound of the faux waterfall like a roar instead of the delicate splashing I’d perceived the day before, and then we were moving into the east wing where we’d had dinner the night before, but those doors were closed now. I was inside another room, this one almost completely black, and Laura pressed me back into a chair. I imagined again her legs around me as she crawled on top of me in the chair, lifting her skirt to reveal her mound, but in reality I was alone, lying back, eyes staring up at a dark ceiling.
“Hello, Candi,” the voice said, but it didn’t sound like Laura. It was the woman from the night before, Raquel, leaning close to my ear, and I could feel her breath like a hurricane of warm air against my face, and I had to strain to make out the words.
“You are very special, Candi,” she said, her voice echoing in my thoughts, a song that was stuck in my head and I couldn’t get it out. “You are so pretty. So sexy. So hot.”
And the room was lit by an image projected in front of me, so big, so real, it seemed like I could reach out and touch it. And I wanted to. It was a woman, young, but not a child. Maybe early twenties, not much younger than me, really. She was gorgeous, with a white top barely containing two obviously fake tits, but they looked like a lot of fun to play with, and god was I aching to touch them. My hands drifted to my cock, hard and hungry, and I stroked myself looking at this girl and her enormous chest, her thin waist, wide hip and a big ass, long legs in clear heels that lifted her five inches or more. She was what all men wanted, an object, a creature made for sex.
“That’s it, Candi,” Benson was saying, “playing with yourself feels so good. You love being so horny. You love your breasts and ass, love touching yourself, making yourself feel good.”
Her voice was honey in my ear, my hands opening my pants to free my cock, ripping it and stroking faster.
“Candi loves to play and be played with. Imagine that cock in Candi’s hand, touching it, rubbing until it shoots out all that delicious cum.”
I was jerking harder, unable to tear my eyes from the screen, unable to stop myself from rubbing harder and faster, my heightened senses overloaded by the pleasure I was feeling, and still Benson was whispering.
“Candi loves cock so much. She loves sucking cock, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” I moaned, the tingling anticipation swelling in me, telling me I was about to spill my load all over myself, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to keep staring at this girl, to have Benson encourage me to fantasize, to finally complete the climax that was building and pushing out anything but that need to cum.
“That’s right, Candi, cum and feel so good. Let yourself release.”
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