The Wrangler: The only thing standing between the beautiful kidnapped heiress and death was -- The Wrangler. (4 page)

But it also had a drawback. She was having trouble getting enough air into her lungs through her nose and the gag. The vigorous pounding she was taking made her gasp for breath, but the tiny holes in the gag were not that big and her nostrils weren't either. She wasn't aware of it, but during sex her mouth was often wide open as she gasped for air.

Now all her air was coming through several tiny holes that just didn't provide as much air as her wide-open mouth. She wasn't getting enough air. She felt like she was on the verge of passing out several times as the second guy did her.

Then the third guy did her. He wasn't like the others. He was worse. She knew he was going to be worse from the first moment he touched her. That was because the first thing he did was lay a blob of something cool on her anus. And she knew what that meant. Anal sex. And plenty of it.

Christine had tried anal sex exactly once, with a boyfriend who was oh, so gentle and oh, so considerate, and who took his time, and it STILL hurt and it smelled bad, too. Yeah, it was dirty and kinky but it hurt, so that was it. No anal sex.

Well, no VOLUNTARY anal sex. This was clearly going to be the other kind of anal sex.

Her captor was good about lubing her up, but he wasn't really all that concerned with doing so gently. He just poked whatever it was -- smelled like vaseline -- into her ass. Apparently, this and the sight of her was all it took to give this man a hard-on, because a moment later he thrust his cock into her.

He had a big cock. He had to work it in. Christine found herself straining against the ropes with all her might, trying to get away from it. But the ropes didn't have much yield to them. So all she could do was arch her back up and down and throw her hips from side to side to present a hard target.

Her captor put his hands on her hips and held them still, so she couldn't arch her back and keep her ass away from his cock. Slowly, inevitably, his cock worked its way inside her.

Then he began reaming her. Christine's cries turned to short screams of pain as he thrust in and out of her. She couldn't help it, it hurt so much, and beside, it was about the only thing she could do. She could not stop the pain, or control it, she could only respond to it, so she did.

It really hurt as the man rammed his cock inside her, so much so that it stood out from all the other hurts she was feeling -- and for the first time in her life, she really understood what the term "in a world of hurt" meant. She'd heard good ol' boys use the term, mostly in the form of "when I'm through with you, yer gonna be in a world of hurt!"

Now as she writhed and twisted in the ropes and arched her back, she understood exactly what it meant to be in a world of hurt.

It took him forever to come. Christine didn't know how long that might have been objectively, she only knew that the time between each stroke was an eternity of feeling the pain from the preceding stroke and fearing the pain from the next stroke.

She was sure that at any moment she would pass out from the pain. She WANTED to pass out from the pain. But she didn't. It was amazing, how much pain she could feel without passing out or dying from it. She would not have believed it was possible to hurt so much and still survive. She would have been amazed, but she was too full of pain and fear for something as complex as amazement to register in her mind.

How these men could ignore her pain and fear and treat her like a lover was beyond Christine's understanding. Of course, they could not see the misery on her face because of the gag and the ropes held her in a position that invited sex, but even though she was gagged the noises coming out from beyond the gag were not happy noises. But then, how could you tell one kind of muffled cry from another?

Christine had always known that men were kind of rough and not choosy where sex is concerned -- "Men are dogs," her mom liked to say. But she had never experienced the depths of male indifference about their sex partners that these men exhibited. They just didn't care how she felt about it, not one bit.

There was one other guy. When he came in, she didn't even try to evade his cock or move in response to him much at all. She was exhausted. She was beaten. The could fuck her, and she knew it, and they knew it, so he fucked her and she took it because she had no choice -- the ropes saw to that.

Then there was a lull, a wonderful lull. She was still tied with her legs spread and her ass hiked in the air, her pussy all raw and exposed, but at least no one was fucking her. Christine sagged into the ropes and was totally unmindful of how she looked while doing so -- a deeply unnatural state for her. Normally, how she looked while doing something was more important to her than what she might be doing. (It wasn't that she was naturally vain -- she had been raised to think that way.)

She had no idea how long the idyll lasted. Long enough for her knees to start aching and for her shoulders, knees and ankles to chafe at their bonds. Her arms were tired from being bound behind her back, but not from chafing on the ropes.

And her butt still felt raw, though not nearly so raw as it felt when it was being used.

The Wrangler and his buddies watched TV, played cards and waited nine o'clock, the time for their victim to call. They had sent them a cell phone with a picture of their daughter naked and bound prior to the raping. She had a tattoo of a butterfly just above her labia and what appeared to be a childhood scar on her left arm, along with a unique-appearing mole on the same arm.

The Boss and the Cleaner conducted their inspection and took their photos after the Wrangler tied Christine down. Blinded and deafened, she had no idea that they were there, much less what they were doing. If it had been necessary to touch her or move her to get their photos, she would have known they were there, but it wasn't and so she didn't.

The photos were taken on a digital camera and then printed out on a cheap printer bought weeks ago in another state. With cash.

They were not being paranoid, they were being professional. They knew how other criminals got caught, and they took pains to not do the things that got them caught.

They were waiting, and so was Christine. She just did not know what she was waiting for.

Later, the Wrangler flipped Christine over on her back. He put a bendy straw into the wiffle ball gag and poked it through a hole on the far side of the gag, allowing it to extend half an inch beyond the gag. He took a small funnel, the kind often found in kitchen supply departments, and taped then end of it to the bendy straw.

Then he slowly began pouring some apple juice into the funnel. He did it slowly because with her mouth held open by the gag, Christine could not swallow naturally. Plus she had no idea what kind of stuff was being poured down her throat and she might not be all that inclined to swallow it at first.

