martinsmithstories

Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

‘Wakey, wakey,’ a voice said.

I opened my eyes. A familiar face with a beaming grin hovered above me. Rodger.

‘Welcome back, Slumber Lord,’ he said.

‘You!’ I said. ‘What day is it?’

‘Wednesday, I believe. Though here, days and nights seem to go on forever.’ He released a dreamy sigh.

‘Wednesday! What the hell happened to Monday and Tuesday?’

‘You? Nothing. Me. Well, where do I begin?’ His eyes misted as he released another dreamy sigh.

‘What happened to me?’

‘You had an unexpected reaction to that Dream Maker you popped. You swallowed, toppled and were out like a light. Slept 72 hours straight. Apart from me slaking your thirst and dragging you to the john.’

‘But Natasha? I was to meet her at the bar.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I stepped up and filled her dance card.’ He released another dreamy sigh. ‘Look, old chap, I hope you don’t mind, but I clocked up some costs while you’ve been counting zeds. But don’t worry. I logged into our bank account and upped our credit card limit.’

‘You what?’

‘But let me assure you it was all for the common good. Our common good.’ And Rodger smiled a toothy grin.

I sat. ‘Hey, what have you done to your teeth?’

‘Bit of a bleach treatment. And I took the liberty to have the incisors and canines veneered.’

My eyes rose to Rodger’s forehead. ‘Hey, how come you looked so relaxed? What have you done with the furrows on your forehead?’

‘Bit of Botox, old chap. But don’t worry. I should be able to stop pouting by Friday.’

‘And your receding hairline? My God, are those hair plugs?’

‘And I had foils put in. You like?’ Rodger swivelled his head from side to side. ‘But now, it’s time to get ready. I’ve booked a five-thirty appointment for a colonic irrigation.’

‘A what?’

‘A colonic irrigation.’

‘How much is that going to cost?’

‘Never you mind. Look, it’s our last night, tonight, and Natasha is coming over this evening. Who’s a lucky boy, then?’ As he released yet another dreamy sigh, he disrobed.

‘Oh My God! You’ve … you’ve … you’ve had a full body wax!’

‘They call it a Colombian here. Bit touchy about those Brazilians across the border.’

‘And a full-body spray tan!’

‘Now, now. In my defence, that was a freebie, thrown in with the Colombian.’

‘And … Oh My God! … you’re … you’re … you’re … wearing a thong! And what have you got tucked in there? A pair of socks?’

‘No, not socks. That there, my dear friend, is the balance of our credit card limit.’

I would have liked to have finished this story with a happy ending by describing my shoving that little shit, Rodger, back in my suitcase, my cancelling the five-thirty booking to save me a pain in the arse and my meeting Natasha that night to share a sumptuous candlelit dinner, followed by a meandering along the lapping swash of a moonlit beach and, later, a night of tender love-making.

But, alas, life never quite turns out as planned, for as I gaped in shock at Rodger’s recently acquired enhancement, he slipped off his thong and shoved the flimsy briefs into my mouth. He then produced gaffer tape, and two rolls later, he had me bound, gagged and left dangling from a coat hanger inside a shuttered wardrobe that allowed me to witness all that occurred in my room later that evening.

***

As the golden rays of a Caribbean sunset stretched across my room, the door creaked open and Rodger entered. He walked to the bathroom, and following the running of a tap and the spraying of an aerosol can, he re-emerged wearing a gaping robe, a bulging thong and the heavy scent of my deodorant. He opened the wardrobe door and removed the duct tape and the thong from my mouth.

‘How are you hanging, Lover Boy?’ he said.

‘How dare you!’ I said. ‘My holiday, my room, my credit card and my Natasha. You’ll never see the light of another holiday once I’m finished with you. Come on, you bastard, release me and fight me like a man.’

‘Not likely, Gaffer Man. Tonight’s the night.’

He released another of his dreamy sighs and looked out towards the bay as the sun settled upon the horizon.

‘Hey, what’s that on your neck?’ I said.

‘My neck?’ Rodger blushed and put his hand to his neck. ‘That’s … that’s … that’s my birthmark.’

