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.

Four of the assailants gripped her wrists, ankles and pinned her to the floor as if crucified while the fifth fumbled with the zipper of their suit. His cock emerged, flaccid, but large enough. Anne's eyes bugged while her mouth opened to emit another ear shattering scream. It was a mistake; a steady golden stream of piss hit her full in the face, filling her mouth until she managed to spit it out and turn her face away. The stream continued while her aggressor laughed, hitting her ear and soaking her hair. Anne struggled and tried to articulate, but only managed to get more of his piss on her tongue and feel the strength of those who were holding her down.

At last, his bladder vented, he knelt astride her body, knees either side of her, his cock still hanging out of the blue suit. She turned to stare defiantly at him, then, wished she hadn't. His tongue stuck out of the mouth hole of the balaclava, it seemed more obscene than his cock had. But, that wasn't the problem. A hunting knife had been brought out of a hidden sheath. To Anne it looked huge, big enough to go all the way through her and out the other side. The attacker on her right, lifted Anne's head enough so that she could see between her breasts, what was to happen next.

Sit sitting on her, he lifted the fabric a slid the wickedly sharp blade under her blouse, the cold of the steel touched her skin; she shivered at the touch and pleaded for her life. As if from a long way away, she heard Bill offering money, anything they had, if they would leave now. He was ignored. Anne was frightened stiff, her mouth clamped shut.

Slowly, the blade slid up her torso, from her stomach. The blouse parted easily, the cloth separated like butter at the touch of a hot knife. Gradually; inch by inch, he slit the garment open until it lay in rags, either side of her, exposing her white cotton bra and freckled skin. She had goose bumps, a throw back to a primeval response to danger. His tongue had stayed out all the time, slate grey eyes creased in obvious enjoyment, stared out from the eye holes of his hood. He slipped the point of the knife under the joint between the cups of her bra, the serrated back edge scraping the delicate skin between her breasts. Anne held her breath, frightened that he would stab her accidentally with the movement of her chest.

With a deft flick of his wrist, the blade cut through the thin material, her breasts sprang apart, no longer held in place. He pulled the strap up where it disappeared over her shoulder; he cut it and did the same to the other strap and threw away the useless bra, then studied her exposed tits. He licked his lips as he prodded the soft tissue of her aureole with the tip of the knife; he laughed as she gasped in total fright. The point seemed to be cutting into her, slicing as if taking off her nipple. He hadn't pierced her skin, but the threat and implication was more than enough to sharpen her mind to the predicament she was in.

His cock was still out from his coveralls, lying on her naked stomach. Looking at it over her nose, Anne saw a drip of his piss leave the slit to fall on her skin. He noticed her staring and growled at her; do you want it cunt? She shook her head, too frightened to answer him.

Bill yelled at her to let them do anything they wanted. Again, he was ignored.

"Put her on the sofa." He ordered. The obvious leader got up from sitting on her, his cock swinging loosely to allow his colleagues to lift her up and sit her on the settee, feet on the floor and her ass on the seat. One of them stepped behind her and grabbed her hands to lift them over the back of the leather back and hold them in a vice like grip. The position lifted her tits. Another held her ankles together, stretching her on the edge of the sofa.

He stood in front of her, his cock still free and loose, the knife waving around, but always pointed towards her. Then he knelt on the floor and ran the knife edge over the inside of her legs. The steel snagged the weave of her panty-hose tights, laddering them beyond repair. His hand disappeared under her skirt, pushing the knife up between the nylons and the wool of her skirt. Suddenly, the blade had turned and split the waist band of her skirt as if it was nothing. The blade continued, parting the heavy fabric until it reached the hem and the skirt parted like curtains opening. He reversed the knife so that it pointed backwards along his arm, then, with infinite care, he split the waist band of her tights. The knife was laid on the floor, close enough to be reached quickly if needed. His calloused hands grasped her tights, with one huge yank; he rent them from her to ribbons. He tore at them, pulling and ripping until they were completely tattered and useless.

All she had on now were her cotton panties with lacy insets at the thigh and just under her belly button as a decoration. He stood and studied her unhurriedly.

The other two attackers had now changed their attentions, leaving her to the three who seemed to have paused now that Anne was in nothing more than her panties. They approached Bill, tied as he was to the table, stood end on.

His shirt was ripped open by the taller of the two while the other knelt and undid the button of his trousers. They were pulled down unceremoniously to fall around his thigh, unable to go further where his legs were held apart. Then his jockeys were yanked down as far as they would go. His cock was grasped and disappeared into the mouth of the balaclava clad head. He was being sucked off and could do nothing about it. Neither could he do anything about the instant hard on her got. The unknown mouth was doing its magic while a gloved hand tossed him at the same time. He gasped as the mouth took his whole length.

Meanwhile, the three who were concentrating on Anne had pulled her around so that her legs were over the arm of the sofa. The knife slid up her leg to cut through the flimsy fabric of her panties. With two deft flicks, the material was rendered tattered and performing no function anymore. Suddenly, although she couldn't see, a tongue lapped her cunt, warm and moist, it shocked her into an involuntary jerk, surprising her captors, for a moment, she was free and tried to hit the head between her legs. Her freedom didn't last for very long, strong hands grasped her wrists and pulled them cruelly over her head. The unseen tongue, continued as if nothing had happened, lapping at her cunt, rasping over her clit and sucking it into a warm mouth, between sharp teeth.