CHAPTER 1

 

Peder's cruel words and actions, at dawn this morning, have left Christine humiliated, disgusted and dejected. She does not notice the gradual changes to her surroundings as she continues plodding down her solitary trek. Christine's tear laden eyes only focus downwards onto the never-ending dirt road. She mumbles,

"I hate Peder; I wish that I had never cast eyes on that conniving con artist. How could I have been fooled so easily, not just once but twice?"

Christine holds her heavy copper medallions in her hands, so that their chains will not pull too heavily on her nipples and elongate her breasts.

It is late afternoon before a menacing rumble interrupts her gloom. Christine reluctantly lifts her head, glances around the downhill dirt track and decides that the cliff to her right is not climbable. To her left, she sees a steep embankment constructed from frigid dry earth and stone. Christine clambers halfway up, to obtain a better view, using her medallions to dig into the structure.

'Oh, shit!' Christine thinks, as a convoy of oversized armoured jeeps rush towards her at sixty miles an hour. She scrambles to the top of the bank, ignoring the storm of sand and acrid black diesel fumes, and then presses her naked flesh onto the top of the freezing embankment.

'If they see the copper sparkling in the sunlight, then I am in terrible trouble!' However, Christine now spots huge military trucks heading her way. They pass just feet from her face, punching her naked body with their slipstreams.

At last, as this convoy passes into the distance, Christine takes a deep breath and looks over the other side of the bank. She screams in terror, looking down at several thousand foot of sheer scree slope, with a raging torrent at the bottom. Before she can return to the road, Christine hears the thunder of a gigantic low-loader racing up the incline with its engine screaming at its task. As this vehicle rounds the bend then pounds towards her, she watches it, transfixed like a rabbit trapped in headlights. Its huge wheels ride up onto both sides of the narrow road, causing the dirt beneath her body to rumble and start to crumble. She screams into the shadow of a titanic military tank as it towers beside her, just inches from her head.

More low loaders, each with an armoured tank on its back, follow at intervals of thirty second, in clouds of dust and fumes.

'Do I have time to climb down, and then try to clamber up that rock face?' contemplates Christine. Unfortunately, before she reaches her decision, a tank's loose gun barrel is skimming the top of the embankment, threatening to crush her.

Time seems to slow as she lowers her body over the steep side, ramming in her medallions for support. Christine yells out in terror as the enormous gun barrel skims her head, and stones violently strike her naked skin. She feels sick, chokes and splutters as more fumes, dust and pebbles rain down upon her. Then she starts to slide, exceedingly slowly, down the scree slope.

The tank's gun barrel swings out ahead of her, at a right angle to the road, and then the front of the low-loader crashes through the embankment. More debris rains down upon Christine as she continues to slide.

When the dust has cleared, she looks up at the overhanging vehicle. Although she is still slipping gradually down the slope, Christine watches in anticipation as the traumatised driver climbs up onto the roof of his cab and begins his uphill struggle over that dusty polished roof.

With an eardrum shattering crash, a second transporter crashes into the first.

"You blind bastard!" yells the driver, as he leaves the roof of his cab, catapulting into the thin air. Christine watches as he defiantly spreads his arms and legs to attempt to control his descent.

"Well done, sir! Well done indeed, brave man. Enjoy your last few seconds of life," Christine shouts, before screaming in agony when a medallion slips from her grasp.

'Oh, shit! I am going to have my right nipple ripped away,' Christine conjectures as the copper drags through the sharp stones. She curses her body's unwanted arousal, from the excitement and pain, as she enters a mild orgasm.

However, these are the least of her concerns. A third low-loader truck rams into the carnage above. The first truck in the pileup demolishes the embankment, tips sideways and rolls towards Christine. Its load snaps free from its fixings and the huge war machine flies over her head. As both vehicles roll and slide downwards, they drag the surface of the accumulated rocky debris along with them, accelerating Christine's plunge towards distant oblivion.

Her huge metallic medallion breaks free from the stones and Christine pulls on its chain, to hold the metal in her hand once more. Although still accelerating, she is now descending with the frozen stones trapped underneath her naked body.

Minutes later, Christine turns her head at the sounds of two huge splashes, but distant clouds of spray are the only evidence of the lost vehicles.

Once more, she hears an impact above her head. Then Christine hears a helicopter and immediately its downdraft engulfs her in irritating, stinging grit.

"Christine, grab the ladder!" orders an amplified man's voice from within the maelstrom.

"Where are you, Peder?"

"Just take hold of the rope ladder! I was only joking this morning," Peder replies. Finally, she feels the rope briefly touch her leg.

Rifle retorts follow the sounds of two pings from metal on metal. Christine's joy evaporates as quickly as it had returned. She watches Peder shouting unheard words into his megaphone from halfway down the ladder, which rotates with the slowly spinning helicopter. Although Christine is still sliding with the scree, Peder is descending faster. She watches as the pilot battles to get away from the slope, to control his rotation and to slow his fall; his brave struggle is hopeless.

