CHAPTER 1

 

Christine Zibbon-Smith awakes slowly, observing a surreal scene. Christine does not panic, for she has often dreamt that she is awake, only to eventually realise she is still dreaming. Christine is lying on an inclined padded bench, looking out through polished stainless-steel bars. Beyond those bars, she can only just see a whitewashed room illuminated by a large picture window. Christine hears the sound of waves breaking on a shingle beach and smells her own stale perspiration. Still half-asleep, Christine lifts her hands to rub her eyes.

'What sort of nightmare is this?' Christine shivers with this thought, as she notices the tightly laced boxing gloves covering her hands. Apart from the thumb-less black leather gloves, she is naked. As always, Christine is without body hair.

'Whatever! I'll see where this traumatic dream takes me,' she muses, struggling to stand upright.

Over by the cell's bars, Christine squints, in an attempt to see more clearly. Slowly she pieces together her surroundings, through the curtains of her eyelashes. Outside the window, she can just distinguish distant waves crashing underneath a grey threatening sky. Inside the room, she can make out a flat screen television and an oversized circular analogue clock on the far wall.

"Five minutes past ten; obviously it is morning," Christine whispers.

'Oh, Shit! This is real. I'm never shortsighted in my dreams.' Christine feels sick to the pit of her stomach with the particular nausea of fear. She turns around to look for an expedient location to vomit. Beside the bench is a stainless-steel lavatory, with a polished copper lid. Christine kneels before it and tries to lift this cover, but it will not budge. The smell of the glove leather hits her as she strains to lift the lid.

'This is becoming weirder. I've more than enough grip to move a loo cover. Somebody is playing a game.'

Christine sits upon the cold metal, opens her legs and leans forward to press her labia against its surface. She clumsily flicks her long blond hair so that it torments her large brown nipples to erection, because Christine knows that few men can resist her firm curved body. Although not overweight, she would describe herself as well formed and athletic.

"Are you going to come out and play with me?" Christine asks seductively, sounding so much braver than she feels.

'Is it my husband or my lover? Is it some random stranger, perchance? Don't use any names girl, just in case.'

Her instinctive reaction is to use her teeth on the laces of the gloves. However, the laces are of reinforced hard leather, without a loose end in sight.

Christine examines her cell, not that there is much to see. Apart from matt white featureless walls, it contains the black leather padded surface, sloping fifteen degrees from horizontal, that useless lavatory and a thick plastic tube dangling above the highest part of the bench. Christine's arse and labia become too cold, so she moves over to the bars which form the front of her prison; nineteen solid cold shiny poles, just set close enough together to prevent her gloves from passing through.

Christine reclines on the bench, studying her cell.

'So where's the door? The ceiling looks solid and so does the floor.'

To make sure, she pushes on every part of the cell's roof, but cannot detect any hint of an exit through the padding of her gloves. Christine repeats this process on the walls, and then uses her feet on the floor. She notices that the light is fading and squints at the clock.

'Quarter past seven in the evening. How can the time have passed so quickly?'

"What is going on? If this is a game then I am bored with it. Whoever you are, show yourself!"

Christine lies facing the ceiling on the narrow bench, with her head at the bench's lowest point, then spreads her legs widely to rest her feet on the floor. She is sure that somebody is watching and wants to show as much defiance as she dare.

When an electric bell sounds, Christine jumps, landing in a heap on the floor. This noise only lasts a second or two, but ten seconds later clear liquid dribbles through the tube in the ceiling. Christine manages to catch only the very last drop in her mouth.

'Water! Cool clean water!' Christine thinks, as the spillage drains away before she can decide if she should lick it up from the floor or not.

'Stupid girl! That could have been sulphuric acid. How can it be 8:10 p.m. already?' However, the view through the window gradually turns red to confirm the time, so Christine places herself, head uppermost, on the bench.

As the absolute darkness envelops her, she feels even more terrified. Christine's brain transforms each random signal from her eyes into unspeakable horrors.

Excruciatingly slowly, she begins to remember recent events. Christine squeals with delight as she recalls her husband giving her a gift for her twenty-something birthday, the keys to an original, fully reconditioned, vintage Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. She remembers driving it to her lover two days later. Christine giggles at how mischievous she felt when comparing it to the much less expensive gift from that lover.

Christine remembers their quarrel, when her lover pinched her nipple and she told him, in explicit terms, that she did not require him to hurt her. Then the big argument, when lover-boy did not want his wife to discover them. He told her that she was an arrogant bitch, for parking such an ostentatious car near to his private apartment.