‘No, it’s not. I haven’t got a birthmark, nor have you. No, there’s a bruise on your neck. Oh My God! It’s a love bite. A Natasha hickey. I’d recognise that overbite anywhere. And you’ve got Natasha pash rash. You cad! You’ve had your way with her, haven’t you? My Natasha!’

‘Excuse me? Your Natasha? Ha! I’m the one who’s done all the groundwork. I let her push back my cuticles and buff my nails. I bought her dinner, danced into the wee hours of the night and whispered sweet nothings in her ear as we cuddled together in a hammock and watched the sun rise. Besides, I’ve only reached first base. But tonight—ah, tonight—I’ll be pushing on. Rounding third base and driving on all the way to home plate. That’s quite a woman you found me.’

A knock came from the door.

‘You bast—’ But Rodger shoved the thong back in my mouth and reapplied the duct tape.

‘Mmmmmmmm.’

‘Ssshhh! It’s Natasha.’

‘Mmmmmmmm.’

‘I can’t let her see you.’ He turned to the door and called, ‘Coming.’ He winked at me and closed the wardrobe door.

My eyes watered as Natasha entered the room, not because of the tacky taste of the thong but because she looked truly beautiful. Three days of RNR had done her wonders. Her black hair glistened. Her sun-kissed skin shone. Her blue eyes sparkled. And her toned body rippled under the skimpy black bikini that did little to hide her modesty.

‘Oh, Rodger,’ she purred as she fell into his arms.

‘Pussycat,’ Rodger said, and he kissed her long and hard.

Natasha’s tanned, taut left calf rose in the air.

On and on they snogged, and all I could do was stare forward in flushed disbelief and watery-eyed envy.

Their lips parted with a smack, and Natasha ran her tongue across her lower lip. ‘I’m just going to the little girls’ room, you bad boy, to slip into something a bit more comfortable.’

‘Do hurry, dirty girl,’ Rodger said.

Natasha giggled and twirled away from Rodger and glided into the bathroom, leaving her bikini top in the horny hands of a randy Rodger.

Rodger removed his robe, lay back on the bed and slipped off his thong. And I would have gasped (if I could have), for there, before my disbelieving eyes—Oh God! Will I ever unsee that sight again?—the balance of my credit card limit swayed in the warm Caribbean breeze.

Rodger leant over to the bedside drawer and reached in. He sat and looked towards the wardrobe, through the shutters and into my beleaguered soul. He smiled and mouthed ‘Bon appétit’. Raising a glass of water in one hand and two(!) blue tablets in the other, he winked at me, mouthed ‘home plate’ and downed the lot.

And for the next five hours, I witnessed a debauchery that left Caligula looking like a daycare centre.

***

‘Oh, Roger,’ Rodger said, ‘aren’t holidays wonderful? I’ve had the time of my life. It’s such a shame to have to go back to the drudgery of working life, stuck behind that cramped desk, shuffling paper and banging away on a keyboard, all with a hunched back and a scowl on one’s face.’

A relaxed, tanned Rodger stood over my open suitcase, neatly folding his thongs and about to steal the room’s soaps, shampoos, towels and dressing gown.

‘You absolute bastard!’ I said, ungagged but still bound and hanging from the coat hanger as the rays of another glorious Caribbean sunrise shone upon my face.

‘Now, now, Roger. Let’s not spoil the last morning of the holiday.’

‘Bastard! I’m gonna throttle you with a pair of those thongs of yours.’

‘No can do, Hung Foe. They’re all packed away now.’

‘I’ll whip you to death with the towel you’re stealing.’

‘Only if I set you free. Now, promise me you’ll behave if I release you. I’m happy to be a good holiday selfie and hop back in the suitcase.’

‘Never!’ I jerked about in a desperate yet forlorn attempt to free myself.

‘Well, in that case, I’ll leave you there. Though I warn you, nothing worse than smelling like mothballs. How’s that going to help your love life? Help you pop your cherry? There’s not a woman on Earth that will ravage a man smelling of mothballs.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘I would.’

I ceased wriggling.

‘Ready to calm down? To go home?’

I calmed my breathing and hissed, ‘Yes.’

‘And you promise you’ll behave?’

