I text you the room number. 1704. You take the elevator, you walk down the hall, and you find the door open, prevented from closing by the deadbolt. You enter, but the room is empty. You’re alone.
Your phone buzzes with another text.
“Undress, please. And please be sure the deadbolt is still keeping the door open.”
In spite of yourself, you do as I ask. You find yourself standing there, nude, wondering what’s next.
Some minutes pass, it seems. Maybe you fiddle with the radio. Maybe you adjust the temperature. You wait.
Your phone buzzes. “Please lie face-down on the bed. Please spread your arms and legs. And please close your eyes.”
Again, you find yourself doing as I ask. You’re acutely aware of your vulnerability, of the open door.
You wait. And wait. And wait.
You hear the door creak open, and then you hear it latch shut. You hear soft footsteps.
And then you don’t.