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A Test Of Endurance by Stacey Bond

EXTRACT FOR
A Test Of Endurance 
(Stacey Bond)


A TEST OF ENDURANCE

 

Chapter One

 

She has been in the car for hours. Two or three, maybe more. Hours spent locked in this cramped, stinking boot, her wrists bound tightly and painfully behind her, her ankles and knees also tautly tethered, her lips and eyes taped shut. A beautiful girl kidnapped and trussed, terrified and utterly helpless.

She fought with the ropes for the first hour or so, driven by a sickening fear, yet these desperate efforts achieved only exhaustion and horrible frustration, leaving her overwhelmed by panic stricken, well muffled sobs. But the tears have dried now, her hands and feet are virtually numb, and all she can do is worry and whimper into her gag, fearfully wondering why and by whom she has been abducted.

She replays the abduction in her mind time and time again: a horror movie concluding in the grim darkness of this car boot. She had been dressing for the party at Graig's house, the party at which he was to announce their engagement. She had stood before the full-length mirror in her spacious bedroom admiring the new white satin basque which enveloped her splendid torso, congratulating herself on both her taste and her great beauty. Frilled with delicate white French lace, decorated with gleaming silk roses and hugging her superb model's figure with an intensely erotic firmness, the basque was to have been a particularly eye-popping surprise for Graig once the other guests had left. With the added bonus of sheer, white nylon seamed stockings encasing her magnificent legs (held in place by diamond studded, red satin suspenders) and glistening red patent leather stilettos, she had been a stunning image of classic femininity. All this plus her gorgeously thick black hair spilling over golden shoulders, her lips painted a thick cherry red and her lovely big brown eyes highlighted by the slightest hint of peach mascara.

Classic femininity: the way Graig loved to see her, the way he demanded to see her; a provocative mixture of wide-eyed virgin and knowing slut. The way she loved to be seen by him, by the man who she had come to regard as her rightful master. Graig Lord, top photographer, pop video director and, if the deal with the Arab oil millionaire went through, big-time film maker. Yes, she had thought that tonight her life as a woman would be complete: a successful career as a glamour model, an ever-expanding wardrobe of beautiful clothes, an ornate Victorian townhouse, an expensive red sports car, and now England's top fashion photographer as her husband. She had looked into the long, rectangular mirror and dreamed of being in his powerful, muscular arms, possessed, his lips brushing against her wonderful jet hair (how he loved her hair!), of eagerly serving him beneath soft white sheets until the break of day and beyond. Yet no sooner had this sexy fantasy drawn her slender hands between her legs than the first masked figure had suddenly appeared beside her own exquisite reflection.

In the boot she remembers awful shock mixed with heart stopping horror and moans into her inescapable gag. She spun around and faced the figure, her gorgeous eyes wide with startled terror, and made an immediate dash for the bedroom door, but the figure easily blocked her way, wrapped a vice tight arm around her perfect waist and clamped a leather gloved hand over her mouth. He then carried her kicking and squealing form to the large oval double bed that dominated the room, his arms and hands like pieces of thick steel, the tough, musky smell of leather filling her desperately flaring nostrils. As he forced her down onto the bed, a second figure appeared, also masked and dressed entirely in black. This second figure was carrying lengths of rope and a roll of surgical tape. Seeing this, she squealed louder and thrashed with all her might, but as one man held her face down on the bed, his hand still glued to her mouth, the other had managed to grasp her shapely ankles and bind them tightly together. This second man then repeated the process with her knees and, after a considerable struggle as her arms were forced behind her back, with her wrists. A strongly scented cloth of some kind was then stuffed into her mouth and a coil of thick white tape wound firmly over her lovely red lips and around her flawless head. Her eyes were also quickly covered by the tape. This binding and gagging took maybe two minutes, but after it was complete, she was completely immobilised, a tightly trussed bundle of pure female sensuality.

She remembers struggling on the bed, plunged by the tape blindfold into terrifying blackness. Absolute horror washed over her as she realised these men were surely going to rape and murder her, that she was about to be the victim of some warped sex crime. Tears washed against the tape and her squeals turned into a baby's petrified mewing.

All these thoughts seemed confirmed when she was picked up off of the bed and thrown unceremoniously over a strong, broad shoulder. But was no rape, at least not at that stage: She was carried down the stairs, a wickedly caressing hand pressed against her splendid backside, out into the chilly winter evening and placed in the boot of a car. Seconds after the boot had been slammed down on top of her, the engine started, and the car moved off. And now, unknown hours later, she is still locked in the stinking darkness, still tightly bound, still without the slightest hope of escape.

