Got bundled up while staying in a hostel

I woke slowly, the light from the hostel’s thin curtains casting long shadows across the room. The quiet murmur of voices outside the walls, the faint smell of coffee and wood, all seemed distant, unreal. My head spun slightly, like I’d been in this position too long.

Something was wrong.

I tried to move, but the sensation was all wrong. My arms tangled. I froze, panic starting to coil in my chest. My body was stiff, my limbs trapped. I turned my head, desperate to make sense of the situation. The faded wallpaper. The creaky floor. The bunk bed across from me.

And then, the truth hit.

I was tied up.

My arms were bound, wrapped tight in the fabric of my yoga pants, knotted around my elbows, pulling them behind my back. The soft, stretchy material pressed against my skin, making each small movement feel restricted, stifling. My shoulders ached from being pulled too far back. The more I tried to shift, the more the knots seemed to dig into me. My arms were immobile.

And then I felt it the ratchet rope. A sharp click. I looked down, horror rising in my chest as I saw it pulling my legs closer, forcing them toward my shoulders. The ropes tightened, drawing my body into an unnatural position.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t escape.

My breath quickened, but I couldn’t calm myself. How had this happened? I was supposed to be safe here, in this foreign city, in this hostel that had felt so simple, so ordinary.

But now, I was trapped.

I couldn’t remember the last few hours. The night had been a blur. I had wandered the streets, explored the alleys, enjoyed the art, the quiet of the city at dusk. I had been... good. I always tried to be good. But here I was—bound, helpless.

The panic bubbled again, but then something in the quiet of the room stilled me. Footsteps. Slow. Steady. I held my breath, straining to hear.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

The door handle rattled.

I froze.

The door creaked open. I could barely make out the figure standing there—too dark, too quiet to fully see. They moved with purpose, stepping into the room like they belonged there.

I was too scared to speak, too trapped to move. My whole body was screaming to escape, but I couldn’t.

The figure knelt beside me, their presence heavy, silent. I felt their gaze on me—cold, studying, as if they were watching me in this moment of complete helplessness. My body trembled with the realization of what I had become: an object for them to examine, to control.

The figure reached down and tugged at the rope ratchet, clicking it a couple more times. I moaned as my shoulders slammed together.

This is when I realized they weren't here to help me... they quickly pressed something soft into my mouth, a foam ball, warm, filling the space, muffling my breath and my cries.

Pulling a roll of bandage tape from their pocket, they stretched it around my mouth tight, wrapping several times and locking my jaw in position, the tape stretched tight as he wrapped it up and around my lips, pressing the ball against the back of my throat and sealing in my spit.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even make a noise.

Slowly, the foam ball filled with my spit. With nowhere for it to go but back, i could feel it fill my nostrils, each breath sounding like a wet rag and i gurgled my shallow breaths through my hot wet spit. The man laughed at this.

I wanted to fight it. I wanted to push back. But there was nothing I could do. My body was entirely theirs now. I coughed into my gag which forced the spit out of my nose, causing it to drip down my gag and onto the bed. at least i could breath for a bit, until it fills back up again and I cough.

The man stood and stepped back, taking in the sight of me, bound and still, like a statue, just the subtle shifts of my rib cage as I caught shallow breaths. I could feel his gaze lingering, savoring the moment.