Christine's mind goes blank as the clock starts to glow green.

'It can't be four in the morning already!'

She watches that clock; there is no second hand, but she can almost see the minute hand moving. Then Christine recollects fucking her lover, more with anger than passion. She remembers they drunk too much Champagne and he had fallen asleep with his cock still inside her. Christine had stormed out in a red rage.

'Think girl! What happened next? Did you go back to lover-boy, sleep in the car or drive home?' Christine's mind is blank; she recalls nothing.

Eventually, the despicable truth dawns and Christine remembers starting to drive the unfamiliar heavy car, with a turning circle worse than a bus, whilst extraordinarily drunk. Christine vaguely recalls only the first few miles, then nothing more until she found herself in this cell.

***

Natasha Cowsun comes to, in a much less pleasant environment than Christine's cell. The same type of boxing gloves as Christine's encase Natasha's hands and a leather hood tightly restrains her head. Natasha cannot see, cannot open her mouth and her ears hurt from the compression. She quickly determines, cautiously feeling about with her feet, that she is in a small, padded cell, which appears to have a drainage hole in one corner.

Natasha concludes that her empty feeling and sore anus are due to an involuntary enema. Her extremely painful body tells her of colossal cunt torture and humungous nipple torment, perhaps while unconscious. Natasha cannot determine if her eyes are covered or if there is no light in her cell.

However, she has less trouble than Christine did, recalling the events that led her to this place. She had been driving a tanker, full of liquid petroleum gas, along a deserted road in the middle of the night, when she saw the flashing blue lights behind her.

When the cop stopped her, Natasha expected that she would have to endure plenty of stereotypical racial and sexist abuse, but the officer seemed dumbstruck as Natasha opened the cab door. He stared up at Natasha in disbelief, unable to reconcile his perceptions of a truck driver with this strikingly attractive, six-foot six inch, ebony black woman, clad in a sleeveless bright yellow jumpsuit and showing excessive braless cleavage. Natasha recalls instinctively, but discreetly, pumping up the muscles in her arms and thinking,

'What will he start with, my height, my muscles, my tits or my high heels?' To her surprise, she had only received polite, but stern, instructions from this officer of the law.

"Follow us at a distance of one hundred yards. When we stop and show our hazard lights, park your tanker, leave the engine running and run to this car!"

Natasha had tried to ask for reasons, but they had sped away. She recalls following the police car and struggling to keep up on the twisty, dark, narrow road. Then nothing, totally zilch.

***

In her padded cell, Natasha waits patiently for something to happen, but it does not. An old tongue twister is repeatedly playing within her brain,

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.

A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,

Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?"

Natasha thinks that she has almost made it to her birthday and speculates where she has heard that chant before.

Still waiting in her prison, Natasha does not conjecture who has placed her into this predicament, for Natasha is a villainess not a lorry driver. That part-time occupation is only for the benefit of the tax authorities, to divert their attention from her minor thefts, extortions and frauds. Any one, from many thousands of enraged victims, could be behind her incarceration. As she is still alive, Natasha expects that her almost certain death will be slow and painful.

Purely to distract her mind, Natasha playfully punches her lower abdomen until her cunt finally springs into action and starts to lubricate. She gently punches and rubs her clitoris to increase her stimulation. A high-pitched 'fingers on a blackboard' squeal invades her padded cell, slowly growing in intensity. Natasha is virtually uneducated, but she knows how to survive on her wits. She places her hands by her sides, and then the screech abates.

'This is a sodding no frigging area. What a pity!' With nothing to do, Natasha drifts off to sleep.

***

Christine jumps to her feet at the sound of the bell and positions her mouth under the tube. She gags slightly as the warm, sweet, milky coffee dribbles into her mouth; but she swallows every drop before shouting out,

"I don't take sugar in my coffee and that's too much milk!"

A buzzer sounds, and then the copper lavatory lid starts to lift with agonising slowness. Only a faint pneumatic hiss and barely audible mechanical tone betray this contraption as mechanical. Christine sits and empties her bladder. As she conjectures how she is supposed to wipe herself, she notices the view through the window; a calm sea lit by brilliant sunshine. She is bouncing on the loo (to dislodge her drips), when the buzzer sounds again and the lavatory cover starts to descend. Christine pushes against it with her gloves, but the mechanism is far too powerful.

She leans against the bars and squints to see the time.

