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Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
Johnson received the first phone call at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning. It was only by chance that he was already awake at that time, having been woken up by his neighbours having a row.
"Hello?"
"Tom Johnson?"
"Yep that's me."
"If you want a juicy story, head to the Boulevard Hotel room 106. The key is under the door. Take your camera." With that, the caller hung up.
Johnson raced for his camera. This was the kind of tip-off that reporters dreamed of. Johnson usually specialised in celebrity and racy scoops; it was not that uncommon for him to receive such calls. He found his digital camera and began dressing in a whirlwind of activity.
Half an hour later he was jogging up the stairs of the hotel. He kneeled down outside room 106 and tugged the key out from under the door. He unlocked the door, and slipped quietly inside. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn. Johnson flicked on the light and took in the extraordinary scene.
The room was relatively small with a double bed in the middle. The duvet was discarded, hanging off the bed. On the bed, on her back, was a naked woman. Her face was obscured by a combination of a sleeping mask, a ball-gag in her mouth, and ear protectors over the top of her head. Her hands were bound together and tied to the bedpost by her head. Her legs were bound closely together in several places. There seemed to be something shiny between her legs. A paper banner had been hung on the wall above the bed, and daubed on it in blue paint was the stark message 'I FUCKED HER HARD AND SHE LOVED IT'.
Johnson moved round to the side of the bed that the woman was facing. There was a blue stripe of paint between her breasts, and the word 'SLUT' had been painted on to her stomach. He could now see the clear tape that began at her navel, went straight down over her pubic bush and continued between her tightly closed legs. Even before he had consciously thought about doing so, Johnson had instinctively begun taking pictures. He photographed the wall and this side of the helpless sleeping woman before turning to look around the room.
The bedside table had an open box of condoms on it, and a strident red bra was caught on the corner of the table. The matching panties were strewn on the floor, and the rest of her clothes were behind the door. Snapping away, Johnson moved round to the other side of the bed. He could see now that the reason for the tape - which extended up to the small of her back - was to hold in the twin dildos in her vagina and ass. Johnson had pictures of it all. He put his camera back in his bag; he could not remember taking it out in the first place. Reporter's reflex, he thought to himself.
Johnson peeled back the mask on the woman so that she would be able to see and then gently shook her awake. She blinked open her eyes and looked at the man in front of her. Her surprise at seeing him was completely replaced a few seconds later by shock at her predicament.
"What's happening? What have you done to me?"
"I didn't do anything. I'm Tom Johnson - a reporter. I just found you like this. Here, let me help you." Johnson fumbled with the handcuffs that attached her hands to the bedpost. She began rubbing her wrists as soon as he had freed them. She looked down and reddened as she saw what was written on her stomach and realised that she was naked.
Johnson began to undo the bindings on her legs, but she placed her hand on his to stop him. "I've got it," she told him, and untied her own legs while he stood nearby, with a pretence of not watching. She stood up awkwardly and quickly snatched up her clothes from around the room.
"Do you want me to call the police?" Johnson asked as the woman disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
"No!" she called back shrilly. "No police. This is so embarrassing."
"So what happened?" Johnson called through the door.
"I - I don't remember. My head is all funny." The woman returned from the bathroom with a bag that she must have left in there. For the first time she caught sight of the banner above the bed, and her face went from red to white. "Oh god," she said, and sat down on the bed.
"Are you ok?" the reporter asked.
"I'd like if you could go now, Mr. Johnson."
"Sure." He made it to the door before she spoke again.
"Are you - are you going to write a story on this?"
"I imagine so."
"Will you include my name?" she asked, panicking.
"I don't even know your name," he pointed out. "I promise to include nothing that will identify you."
"Thank you - I guess."
Just as Johnson reached for the phone to ring his editor, it rang.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Johnson." The reporter instantly recognised the voice from the previous week. "Did you like my tip-off?"
"Yes. Did you do that?"
"Does it really matter as long as I provide you with tip-offs?"
"You've got another one?" Johnson asked, already reaching for his camera.
"I will do tomorrow. But if you want me to continue giving you them, I want something in return."
"What's that?"
"Photographs. I want the photographs of last time before I'll give you this next tip-off. The same for the future too."
"How do you know I even took photos last time?" Johnson asked.
"I don't. But if you didn't, you won't get the next tip-off, so for your sake I hope you did."
"Why didn't you just take some yourself?" The voice on the other end of the phone laughed at the question.
"That would be... no challenge. Besides, I'm sure you take better pictures than I would." The man on the other end of the line went on to give an email address to send the pictures to. Johnson emailed them all off later that day, and set his alarm for early the next morning.
With that instruction, Johnson was dashing across the city again.
This room was larger than the last. A double bed with foreboding black iron bedposts was the centre of attention in the room; bound to the bed was a red-haired woman. Her legs were split apart and tied to the top of the bed posts, forming a V that channelled Johnson's attention to her shaven pussy and then up her round chest and flattened breasts - divided by a stripe of blue paint - to her arms that were tied to the far corners of the bed. Like the last, this woman was blindfolded. However she appeared to not be gagged or deafened.
His camera did not stop clicking, taking shot after shot as he moved closer and around the side of the bed. The woman was asleep, but her mouth was held open by a shining steel ring two or three inches in diameter. Her head was to one side, drool lining her cheek as it ran down onto the bed.
Johnson looked round the rest of the room. On a paper banner above the bed, 'SHE COMES WHEN SHE SWALLOWS' had been written in blue paint. Next to the door there was a row of coat-hooks. Neatly hung on the hooks were a blouse, a skirt, panties, a bra and a pair of socks. A pair of ladies' shoes were on the floor below the clothes.
Johnson pushed the blindfold from her eyes and began shaking her awake. She opened her eyes, looked at the man in front of her, and then looked down at her bound body. She could not form words with the large ring-gag occupying her mouth, but the look in her eyes demonstrated her shock and fear.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just found you like this," the reporter tried to explain, but the woman didn't seem to register what he was saying. At first he thought it was because of her shock, but then he looked closer at her ears and saw that she had ear-plugs in, which he duly removed.
"It's ok, I won't hurt you. I just found you. I'll get you free." The woman calmed slightly, and let him untie her hands. She began removing the ring from her mouth while he unbound her legs.
"So you just found me like this?" she asked, in between making strange faces to exercise her stiff jaw.
"Yes. Do you remember anything that happened?"
"No. Not a thing. Just waking up here."
"Do you know what your name is, that sort of thing?"
"Yep - I'm Rebecca. I just can't remember how I got here. Who are you anyway?"
"I'm a reporter."
Her face turned white. "Oh my god. Are you going to put this in a newspaper?"
"Magazine. I won't include your name or anything." Johnson braced himself for her to shout at him - he was used to such things by now - but instead she was looking down at the blue stripe between her breasts.
"What the hell is this about?"
"It's his trademark. The guy who did this to you."
"Guy... do you think he raped me?" The situation seemed to be slowly dawning on Rebecca.
"I don't know. It's possible he did something else instead," Johnson replied, pointing to the banner on the wall behind her. Rebecca turned and saw it for the first time.
"Oh god," she said. When she turned round again her face was reddening. Johnson did not need his reporter's deductive skills to know that the banner told the truth.
"I think I'd better go," the reporter said, recognising that he was not going to find out anything more. "Here's my card if you want me to make a statement to the police."
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be going to go to the police."
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