Christine sobs silently as the minutes tick by and she realises how badly she had underestimated the size of her entrapping scree slope. She watches as the pilot refuses to capitulate, when he lands upon the torrent, keeping his rotors turning. His partially submerged machine stops spinning round and bobs along, like a parody of a child's toy. Her eardrums pop once more as her protracted plummet continues.

All things must end, and scree slopes are no exception. The termination of Christine's descent is uneventful, for she gradually slows as the slope bottoms out, near to the cacophony of this enormous torrent.

"Goodbye, Peder. I forgive you!" she whispers, shivering as she rises to her feet.

"Hello, Christine! Time to get you out of here!" yells a male voice from behind her head. Before she can turn, he lifts her by her long blond hair and dumps her onto a pure white stallion. He wraps her nipple chains around the horse's neck, pushes her flat onto the animal's bare back, and then ties a horse blanket over her back and under the horse's belly.

"Hold on tightly and don't make a sound," he orders. "You have made some vicious enemies today, and many of them know precisely how to run down a scree slope." The man then sets the horses to a gallop. Rifle fire concentrates her mind, and the sound of heavy artillery speeds their journey.

Underneath her blanket, Christine presses the side of her head into her stallion's neck, holds her arms tightly around that neck and grips its belly with her legs. Even with the retaining straps over her back, Christine's position feels precarious. She can see little, apart from the uneven rock below, which flashes by. Occasionally she catches a glimpse of a man's powerful legs, encased in black leather, astride another fine white horse.

Despite the tension and her fear, or maybe because of these, Christine cannot stop herself becoming aroused again. The hot sweaty steed beneath her uncovered flesh is clearly unaware what its firm, rhythmical, muscular contractions are doing to the naked female body pressed into its back.

'It's so good to be warm. I wonder if this man is my rescuer or my new captor,' she contemplates.

However, the horse's movements and its painfully sharp hair continue to force Christine towards her orgasm. She grips her teeth tightly as she reaches her climax, so that she will not make too much noise. Christine panics as her grip on the horse's neck slips. She grabs hold of its mane, but moves onto another, more intense climax. This time she cannot stop herself from yelling out. She reasons,

'He certainly can't have heard me, above the sounds of the torrent and the hooves,' but a sound whack on her arse, from his riding crop, corrects her assumption. Although the blanket spreads the pain, it is still too intense for her to ignore and only intensifies her passion. He applies strike after strike to silence her cries, but only succeeds in prolonging and strengthening her erotic spasms.

This man's temper snaps and he repeatedly thumps her arse, back, shoulders and even her neck with his crop. Again, this agonising stimulation only heightens Christine's arousal, driving her into further orgasmic fury. On and on, he delights in delivering blow upon blow, forcing her into an orgy of agony and gratification.

Suddenly, after well over a hundred blows, the man stops both his horses and her punishment. As Christine continues to grind her clitoris into the stallion's harsh rump, she thinks,

'That bugger is enjoying my performance. What an arsehole!' but she refrains from speaking.

He waits patiently until her body stills, and then resumes their gallop. Christine notices that huge snowflakes start falling and settling upon the stony ground.

***

When her steed eventually slows to a trot, Christine relaxes a little.

"Take three long, slow, deep breaths, Christine," orders the man.

"Why?"

"Just do it!" he commands, striking her backside a dozen times with his crop. Christine complies; her horse moves and, seconds later, icy flowing water pummels her legs.

'He must be mad to cross this angry river!' she reasons as they plunge in even deeper. Freezing spray covers her face and bitterly cold water splashes her body.

Christine's stallion pushes onwards, ever further and deeper, until finally the water immerses her body. Christine raises her head from under the blanket, sees the rider, in front, looking back at her. She gasps, not just at his muscled body, but also at the tight black leather covering his torso, head and face.

Suddenly, her horse is swimming. Tormented craggy rocks on the far bank rush by far too quickly. She thinks,

'There is no way he can get us out of this predicament.' However, the man seems calm; more importantly, the horses appear to be actually enjoying their swim.

***

Ten bitterly cold minutes later, hooves contact rock, and then the horses gallop into a dense pine forest. Underneath the wet blanket, Christine is so cold that she only wants to sleep. She feels her stallion struggling to climb, and then galloping madly downhill, ignoring the twigs that snap against her body. Part of Christine's brain knows that this is hypothermia, but she no longer cares. Christine also knows that she must remain conscious, but she can no longer bother. However, some subconscious reflex forces her to cling even closer to the slightly warmer damp steed.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Nightmares of hot baths, hot drinks, rough massage and even rougher sexual intercourse finally converge into reality as Christine becomes aware of her surroundings. Three black silk pillows, on a comfortable leather armchair, prop her up. A huge log fire is crackling in front of her. She asks,

"What happened?"

