Christina Slave In Training Ch 1

Chapter 1: The Motel, Stripped

The girl stood ramrod straight before her tormentor dressed only in bra and panties. Panic rose in her throat and wrote its signature across her face. He was tall and dark with a three day stubble of beard. His arms were tattooed, and the black eyes that raked her lovely body were cold and cruel. He smiled crookedly, plainly enjoying what he saw, but it was not enough.

"Strip, I told you! All the way! What are you waiting for? Those too!" His command was sharp and threatening.

She reached behind her back with both hands, in her fright fumbling at first with the hooks on the bra. The last catch came loose suddenly, and the elastic band relaxed, releasing her lovely full breasts from the bra cups. She slipped the straps off her shoulders and shrugged. The bra fell uselessly to the floor at her feet.

"Now the panties," he demanded. "I want to see your cunt."

The girl bent forward slightly at the waist in order to hook her thumbs under the elastic waist band. In reluctant recognition that she had no choice, she began to push the pink nylon down her hips and over her firm buttocks. As the panty top reached her thighs, her pubic hair could be seen, neatly trimmed and shaved into a V to accommodate a bikini panty with modesty.

She stooped still further as the panties slid loosely down her legs. Fighting to hold back her panic, and at the same time struggling to keep her balance, she lifted first one leg and then the other to clear her feet as gracefully as she could of that final garment. Naked now, the girl straightened, and trying not to show her fear, she tossed the panties as nonchalantly as she could manage toward her other clothes scattered on the floor.

The man stepped up to her, nose to nose, staring into her eyes, and breathing into her face. Each of his hands gripped a breast, his fingers squeezing and mauling tit flesh even as his thumbs closed and rubbed painfully across her nipples. She whimpered in protest but despite the hurt and terror that gripped her, her body insisted on responding to his arrogant hands. Independently, her pussy went from merely moist to wet, and those abused teats swelled with blood and grew hard under his thumbs.

"Time for a pussy check, bitch!" he snarled at her. "Spread your legs, let's see if you're wet."

Obediently her feet parted, and her thighs came open. His right hand released a breast and reached between her legs. The index finger began to probe her vagina for her G-spot, searching for her horny, testing her arousal. The finger, however, was not unassisted. Even as it explored inside her, the thumb of the hand on her slit was tempting the clitoris hidden at the top to peek out from under its protective folds of flesh.

Finished with the examination of her pussy, the finger inside her curled into a cruel hook. Caught like a fish on the barb of a gaff, the naked girl had no choice but to follow along wherever that hand and its awful finger might take her. When the hand lifted slightly, and she did the only thing she could do..., she raised herself onto her toes and teetered there unsteadily, helplessly, pitifully at the mercy of this stranger who controlled her pussy.

He did not hold her suspended on her toes for long. He was only demonstrating to her how helpless she was should she have any doubt about his right to command her. His point made, he lowered the hand between her legs and returned her feet to the floor. With an exaggerated sweep of his arm, he withdrew the offending finger that had so callously probed her cunt, and raised it to his nose. Sniffing along its length for her odor, he took at least three or four deep breaths before announcing, "Yeah look at that. I thought as much. Wet as a flag in a rainstorm."

It was true! His hand and finger bore the uncontrovertable evidence of female desire. Her pussy juices were flowing freely..., no, she was not merely flowing freely, she was even wetter than that. Despite the certainty of rape, despite the threat of pain and even death, the lubricating fluid from her sex was running in a flood that was overflowing her cunt and starting to run down her leg.

Her tormentor said not a word as he fed the soiled finger into her mouth. He knew she would know what to do. He was right. Without protest she sucked the finger clean, and then his thumb. Finally she licked his palm and between his fingers, cleaning the whole hand of her wet.

The sneer was all across his face as he asked, "What will it be first slut? A blow job, or would you rather take a ride on my cock? Or maybe I ought to fuck your ass just to teach you who owns you now. How would that be slut? Want your ass fucked?"

"P-pl-please....." she stammered uncertain how she should reply, if at all.