‘Yes.’ And defeat washed over me.

Rodger walked over to the wardrobe, lifted me off the coat hanger, placed me on the tiled floor and unravelled the tape. ‘There, free and homeward bound.’

As I rubbed circulation back into my wrists, he returned to the side of the bed and resumed packing.

Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar of ‘Bastard!’, I rushed at him, and with my arms outstretched and my hands cupped to throttle him, I leapt into the air, and with a spinnaker filled with hate and rage, I sailed towards him with murderous intent.

Alas, with a quick two-step, he evaded my grasp, and I hurtled face-first into the suitcase and landed upon a package containing white powder.

I turned to escape, but Rodger squished my flailing limbs into the suitcase and zipped the case, leaving only my protesting mouth before a small, unzipped hole.

‘You bastard.’

‘Enjoy your trip, Roger, old boy. Here’s a little something to bite down on during the long haul.’

And he pushed a thong into my mouth and zipped, and my world turned black.

***

I am trapped on my back with my knees pinned against my ears, and all that lies between my shrivelled manhood and the jagged jaws of a Customs dog is a thin layer of polycarbonate. A snout sniffs my nether regions. A paw scratches my buttock. Defenceless, immobile, I endure.

‘Good morning, sir,’ a voice says.

‘Good morning,’ a familiar voice replies. It’s Rodger.

‘Where are you travelling today, sir? Home?’

‘To Miami. But not home. I’m getting a connecting flight to Spain.’

‘To Spain, sir?’

‘Yes, that’s right, with my new girlfriend. We’re staying at the Atzaró Agroturismo Hotel and Spa in Ibiza for two glorious months.’

‘That sounds wonderful, sir. She’s a lucky girl. Though it sounds awfully expensive.’

‘I’m lucky. A buddy of mine is paying for the lot.’

Bastard! I vow the first thing I’m going to do when I get out of this suitcase and get my hands on Rodger’s sinewy neck is demand he use Downy fabric softener because, by God, this thong of his could do with some ‘long lasting freshness’. And then, and only then, I’ll throttle him.

‘Sounds like he’s a good friend to have. Now, sir, it looks like you’ve had quite a spending splurge. You’ll need to pay for excess luggage.’

‘No problem.’

‘And how would you like to pay for that, sir?’

‘Credit.’

Creaks of leather and thumps upon a whirling conveyor belt follow, yet I and my suitcase remain unmoved.

‘Rodger,’ a familiar voice calls out. It’s Natasha.

‘Pussy cat,’ Rodger says. ‘All ready to go? I’ve checked our luggage in. Only minutes to our boarding call. Ibiza, here we come. I’m beside myself with excitement.’

‘Me, too.’

I strain and rock but cannot move. With all my strength, I puff my cheeks and shake my head and wriggle my tongue until, at last, I spit out the thong.

‘Rodger!’ I shout.

Silence returns my call.

‘Rodger!’ I shout again.

A boarding call for Miami blares over the PA system.

‘Rodger, you bastard!’

‘Roger?’ a familiar voice says.

‘Natasha? Is that you?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s me. Oh, Roger! Help me.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m trapped in my suitcase. I’ve been inside it since the night I was to meet you for dinner. Someone calling herself Natassha kidnapped me. Said she was my holiday selfie and that the extra “s” in her name stood for seductive, sensuous and sleazy. She shoved me inside this suitcase with all this packaged talcum powder. She told me she’d met this wonderful guy called Roger, and I cried and cried, thinking you’d forgotten me. Oh God! I was so saving myself for you. I wanted you to be my first. And I thought I’d lost you forever. But this morning she described the night of lust she’d shared with you. But when she described your hands, I realised it couldn’t be you. She said her lover—her Rodger with a “d” as in depraved, debauched and down-right-dirty—was taking her to Ibiza for a couple of months, and she would leave me at the airport with my home address on the tag, and I wasn’t to worry about the additional cost as her new beau had paid. Oh, Roger, do you think that once you get me out of this suitcase, there is a future for us?’

‘Oh, Natasha—’

But the barking of a dog drowns my words. A whistle shrills, and a familiar authoritative voice says, ‘Buen perro, Sombra!’