8:52. The digital clock had been purposely placed on a table by the wall, directly in Natasha's line of sight. Its bright minute indicator flipped to :52. 8:52. Whether it was a.m. or p.m. Natasha didn't know. Or care. Nor did she care about the 8. All that concerned her was that the time was moving closer to the hour. To :00. And when it hit :00, she knew, the door to the room would open. As it had every hour since she had been brought here. How many hours it had been she couldn't remember. Or, by now, was it days?
Each time the door opened, a man came into the room. One man. A man she had never seen. Although, by this time, she couldn't be sure. Not anymore. Not after so many hours. And so many men.
She had been walking the few blocks to her apartment from the hospital where she had worked the night shift as a nurse.
It was very early in the morning, but it was already light outside. In fact, here in St. Petersburg, so far north, it was light most of the time in the summer. But that didn't stop the three men in the car from dragging her into it and speeding off before any of the few people then on the street could come to her aid. Not that anyone would have come to her aid even if the men hadn't worked so fast. No one was willing to risk his life to try to stop a Russian Mafia family from doing whatever it wished. Post-Soviet crime was rampant. And most of the citizens had one simple philosophy: The crimes didn't matter to them as long as they only killed themselves. Or the wealthy.
Not that she fell into either of those categories. But her boyfriend, Sergei, did. He was a successful businessman. In the export business. Legal or illegal she didn't know. Or really care. Since the fall of the USSR, it was every man for himself. And he had done quite well. Well enough to put members of his family in danger of being kidnapped for ransom.
Not that she was a member of his family. Not yet. Soon she might soon be. Or she might never be. That depended on Sergei. But that didn't matter to the crime families. One of them, and she had no idea which, apparently figured that Sergei would pay a nice ransom for her return.
8:54. On one side of the clock Natasha could see, neatly folded, the nurse's uniform that she had worn to work, its dark blue blouse neatly folded on top of the matching blue skirt, and its red belt on top. On the other side of the clock lay her black lace bra and matching panties. Tossed. Not folded. Sergei had bought them for her. Very nice. Sexy. Expensive. And next to them her work shoes. Nothing else was on the table. Just her clothes. And the clock.
8:56. The room itself was empty. Well, almost empty. In its center was a horizontal metal bar held about 30 inches off the ground by two vertical metal bars attached to its ends and embedded in the floor. It was over this horizontal metal bar that Natasha was now draped, her stomach resting on the bar, her body bent over it. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed to chains held by by four metal hooks in the floor. No part of her body touched the floor. Which put all of her weight on her stomach and made it more difficult for her to breathe. [See Natasha pic]
Beyond the cuffs on her limbs, Natasha wore nothing. Naked. Completely naked. Her breasts hanging down. Her buttocks high. A metal ring gag under her teeth, forcing her mouth open.
Nothing else in the room. Nothing on the walls. Except, through a hole in the wall just above the clock, a light went on, activated by the opening door, indicating that the video camera of which the light was a part had been activated. Filming everything that happened to Natasha during the 15 minutes after the door opened.
8:58. Two more minutes. In two more minutes a man would enter. And the routine would begin again. He would not say a word to her. Since Natasha had been brought here, stripped and placed over this bar, no one had said a word to her. Her body started to shake involuntarily. She stared at the clock, praying for the power to stop time.
8:59. Her effort failed. She heard the door open. No. It wasn't time yet. He was early. She had another minute. She saw him walk in front of her and examine her mouth. Then he moved behind her, and she could feel his fingers first checking her vagina, then her anus. He was deciding.
He remained behind her. She heard him unzip his pants. Her muscles tightened instinctively. She tried to force herself to relax, knowing that would reduce the pain. She could feel his penis rub her vagina. Then nothing. Nothing. Until the minute hand flipped once more ...
9:00. Natasha felt the man direct his penis into her vagina. He had been waiting for the right time. Orders, no doubt. On the hour. Every hour.
She was so sore by now. Men talked wild talk, but, when most had the choice, they chose conventionally. At least two of three chose this way, and she was grateful that more didn't choose to sodomize her. That was so much more unpleasant to her. She had never liked it on the few occasions when Sergei had insisted. Too painful. Not what a woman's body was built for.
There was no chance that any of these men would turn her on in the slightest, no matter what they did or how long they lasted. For the first few she had, to her surprise and embarrassment, found some physical satisfaction. But that was many, many hours ago. Or longer... And many, many men ago. Too many men.
Natasha felt the man lean over and press his body against her back, then reach around to squeeze her breasts as he pumped himself in and out. Damn. Too tight. Jesus. They're breasts, not oranges. She tried to tighten her muscles, hoping to set him off as soon as possible and get him out of her. Fortunately, most of these men did not last very long. Still, after so many ...
9:06. He was pumping like a maniac. He wouldn't last another minute. But she was so sore. She closed her eyes. Trying to imagine herself in a more pleasant situation. With Sergei. But she knew that this never worked anymore.
9:10. She opened her eyes. The man was gone. She realized that she was breathing hard. She could feel that her body was glazed in sweat. It seemed to take less each time to exhaust her.
9:15. Forty-five minutes to get ready for the next one. To the extent that she could get ready. But what did it matter at this point? There had been so many.
Natasha heard the door open and a wave of terror flooded her body. A definite break from the routine. The first break from the routine.
A man entered, moved to the table, reached up to the video camera and removed a disc from it, then replaced it with a new one. She did not remember seeing this man before. He put the disc into his pocket, turned and pushed himself against the table, blocking her view of the clock. She raised her head and craned her neck as much as she could to look at him.