He ignored her uncertainty. "By the way bitch, If you're going to be my slut, I ought to know your name. What is your name bitch?"

"Christine," she answered simply. >

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CAPTURED

That is how the nightmare began for Christine.

'Nightmare', however, is not entirely an accurate description of the event. Certainly what happened to Christine in the next few days would be as serious and disturbing as it would be uncivilized, despicable and legally criminal. Certainly her world would be turned upside down in direct contradiction to the classic dreams of a recent bride..., a cottage with a white picket fence, a loving husband and children romping in the spacious yard.

In truth, the cottage dream had never been enough for Christine. Yes, she wanted to live happily ever after in that classic way, but she had other dreams as well. Dreams that were erotic visions of herself as the love slave of a demanding master who would display her naked before strangers, on her knees begging for his cock. Dreams that were erotic visions of a masterful male who would spank her, caress her ass and force her to take his cock up that forbidden hole. What of those dreams? They too were important to Christine. Even if it should it be a crude tattooed rapist who made them real, her distress and humiliation might not be as much a 'nightmare' as at first it might appear.

Indeed, even as she was forced to strip herself for the pleasure of a brutal stranger, Christine was on her way to discovering a side to herself that until then she had only dimly suspected even existed. The butterfly of new Christine was about to emerge from her cicada with sexual passions and desires that in a very real way would make this sudden and unexpected twist in her life as much of an epiphany as a nightmare.

Christine, in both her new and old versions, was 25 years old, brunet, 5 foot 5 inches tall, and an exercise freak with a well toned body to prove it. Christine was married for the first time only six months ago to a man that she dearly loved (as she believes she still does, despite the recent complications). Her husband Stanley Winston is a 29 year old CPA, a well liked young man with a sharp mind. It is generally agreed that he has brilliant professional future before him as an accountant.

Christine was, and still is, a secretary in a rival CPA firm to the one that employs Stanley. They first met on a blind date arranged by a young associate in the office where she worked who had been Stanley's classmate in college. She and Stanley found that they already shared similar tastes in music, art, movies and food. There were of course areas of interest in which they differed. Stanley, in the nature of accountants, was anything but athletic, or athletically inclined, whereas Christine was avid in her pursuit of physical fitness, and the call of the great outdoors.

Christine was, and is, proud of her trim body, strength and stamina, and she regularly worked out in a gym to stay fit for her favorite sport of rock climbing. She chose the gym where she is a member because it is the unofficial home of the local aficionados of that sport, and offers them a wall designed as an artificial cliff on which to practice.

Christine and her rock climbing friends from the gym regularly hike the back country on camping trips looking for steep mountain sides where they can test their skills on sheer surfaces provided by mother nature. These are outings that may last for two days to a week, and they are definitely on the 'roughing it' side. These are serious hikers/climbers/campers, not yuppies who visit the wild with an RV equipped with all the amenities of civilization.

Stanley Winston was smitten by this pretty girl, and he was willing, even eager, to do whatever was necessary to merge his life with hers. Even before their marriage, Stanley joined Christine at her gym and set for himself the difficult and sometimes painful goal of mastering that climbing wall, hoping to some day to climb with his chosen mate as her partner on a real rock face.

In the months following their honeymoon, Stanley worked hard in the gym and made steady progress in his strength and conditioning, and on the training wall. That progress was ultimately rewarded. Within a few months of their wedding, he was accompanying Christine on hikes into the rugged back country, and was able to tackle a few of the less demanding climbs right along with her.

On all their early outings Stanley and Christine were accompanied by veterans of the climbing club to insure the safety of the rookie climber. At last, however, Stanley qualified to accompany Christine alone on a hike, a romantic journey into the wild by just the two of them. They had camped out for two nights, hiking and climbing for three days, before they returned to Bakersville, a tiny town at the junction of two highways at the very foot of the local mountain range.