Again she thinks of Graig; she prays for him to save her. But such thoughts are surely ridiculous. How can he know where she is or what has happened to her? All he can know is that she has failed to turn up to the party and, maybe, he has reported her missing. But beyond that, her strong, handsome fiancé can know or do nothing. And this grim thought inspires renewed struggles. Long, stockinged legs stretch once again against thick, tight rope, soft, elegant wrists fight against their equally taut bonds. She tries desperately, a ballet of fearful feminine wiggles punctuated by well muffled girlish gasps of effort. But the ropes remain tight, unmoved, and her wrists, ankles and knees protest violently, throbbing with the pain of attempted escape. And to make things even worse, the struggles have ripped open the top of the basque and her large, pale rose breasts have been forced out into the boiling blackness. She is soaked in sweat now, her beautiful hair plastered to her scratched and taped face, her stockings sticking to legs insured for millions. A weak, delicate female battered by futile effort.

The car slows suddenly, then stops. Her heart pounds even faster in response. Is this to be the grim location of her awful demise? No: the car is turning now. A series of spine jolting pumps indicate a rough country road or track. These bumps become more and more frequent, until she is convinced the car is crossing a field of some kind. This goes on for maybe ten minutes, then smoother but still bumpy ground, then an abrupt stop which sends her tethered body crashing painfully into the side of the boot.

The engine is turned off, doors open and slam. Sounds of movement, feet moving towards the rear of the car. A key turning in the lock only inches from her face and then the cool night air floods in. Immediately she begins to squeal and wriggle, useless sound and movement her only means of protest. But the strong hands are soon upon her, grasping her waist and legs, hauling her up into the air and throwing her over the same iron shoulder. She feels the November air bite into her exposed breasts and knows she is surely doomed.

Her captors move forward in silence, the only sounds twigs breaking underfoot and her terrified whimpers as she is carried to some unimaginable yet surely hideous fate: two evil men and their gorgeous, hog-tied female captive disappearing into a hopelessly black night.

They continue on foot for another ten minutes or so and then stop. She hears twigs and grass being brushed away, then a strange metallic whining. A dull, heavy thud follows the whining. Then she is being lowered, but not onto the ground, rather, into it! The strong hands grip her perfect waist and lower her into some kind of hole. No, it cannot be! Surely they do not intend to bury her alive! This grotesque thought inspires terrified squeals and more wasted struggles. But now hands are wrapping around her ankles: there is somebody below receiving her as she is lowered into...into what?

The hands below grip her ankles, then her knees, and finally her waist. She is carried further downward and then forward by these hands and lowered onto a cold, hard concrete floor. She can hear a generator humming and the sound of the second man entering this strange underground place. Then, out of the terrible darkness and tortuous uncertainty, comes a voice, a voice she knows, a voice she knows well.

“Welcome to your new home, Tina.”

But it is not a man's voice, not the strange, hoarse voice of her imagined captor. It is a woman's voice, a woman she has come to grudgingly respect and easily fear: the voice of Greta Kurtis. Greta, editor of Girl Parade, the most popular glamour magazine in Europe, the magazine that had established Tina Tyler as Britain's top female model.

Of course, Tina cannot reply to this typically ironic greeting. All she can do is wiggle a bit harder and squeal a bit louder. And she can also begin to understand what has happened to her. Yes, Greta in the role of her abductor makes perfect sense. Greta, who had been Graig's long-time girlfriend before Tina came into his life. Greta, who had given Tina her first big breaks, and who Tina had repaid by “stealing” Greta's boyfriend.

Hands are upon her again, pulling her back to her feet. Other hands grasp her waist and hold her steady. Then a sudden, sharp slap is delivered to her right cheek, and another to her left, and another, back and forth, back and forth. Three, four, five... a series of dizzying blows that draw blood from her nose and leave her on the edge of consciousness.

“Did you really think I'd let you take Graig away from me?” Greta angrily enquires. “You? A brainless little slut with only a good pair of tits and a nice smile to her name? Well, if you think Greta Kurtis is going to suffer that kind of humiliation, then you are obviously even stupider than you appear.”

Tears, fear, pain and Greta's brutal words virtually spat into her face. Then a simple command: “Prepare her for the whip.”

Hands at her basque, ripping it away with frightening ease, exposing her completely to the view of Greta. Shoes pulled off her feet and stockings torn from her legs. Now Tina Tyler is completely nude.

Her wrists are untied, yet only so they can be forced into metal shackles and pulled over her head by a chain connected to both, pulled up so far her arms are nearly wrenched out of her sockets, forcing her to balance precariously on tip-toe.

A second, sharp command follows: “Remove the tape from her eyes and mouth.” Hands pick at the tape wrapped so tightly around her hair. Rough hands, hands that rip strips of the tape from her hair and face without the slightest regard for the terrible pain this causes her. Indeed, this brutality appears quite deliberate. Chunks of her beautiful hair are torn out by the roots as the tape is forcefully removed. But there is nothing she can do, nothing but squeal and wriggle like a frightened baby girl about to receive the soundest of spankings from her angry mother. Yet Greta said, “the whip” not a spanking!

