Codename 'Chrys 55'

Codename 'Chrys 55'

Base: Running User-written Erotic Story
Date: Tue, 16 Apr 1996 15:24:24 GMT
From: Unknown (German)

When he awoke he had no idea where he was. There was darkness all around him. He lifted his head but felt a sharp pain so he lay down again on the pillow. He tried to think how he got to wherever he was but there was no memory. Only darkness. He ran his hands down his body only to discover that he was stark naked, lying on some kind of bed. On his left it felt like a bedside table with some objects on it. One of them felt like a can. Looking around in the darkness he now noticed a small gap in what seemed to be the wall on his right. No, not the wall but drawn curtains. He got up and slowly, with every step hurting in his head, walked to the window. He opened the curtains and looked out. He was on the fifth floor of a big old building. Downstairs was a busy street. Every now and then he heard a police car with the siren on. It sounded strange, wrong. He found a switch on the wall and turned it. Some poor excuse for light from a single bulb filled the room. It was a cheap hotel room with nothing in it but a bed, a bedside table and a wardrobe. He took a closer look at the bedside table and found a can of Coke, a sweet ricecake in clingfilm and a roll of mints. Opening the wardrobe door he found a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of sneakers. He had no idea whether these were his clothes but when he tried them on they fit. Reaching in the pockets of his jeans he found a crumbled $20 bill with 'Crys 55' written on it. He sat down on the bed, drank the Coke, ate the ricecake and thought. But without success. He had no idea where he was or how he got here. Even worse: He had no idea WHO HE WAS. Slowly he opened the door to the corridor and peeked outside. Empty. He walked down the corridor and found a lift. It took ages to arrive but finally he stepped inside and pressed 'L'. The lobby was small and stuffy. In a small glass cubicle a young Mexican was reading a porn magazine. A clock on the wall showed 12.30 - at night, to judge from the little light that was coming in through the dirty windows. He approached the Mexican and said: "Hello." "Buenas tardes, senor", said the receptionist and smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth. Actually, he was rather good looking, with a very smooth brown skin and strong muscles bulging beneath the flimsy, dirty vest he was wearing. "Como esta usted?" "Muy bien, gracias", he replied - and thought: 'Did I just say that?' Then, in English: "Can I please have a look at my registration?" "Naturalmente, senor. Aqui esta." 'Christoph Kleinert' it read. 'Date of birth: 18-08-61'. 'Country of Origin: Germany'. Germany? "Thank you", he said and gave the book back to the receptionist, "hasta luego". So he was planning to come back? One more look at the Mexican's pecs - yes, maybe he should come back. If it wasn't too dangerous. Too dangerous? He stepped outside on the sidewalk. It was still hot, even at this hour of night. Peter reached in his pocket and took out the dollar-note. The streetsign read 'Lexington Avenue'. Where to go now?

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