Hotel Gangbang

The knock on the hotel door seemed innocuous enough, neither of the occupants of the room had any reason to suspect that it could be anything other than room service.

Bill and Anne had travel overnight, catching the red eye from Fort Lauderdale to arrive at London Heathrow early in the morning. They had slept for an hour or two, trying to adjust to the six hour delay from continent to continent.

Their two weeks doing Europe started in earnest, tomorrow, with a scheduled bus ride around the ‘Old Town’ of London, taking in Buckingham Palace, Westminster Cathedral and the new to the programme, Princess Diane’s Garden in Hyde Park. For the next few days, England, or at least the bit that really mattered, would be visited, snapped and filed away for winter nights in front of the video player, then to be digested in manageable chunks.

Bill roused himself from the comfort of the couch with an effort, grunting at the sudden and unexpected intrusion to their leisure time. He didn’t remember ordering anything to eat, but these crazy British had some funny ideas about hospitality, perhaps it was teatime for the Limeys.

He disregarded the eyepiece in the centre of the door, electing instead, to grasp the brass handle, open it and see who had the balls to disturb him at this ungodly hour.

The first Anne knew that there was something wrong was as Bill barrelled backwards through the door to the antechamber, arms flailing in cartwheel fashion, into the living accommodation they were sharing. His shoe heel caught the edge of the Wilton centre rug and all one hundred and eighty pounds of him fell flat on his back.

Five people dressed in dark blue coveralls with balaclava ski masks over their heads, closely followed him. Only their eyes and mouth were visible. Anne began to scream, promising to go through several octaves until she hit top ‘C’. A sharp slap to her face from the nearest of the strangers stopped the mounting crescendo in mid-climb. She stood, in the middle of a floor rug, her arms akimbo, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. Anne had never been hit before. Although the blow to her face was not really painful, the shock to her system was enough.

A knife appeared from the depths of one of the coveralls and was thrust against Bill’s windpipe. “Move and he dies.” The point pricked his skin, drawing a bead of blood to emphasise the point.

The five intruders were well versed in what they were about; moving in confident and practiced, perhaps even well rehearsed choreographic manoeuvres. Four detached from the phalanx that had pushed Bill backwards, circling the prone and gasping figure of her husband at compass points of north east and west, south east and west, just where his limbs happened to be. They each grabbed an arm or leg and picked him up, ignoring his feeble struggles to carry him to the giant centrered low-level, marble topped table. The fifth member of the group had produced from a pocket of his coveralls, four short pieces of white rope. Bill was bound fast at wrist and ankle to the coffee table with a material gag tied around the back of his neck. Bizarrely, the four then picked up the table with its burden and stood it on end against the wall. In effect, Bill was standing, but tied securely in a classic spread-eagle position.
The whole operation had taken a very short space of time; too fast to really appreciate just what had happened. Ann stood stock still, arms hanging limp at her sides, too confused to assimilate the events unfolding in front of her until, in unison, the five grabbed her and forced her to the floor.

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