"Natasha, it seems that your rich boyfriend doesn't want to pay us just yet." The first words she had heard in a long time. They knew her name. It had not been a random kidnapping. They had wanted her. The man continued, "Doesn't make much sense to me. Just look at you. Long blond hair. Nice body and face. Nice legs. Bit tits. Great ass. Just look at all the men you've attracted just in the last 24 hours."
24 hours. She wondered if that was how long it had been. She tried to talk, but the ring gag prevented her from making any coherent sound.
"We're going to send the film over to him. Let him see what's going on here. That should get us paid, I would think." The man moved toward her and stroked her cheek. "Don't go anywhere, OK? We'll get someone in here for you as soon as we can. We'd hate for you to get lonely." He walked out of the room.
9:23. Natasha wondered if they were going to resume the old routine. She started to weep. Did Sergei know what was happening to her? Did he disbelieve her captors? Would seeing the film proving that she had been captured, and was being violated every hour, convince him? Could the money really be more important to him than she was?
. . . . .
4:10. She coughed spasmodically as the man's semen dripped from her open mouth. The small part of it anyway that he had not forced down her throat.
Another man every hour since the one man who had talked to her. The old routine. And to none of them was she human. Just a toy. She could be made of plastic for all they cared. Or for how they treated her.
She could see the chafe marks on her wrists from pulling on the chains. She could feel the same bruises on her ankles. It was even more difficult than before to breath with her stomach pressed against the bar.
4:45. The man who had spoken to her entered, this time with two other men. The second change in the routine. Better the talking man, she thought, than just continuing the routine. If he had been telling the truth before that it had been 24 hours, then, by now, it must be 30 different men who had taken turns with her in this room. She was a reward, she guessed, for their faithful service. Or maybe she was just a duty to them.
The talking man moved in between her and the table, as he had before. She tried to look up at him, but she was too exhausted to hold her head up. He saw this, took a step forward and grabbed her hair, pulling it up until her eyes met his.
"Your boyfriend came through with the money, Natasha, so we're going to unchain you and send you on your way."
Relief. Pure relief. Thank you, Sergei, she thought. He had come through for her. She wondered how much he had been required to pay.
The two other men unchained her wrists and ankles and lifted her off the bar. She had no strength to stand on her own. They laid her on her back in the middle of the room. As she looked up, she could see, standing upright near the door of the room, a tall wooden crate with its hinged door wide open. She forced herself to roll over onto her stomach to get a better look at it. The crate was about six feet high, two feet wide and two feet deep. The door was in three equal sections.
Before the crate's purpose fully registered in her mind, the two men lifted her under her shoulders to her feet and dragged her toward it.
"Wha ...? What are you doing?" Natasha complained.
"You can't walk," the talking man told her, "so you need some assistance."
The two men turned her around and pushed her inside the crate until her back was pressed against its back side. They pulled a thick heavy strap from one side, at waist level, and attached it to the other side. A few seconds later, straps crossed her chest, hips and knees, holding her firmly against the back of the crate, her arms pinned close at her sides.
The talking man approached. He closed the lower third of the door, then the middle third, leaving the crate open only from her chest up. She tried to protest before realizing that the ring gag was still in her mouth, and her pleas remained incoherent.
"You're probably wondering who we work for, who hired us to kidnap you, aren't you?"
"We were hired by a man named ... Sergei."
Her eyes widened, stunned.
"He said that you were becoming a demanding little bitch, and he had grown tired of you. But, since he was afraid that you might have learned a bit too much about his business operations, he wanted you out of the way. And that's where we come in, of course."
Her brow furrowed in confusion and she started to shake her head slowly. She knew nothing about his business operations.
"After he got the disc that proved that we had done our part of the bargain ... and, by the way, he and his new lover said they both very much enjoyed watching it as they made love, and they have many hours still to go ... he paid us and instructed us to drop your weighted body in the lake."
Natasha struggled hopelessly as the talking man's hand reached for the top third of the door. "But, relax, we're not going to do that, although we'll tell Sergei that we did and he'll never find out otherwise. No, big-titted blonds who take on a new man every hour are worth a lot of money on the open market, and we have a buyer already lined up who is very excited about his new purchase."
Natasha's incoherent please now turned into loud muffled screams.
"Ever been to the Middle East before, Natasha? You think that you had a good time here? Just wait until you get there. You are going to be very popular." One of the other men, holding Natasha's nurse's uniform, belt and underwear, moved next the talking man, and then dropped the clothes into the crate. "I don't know how much you'll need those, but maybe you'll meet someone kinky who wants you to start off wearing some clothes."
Natasha continued to scream through her gagged mouth as the talking man pulled out a syringe and moved it to her upper arm. "The private jet is already arranged, but we can't take any chance that someone who shouldn't know what cargo it's carrying might hear you. He jabbed the needle into her arm and pushed the plunger down all the way. Natasha immediately felt her mind fog. In just a few seconds her eyes closed and her body went limp, but remained held upright by the tight straps.
The talking man close the top door, and locked each of the door's three parts in place. The two other men tilted the crate horizontally, lifted it by its handles on the ends and carried it out of the room toward the waiting truck that it would take it to the airfield. The talking man followed.
First a good payday from Sergei, the talking man thought. And now an even better payday, a much better payday, in fact, from his Middle East purchaser.
He couldn't wait for Sergei to tire of this next lover.
4:59. The clock flipped to 5:00. For the first time in a long time, no one entered the room.