Bakersville wasn't much town..., a handful of widely scattered houses; two gas stations; a perfectly awful greasy little restaurant; a combination grocery, hardware and feed store; and a honky-tonk bar and tavern that catered to bikers and local red neck hard cases. Also there, however, was a 1930's style motel with individual frame cabins, and it was this motel that attracted climbers and campers to Bakersville. It did not matter that the beds were lumpy, and the cabins dirty and suffering from dry rot and termites. Well located as a convenient place to begin a back country hike, and a safe place to leave their vehicles while gone, the motel was even more important as an oasis where a hot shower and clean clothes awaited tired hiker/rock climbers at the end of grueling days on the mountain.

Christine and her husband had returned to their cabin at the end of the third day of their outing. They had enjoyed their hike, and rejuvenated by a sexy shower together, and clean clothes, the couple were hungry, even so hungry as to dare the gastric threat of a greasy meal at Bakersfield's only restaurant. As they entered they noticed a pair of very tough looking unshaven men dressed in dirty denim pants and equally dirty white T-shirts sitting in a booth by the door. "Local hillbillies," Christine thought, as she had her first look at the men who would that same evening strip and rape her.

Four awful hamburgers later washed down with cold beer, their hunger sated by quantity if not taste, the husband and wife next walked toward the garish neon tubes that emblazoned beer advertisements in ruby red across windows black with years of accumulated grime. Inside the sleazy tavern, the juke box was blaring a country/western tune, and through the gloom of tobacco smoke, the same two men that had been at the Restaurant were sitting on stools at the bar. Their cold eyes never seemed to leave this city woman who had dared to invade this rural inter-sanctum of the very meanest of local yokels. Just the sight of the two men seemed sinister to Christine, and a cold chill of premonition ran up her back..., as well it should have.

Christine and her husband each had double whiskeys with a beer chaser (about the limit to the mixing skill by a Bakersville bar tender) and the drinks on top of the beers with their hamburgers had them both feeling mellow by the time they left the little bar and started back across the highway to their motel. The two hard looking men had left the saloon some time earlier and had been forgotten by the time Stanley put the key in the door of the cabin.

As the bolt clicked open, from out of the dark behind Christine the two men came in a rush. They were strong and had the advantage of total surprise. One went for Christine and the larger second man for her husband. Each was armed with a rope lasso that dropped expertly over each victim pinning their arms to their bodies. Almost before the struggle began, and before either Christine or Stanley could cry out for help, the men had forced themselves and their captives inside the cabin and slammed the door behind them.

Christine was still struggling, threatening to break free of noose around her, but the bigger of the two men already had two more coils of rope around her husband, and had him well under control. "Christ Luke," the man wrestling with Christine cried out, "get that son of a bitch tied up and get over here and help me. This little whore is as strong as a mule."

Christine was strong, and she was fighting hard, or at least she was until her assailant slapped her viciously across the face. It was an openhanded blow, but came out of 'left field', a powerful haymaker that caught her squarely on the jaw. Knocked to her knees, she was momentarily stunned and helpless. It wasn't a long lapse to her fighting furor, but it was enough. Before she could resume her resistance, he had stepped over her, and straddling her back, tied her wrists together behind her with the loose end of the lasso. Christine finally accepted her struggle as hopeless, and when the dark stranger drew a tattooed arm back to strike her again, she dropped her head in surrender.

"No! Don't! Don't hit me. I give up." An armistice was indeed her only option. With the noose up around her neck where it had slipped during the struggle, and the other end of the rope binding her hands behind her, the stranger needed only a hand at the middle of the lasso rope to insure complete control over his victim.

Christine was at his feet cowering away from him as she asked, "What is it you want? Take it and go."

"What we want, missy is a piece of that fine ass you been sashaying through our country side for the last couple of days. That's not somethin' that's real practical to just take and go. Anyway, Luke and I don't treat our sluts like that. We stick around long enough for them to get off too." The stranger leered at her, grinning to show a gold tooth in front as he pronounced sentence upon his prisoner.

Christine understood. These men intended to rape her. There was no way for her to escape her fate. Across the room Stanley lay on the floor classically hogtied, his hands roped together behind his back and strung to bound ankles that were drawn up tightly toward his hands. The important thing she decided was not to get hurt trying to avoid the inevitable.