'It's six thirty, presumably a.m. Let's hope the time flies by as quickly as yesterday.' Christine is bored, fatigued and becoming depressed. A klaxon sounds then a part of the wall slides away, revealing what looks like a shower cabinet. Without hesitation, she walks in. The klaxon toots again, the wall closes and powerful warm jets of water, from all directions, deluge Christine.

'This is so relaxing and refreshing. I could stay in here all day.'

Christine tries to excite her genitalia with her gloved hands, but they are too imprecise, far too clumsy to allow her anything approaching a climax. She moves around, finally finds a position where part of a jet torments her clitoris and the rest of that jet splashes her labia. Christine massages her arse cheeks with her gloved hands, and then moves her gloves to her breasts.

"If only I could tweak my nipples, that would do it," she whispers to the dancing water droplets. The gloves seem to be absorbing water, becoming a tad smoother. Christine touches her face, kisses the black leather then allows that fist to drift firmly down the front of her body. Her fist roughly parts her breasts then continues straight down, pressing hard over her belly. As she slaps her cunt, catching both clitoris and the top of her labia, Christine starts to kiss the other glove.

'This is going to be a good orgasm,' Christine thinks as her fists work in a continuous loop, arousing her slowly towards her zenith.

'I'll soon get there.' Without warning, the water stops flowing.

'Keep going, girl. You're almost there.' However, the moment has passed, her concentration has been broken and her arousal disperses.

'So how do I get dry?' Christine shakes her head and brushes away some of the drips from her body. Without warning, hot air blasts her body from every direction, drying her skin quickly.

'I'm going to fry in here!' As if in response to her thoughts, the air becomes cooler then stops blowing. The klaxon sounds and the wall opens.

"I think that I will stay in here. You don't mind, do you?"

'No answer. Have I upset my captor's plans?' An icy blast fills the shower-cabinet and the klaxon starts, louder than before. The blast blows even colder and the klaxon thunders much more loudly.

"You win!" she screams above the commotion, as she leaves the washing facility. The wall closes but the klaxon rises to a deafening volume. Christine pushes the gloves over her ears to try to stop the pain, but the noise continues to increase. Tears stream from her eyes as she huddles in a corner.

At last, the klaxon stops.

Soon after, Christine only just hears the bell above the ringing in her ears. She positions her mouth and receives a good portion of vegetable soup, delivered far too slowly. Again, the bell sounds; water this time. Christine uses the last mouthful to swill around her mouth.

'A toothbrush and hands to hold it would be nice.' Then the buzzer sounds, for her lavatory break.

'Jailer wants to keep me busy.' However, the action has stopped, so Christine squints to see the clock.

'Six thirty five! This is stupid; more that five minutes have passed, but most undoubtedly not twelve hours.' Christine stands motionless, staring at the clock. After what seems like an hour, it shows that a minute has ticked by.

The bell, buzzer and klaxon continue to sound without any apparent rhythm. Christine complies with their demands for a while, eventually attempting another act of insubordination. She does not sit on the lavatory in response to the buzzer. Christine's reward is one brief, excruciatingly loud, warning blast on the klaxon.

"Please, oh please! Not again!" she pleads, squatting upon the loo. Notwithstanding her supplication, six short blasts cruelly batter her ears.

By seven on the clock, Christine is exhausted, despite knowing it is still early morning. She reclines on the bench, closes her eyes and tries to position herself so that she can feel her pulse in her earlobe or her neck, for this would give Christine some idea as to the real passage of time. However, she is worryingly unsuccessful, and drifts off to sleep.

The bell wakes her; she jumps up to receive a mouthful of sickly sweet warm milk with only a hint of coffee. Christine gags on it, but makes the effort to keep drinking until the drips stop.

"I'm sorry that I was rude about your coffee, sir." The bell rings once more to indicate the arrival of hot strong coffee without sugar.

"Thank you, sir. If you would like to tell me the rules of this game I will comply with your wishes."

'He must want subservience; it has to be a man and a bloody strange one at that. He is playing with my mind, so I will not look at that clock again.'

Christine notices that the flat screen television is moving slowly towards her, without any obvious means of propulsion. It stops a foot away from the bars, turns on and displays a message in large red letters,

'THIS IS NOT A GAME, CHRISTINE'.

She replies,

"Okay, please tell me what is happening to me, sir." The display changes to '07:06 a.m.' in hideous lime green characters, so that it fills the screen. Christine screams in terror.

'He knows that I have stopped looking at the clock. This bastard must be reading my mind. I can't win; I can't fight a man who knows my mind.'

Christine screams continuously for ages, only stopping when the display changes to '07:07' and the klaxon sounds to summon her to the shower.