Christine jumps, as she hears the ring of a large hand bell from behind her, by way of reply.

Heavy footsteps announce her rescuer, as he enters the room and crosses the stone floor. Again, tight black leather covers him from head to toe. He speaks as he walks,

"I'm pleased that you are alive, Christine. How did you inflict so much damage upon the Army of Occupation?"

"What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Come on, Christine! I know you are an actress, and a very good one at that, but don't play your cunning games with me! At least four tanks and their low loaders lost in the river and a very expensive helicopter trying to rescue you."

Christine knows that her life has shifted again, and that this is, most probably, another situation manufactured by Peder. It is also clear that that she must choose her path with care.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" he yells. "I have a special little cat, with nine tails, for whipping the tongues of insolently silent women." Christine shudders violently at the malevolent image. His cold blue eyes and unsmiling mouth, framed in black leather, show that he is not joking.

"Girl! Fetch my special little cat," he orders. Christine turns and stares at an attractive shaven headed woman who places a heavy hand bell onto the floor, then hobbles away as fast as she can. Christine cannot fail to wonder about the leather mesh hood that keeps this young woman's mouth tightly shut, the mid thigh leather shackle and the bar restraining her elbows behind her back.

Christine knows that she must speak soon, for the black leather man seems agitated, as he investigates the fixings that connect her nipples to her weights. Christine stutters,

"Please do not take my silence as impudence, sir. I have suffered so much pain, indignity, betrayal and treachery during these last years that my brain is struggling to cope. Please be ..."

"Take a good look at this," he interjects as the shaven headed woman returns. Without instruction, this woman opens a small silver case to display a miniature, gold handled cat o' nine tales.

"It's beautiful, sir!" Christine exclaims, admiring the exquisite, handcrafted instrument of torture, complete with its tiny leather whips and their minuscule knots. She notices his anger seems tempered with his pride in this artefact.

"Enough, you little bitch! Stand up, and tell me how you attacked the Army of Occupation. Do you want to be tongue whipped?"

"No, no, no! Not my tongue sir, please! I will gladly tell you all I know, but it will take time," Christine whimpers, struggling to retain her composure.

The man waits patiently, gently flicking his special little cat across Christine's upper labia and clitoris.

"Allow your copper medals to hang freely, slut. You look too undignified, clutching them like a bagwoman," he orders.

Tense minutes pass in intolerable silence, filled only with the sounds from an enormous grandfather clock, which rests beside the stone chimneybreast. Christine looks down towards her naked feet, but only notices the large bulge at his groin and his solid black leather boots just inches from her unprotected toes. Christine jumps when the clock chimes the hour. He waits for her to speak; she awaits some terrible punishment, tongue tied with fatigue and terror.

Suddenly, his attitude changes, becoming so much milder. The man now speaks softly, without menace,

"Forgive me, my dear Christine, for I am too tense. I will force myself to relax and then you will be able to speak freely." He turns, towards the shaven headed woman, then orders,

"Girl! Take off your confining toys. We will take refreshments, in front of the fire."

'He is single-handedly playing good guy, bad guy,' Christine muses. She watches 'girl' expertly push out the bar that is restraining her elbows behind her back, using a dowel that is set into the wall at exactly the right height. The leather thigh shackle and leather mesh hood fall free within seconds.

'She must have done that a thousand times before,' Christine reckons, as this woman drags first a heavy wooden table, then a solid upright chair, near to the crackling pine fire, before rushing away.

Retaining his leather mask, the man casually undresses to reveal a fit, tanned physique. A hit of a smile crosses Christine's face at the sight of his penis, enormous even in its flaccid condition. Two oversized testicles and a neat pubic moustache cause her grin to broaden. He sits upon the edge of the upright chair with his genitalia swinging freely. Christine asks,

"Do you always go commando, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I do! Tell me, Christine dear, do you ever wear clothes?"

"It's been so very long since I had the choice, your honour."

***

The shaven headed woman returns, pushing a squeaking trolley laden with food, drink and painful sexual paraphernalia. Still silent, she places the refreshments upon the table and presents the trolley to the man. He selects seven serrated clips with heavy weights, fixes them to his woman's ample brown nipples, her clitoris and labia. Then he sits and straightens his knees to raise his feet from the cold floor.

Christine's stomach flutters as 'girl' goes down on all fours and positions herself upon the worn stone floor, underneath his legs. His feet rest upon her backside and her face snuggles, uncomfortably upright, between his upper thighs. Christine can see the longing in this woman's eyes; she can feel the anticipation of those lips just six inches from his cock. Christine also knows that her rescuer must feel his subservient woman's warm breath on his sensitive foreskin. He states,

"You must agree that she makes a very reasonable footstool. Please eat in silence, Christine, so that you can calm yourself and compose your thoughts."