Then there is a searing second of pain and an explosion of blinding white light. The blindfold has been torn from her eyes and the immediate glare of powerful electric light forces her to squint painfully. She can just about make out a tall, blurred figure to her right and another one leaning over her, even taller, trying to rip the tape gag from her mouth. Shapes develop, the strange underground place comes into shaky focus.

She is in a thin, rectangular room, maybe eight feet wide and twenty feet long. It is lit by a powerful single strip light. Two large metal cabinets span virtually the whole of one of the longer walls, sets of sliding doors built into them. In the middle of the room is what appears to be an exercise machine and at its side a simple wooden chair which is bolted to the floor. And by the chair, fixed to the opposite longer wall, is a grim metal bunk similar to those found in prisons, only this has a number of thick leather straps attached to it.

As she turns her head to face Greta, the tape is ripped from her mouth. Pain followed by relief. She instinctively spits the cloth from her mouth and takes in a huge gasp of cool yet strange tasting air. Then she focuses on Greta Kurtis, her whole body shaking with fatigue and fear, yet sustained by a very real anger.

Greta: in a figure hugging black nylon catsuit which stresses every well exercised, sensuous curve on her beautiful, flawless body, her sparkling blonde hair bound in a fierce bun, her lips blood red, her eyes the most haunting, piercing shade of crystal blue Tina has ever seen. Greta: in dramatic thigh length leather boots with predictably sadistic high heels and long leather gloves stretching up to above her elbows. The toughest, most ruthless woman in the glamour business. And Tina has been foolish enough to cross her.

“Please, Greta,” Tina cries, “please stop this. It's wrong...it's terribly wrong!”

This brings a brutal laugh from the gorgeous blonde. “Wrong!” she snaps. “And stealing my man, making a bloody fool out of me ... that's 'right' is it!?”

Tina flinches at the fury of Greta's words, but manages to find the courage to reply. “I didn't steal him. Can't you see - he loves me... he wants me.”

Greta steps forwards and slaps Tina hard across the face. “Bitch!” she cries. “You sickening filthy bitch! How dare you talk about love! Rhanda, gag her immediately.”

It is only now that Tina notices the other woman, a huge, yet perfectly formed Negress dressed in a simple, skin tight tracksuit, her hair cut almost to her skull, her eyes beautiful orbs of bottomless golden brown, eyes that behold Tina not with anger but with something like irony and a clear desire, a desire that instils a fear in the lovely model far greater than the fear of a whipping.

Following Greta's command, Rhanda steps forward, grabs Tina's head in a single massive hand and stuffs a fat red rubber ball gag into her mouth, forcing it in so far that Tina nearly chokes. The gag is attached to two leather straps which Rhanda wraps around her head and buckles together at the nape of her neck. The gag forces Tina's mouth into an obscene oval, puffs out her cheeks and completely flattens her tongue against the floor of her mouth. Now she cannot even whimper, never mind squeal: she is completely silenced.

“And that's the last I ever want to hear from you, my pretty treacherous pet,” Greta taunts. “Yes ... from now on you will be permanently gagged. If, by some extraordinarily remote chance the gag ever is removed, I think you'll find your mouth locked irrevocably in that freakish O shape. And won't that spoil those glamour shots!”

Tina can only shake her head furiously, feeling her large, shapely breasts swing and her wonderfully thick, silken hair wash over her marble smooth pale face, her beautiful brown eyes filled with a helplessly sexy mixture of anger, terror and despair.

Rhanda's lovely, sly eyes are fixed firmly on Tina's dancing breasts. Noticing this, Greta cannot resist a smile and further cruelty. “Her tits are yours, Rhanda. Feel free to feel.”

Rhanda's smile is immediate and beautiful, her teeth a perfect sheet of sparkling ivory. Her hands, now visibly trembling, reach out towards Tina's ample chest. Tina tries to avoid these eager hands, but the chain makes any kind of backward or forward movement impossible, and within seconds she is being carefully caressed. Warm, strangely gentle hands massage the sexy brunette's splendid bosom. Long fingers tease her nipples, and Tina is soon horrified to discover a tell-tale warmth between her legs. She closes her eyes and tries to think of the most unsexual thing in the world. How can she possibly be aroused in such a situation? But she is, and Greta knows it, and so does Rhanda. The hands are replaced by lips. Rhanda's tongue takes over from the teasing fingers. Now waves of passion begin to wash over Tina. She closes her eyes tighter, yet is already on the verge of helpless orgasm. And it is here that Greta intervenes.

“Enough,” she snaps. “You can do whatever you want to her later, but now bring me the whip.”