Christine was in fact very thirsty and too physically and psychologically shocked by all the rape to resist swallowing the juice. She tried to swallow it in fact, but of course that didn't work so she wound up doing some weird clenching thing with her throat while her jaws and tongue worked reflexively against the gag. It was uncomfortable, but it got the juice down. And the juice felt very, very good going down.

The Wrangler only gave her a cup or so of juice -- he just didn't want her to get terribly dehydrated. He wanted her somewhat dehydrated because then she wouldn't pee very much, making his job easier. And they didn't plan to keep her long enough to have to feed her anything. She'd get hungry, but that would be her problem. Her daddy could feed her steak and lobster when they released her, if they got the money. Otherwise, hunger would not be a problem for her anyway.

Christine felt a weird surge of intense gratitude for being given the juice. It felt so good. And it was the only good thing that had been done to her for what seemed like days.

The Wrangler watched Christine for a short time after she drank, to make sure she didn't throw up. Gagged, she could easily choke on her own vomit, killing her. And if possible, the Wrangler and the rest of the crew did not want a murder rap attached to this case. They didn't want to be caught, but they didn't want to wind up on death row if they were caught. Even though kidnapping itself was a capital crime, there was a very clear bifurcation between sentences for kidnappers who killed their victims and those who didn't.

When he was sure Christine wasn't going to choke, he left her alone.

He checked the telltales he'd put around the room to make sure no one was dicking with him. They were all as he'd left them. Good, it raised his chances of getting out of this job in one piece considerably.

Then he left Christine alone.

Christine didn't notice, she was too busy resting. The new posture was not all that comfortable. Sure, she was on her back, but her arms were tied behind her, which meant she was lying on top of them. What's more her legs were spread wide apart, which bothered her a LOT more now that she knew that the men who had her would take advantage of that fact.

Of course, they had not taken advantage of her when she been bound this way previously. Why should they? They literally had physical control of her. She could not move unless they wanted her to. She belonged to them, not in the way she had belonged to her family or to her college, but in the way their cigarette lighters and clothing and such belonged to them.

She was a thing they had acquired, to be used as such. She knew that now. She knew it in her bones, it wasn't anything she had to think about.

In one respect, this realization was frightening. She knew they'd kill her now if they wanted to, with no more thought than they'd give to snuffing out the flame of a cigarette lighter.

On the other hand it was a comforting thought. Because she knew that they were keeping her alive for a reason. If they had wanted her dead, they would have killed her without hesitation. The straightforward way they had raped her showed her that in a way that mere threatening words never could.

So when the next guy came in and raped her, it was almost a relief. If he was raping her, he was not killing her.

Because until she'd been raped, Christine had a core of certitude that they wouldn't rape her or kill her. She was young and beautiful and wealthy, or at least her family was, which was pretty much the same thing. Bad things didn't happen to her. The rape had shown her she was wrong about that. And now she had a cold, wrenching fear of death in her gut that was very different from the lurid fears she'd felt prior to the rape.

This was different from any fear that she'd ever felt in her life. It was worse in ways she couldn't even put a name to. She had a vivid, strong, undeniable grasp of the notion that there might not be anything at all for her on the other side of this bedroom -- that the blackness of the hood that enclosed her head was just a harbinger for the greater blackness that would soon replace her life with ... nothing.

The rape was a huge improvement over that. Anything that distracted her from the cold, remorseless gnawing of the fear of death was a good thing, a very good thing.

It didn't feel like a good thing, in fact, in certain respects it was more painful than the previous rapes. For one thing, she was still sore and stiff from the previous rapes. But more than that, she was still lying atop her pinioned arms, and now the guy lying on top of her was also lying on top of her pinioned arms. And he was a LOT bigger than she was -- all of them were.

That added to the discomfort, because her face was often buried in his chest. That and the weight of him pressing down on her made breathing a lot more difficult. Struggling to breathe was her major activity during the rape, mainly because it was all she could do.

The other major problem she had was the way the man pounded into her splayed-open legs. Unlike her usual sexual partners, he made no effort to keep the weight of his body off hers, he just laid into her. With her legs tied so far apart, it put a huge strain on joints. Every thrust made her feel as though her legs were being pulled out of their sockets.

She cried out through her gag with every thrust, not because she thought he would relent, but because it was all she could do. He probably thought it was because she was responding to him sexually. She was responding to him all right -- she could not ABIDE his smell, neither his natural body odor or the cheap after shave he wore. It was all pain and stink for her.

The next two rapes were very much like the first. Each guy smelled different, but she didn't like the way any of them smelled. Each guy worked her body differently, but she didn't like the way any of them worked her body.

Her body was habituated to fucking, and she liked it, she liked it a lot, with a nice boy. This was something, but it wasn't fucking.

Well, that was not completely true. It was physically a LOT like fucking. And there was something about being tied up so much like this ... it wasn't so much the ropes but the feeling of being a tiny thing scrabbling beneath an irresistible force that she had sometimes experienced during sex, especially with athletes. She had had some truly wonderful orgasms while writhing frantically under a bronzed body that pumped furiously at her. Her best ever.

She had thought it was the physical prowess of the athletes that had made it happen. But now she wasn't so sure. The men who were raping her were mentally hard, by they weren't physically hard like athletes were physically hard.

The men who were raping her were mentally hard, no doubt about that, but they weren't physically hard in the way athletes were. While only one of them seemed physically soft, she could tell by the feel of their bodies on hers that they were just average fit guys -- like guys who jogged or played tennis regularly, not like bodybuilders.  

It was the restraints that made her so helpless -- she had always been small, barely making it past the five foot mark. And there was something wonderful, or had once been, about surrendering oneself utterly to a lover at the moment of orgasm, of becoming a small pink thing writhing helplessly in ecstasy while in the grasp of forces far beyond herself.