"All right," Christine told her tormentor, "untie me. I won't fight you. Whatever you want! Tell me, and I'll do it. Just don't hurt us. "

Behind her, the man pulled her to her feet, undid the knots that held her hands, but pointedly left the lasso noose around her neck. He was still gripping that rope up close to the slip knot, pulling it tight against her throat, when with a snarling threat in his voice, he ordered, "Strip bitch!"

Slowly she removed her blouse, then her shoes and socks, and finally she slipped her jeans down off her legs and stood before him in only her panties and bra. Those, as we have already seen, were soon to follow, and that was when he had asked her name.

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RAPED

"Christine......." she had answered him.

In her terror her true name had just popped out. Almost instantly she wondered why hadn't she lied and told him Mary or something. For this stranger to know her name was somehow even more demeaning to her than how those black eyes surveyed her nude body, or the way he had squeezed her breasts and examined her pussy. Well, what was done was done, and she waited bare and vulnerable, resigned to what she knew was coming.

"Kiss me bitch," he commanded and with one hand on a short grip at the slip knot of the noose, and the other in her hair, he yanked her mouth to his. He tasted of chewing tobacco and cheap whiskey. His tongue forced its way between her lips engaging her own in a duel behind her teeth.

She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. Strangely the very violence of the way he took her, and her own helplessness, brought her horny to a boil. One of his hands was on her breast. Even though still in his pants, she could feel his prick growing hard against her belly. Forced to give him her mouth and take his tongue, Christine was horrified to find herself responding to his passion. Overtaken by an animal desire, she dueled his tongue with her own, and wiggled her hips, rubbing excitement into that impressive male shaft hidden under his clothes.

She was dizzy by the time he released her lips from his. Was it his tongue in her throat that blocked her breathing, or was her head to swimming because of something entirely hormonal? He gave her no chance to decide which might be true. Already his hands were pushing downward on the top of her shoulders. She understood what he wanted of her, and allowing her legs to buckle, she dropped to her knees before him.

It was frightening to be in a stranger's total control like this. To Christine, however, it was also somehow entirely familiar. She had long enjoyed masturbation fantasies in which she was naked and on her knees before a demanding male, totally submissive to his every desire. Although she had never actually been forced into having sex before, in her fantasies she was regularly forced to perform for the pleasure of her dream master. There was scarcely any dirty or humiliating sex act this brute could demand of her that she had not imagined many times over.

In her fantasy sex life however, her master was also her lover, and his control over her was as much by seduction as by force. She simply had never considered that a total stranger might compel her with pain and fear into having sex with him. Yet here she was, terrorized by just such criminal brutality without any pretense of loving seduction. This man was a rapist pure and simple. He meant to fuck her. Her consent or lack thereof was in no way relevant.

Somewhat to Christine's surprise, however, rape made no difference to her arousal. Her immediate desire, a present craving to have a big cock inside her, was every bit as intense as in her fantasy seductions by a loving master. Rape this may be, but Christine's pussy was sopping wet and already aquiver in eager anticipation of this stranger's cock that would soon fill it.

"My shoes, bitch! Get them off." His shoes were heavy working man's brogans not easy to unlace, but even in her confusion Christine was quick to help him out of one and then the other.

"Now the belt, bitch! Unbuckle it and drop my pants," was his next command. His belt was much easier than his shoes, and she was able to quickly open his fly and slide the dirty denims down his legs into a pile on the floor around his ankles. He wore no underwear, and in her face was eight or nine inches of penis, flaccid but beginning to harden.

"Kiss it, bitch! Kiss it and suck the head like the whore you are."

"My god," Christine asked herself silently, "I can't possibly want to suck this bastard..., but I do. What is the matter with me. I'm being raped for Christ sake..., and yet I'm on the very edge of going into heat like some animal bitch. No! No, I won't. I refuse! I am not a mare to be bred. I am not a slut, and certainly not this bastard's slut."