Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)


By Online_Ratt

Every three months. Every three months they came trespassing, and it enraged him. He didn't care what the judge had ruled: it was not federal land, it was his. He had located it with the old family map, tamed it, built his home on it fair and square. And then the courts said it wasn't his? Ridiculous.

Thanks to their arrangement, the sheriff didn't hassle him much, so he'd laid low and made his living, unmolested except for the odd hiker or two. But now, university students kept coming onto his land. "Quarterly ecology survey," the first batch had said. "Critical to know how the wildlife is doing in the drought." What he knew was that the hunting was fine and they were trespassing. Their babble about "must be some mistake... federal land" only made him strengthen his argument from words to warning shots.

It wasn't until later that he'd realized what they must actually be after: the map and the deed. The scraps of paper from a century ago that proved — proved, damn it — that the land was his. If those should disappear, he wouldn't have a legal leg to stand on. And the sheriff wouldn't have plausible deniability: he'd have to evict him if the feds so much as snapped their fingers.

But it wasn't like the students were smart. They came into the valley through the deep woods to the west. If they'd come in from the east, they could've just walked down the rough track he used to haul in supplies with his old Blazer 4x4. But that road — such as it was — wasn't on any map, and the big trees made it barely discernible by drone or satellite. So they hiked in the hard way. So much the better.

He was ready for the next incursion. He'd posted misdirecting signs. Blocked the easy routes in. Put out a few special greeting cards. When they showed up, they'd see his land was dangerous and turn back. At least this state had gotten that much right, he thought grimly: when you're protecting your home, stand your ground. If they got through, it had to be because they were after something. And he'd find out what they knew about the deed's location.

When the day arrived, he went to the trail head early and parked out of sight. He waited, eager to see whom he'd be dealing with, thumbing through the Hustler and Swank magazines he'd picked up at the gas station on the way. The selection wasn't what it used to be. Old Harley had said the Internet had made paper porn obsolete. Well, he didn't have luxuries like a computer out in the bush; he made his own entertainment. He put down the black ballpoint he'd been using to draw ropes on the wrists and ankles of the self-satisfied bitch on the page and picked up a red one instead. He added a bright slash across one breast, then another, and a few more on her thighs. Better, he thought. Needs more, though. He picked up the black pen again and began sketching the tail of a whip striking her belly, just above her pubis. Ball-breaker deserved it.

The sound of tires on gravel made him look up. It was a Lexus hybrid running on electric — that's why he hadn't heard the engine. The rear window sported a state university parking sticker. They were here.

But to his surprise, after the car parked, just one person got out: a fit, tanned young woman in brown cargo shorts and a tight aqua t-shirt. Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, showing off inquisitive blue eyes set in a freckled, friendly, pointy-nosed girl-next-door face. She wore sensible trail boots and carried a small backpack festooned with high-end gear: an ultralight tent and sleeping bag, a Platypus water pack, wildlife collar tracker, and bright yellow emergency GPS satellite phone. It looked like she was going in by herself, probably, he thought, to save some Jew professor a few bucks on a research grant. Practical, as long as she could signal for help in an emergency.

He lit a cigarette and watched as she opened the rear hatch of her car and rooted around for something. Tight ass; long legs. Very nice. She straightened holding a small tube, made a moue of distaste, and began to slather the sunscreen on her exposed skin. Definitely shapely. Full tits. Narrow waist but round hips. Finishing up, she stowed the sunscreen in her bag, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The man squinted and leaned forward: there had been a flash of yellow falling from a broken carabiner, but she hadn't seen it. She checked that her car doors were locked, peeked through the windows to make sure nothing valuable was showing, then squared her shoulders, put on her Oakley sunglasses, and set off into the woods. Behind her, the satphone lay just out of sight under her car.

He sat for a moment longer, finishing his smoke, pondering. That pretty young thing would be traversing his land all alone. With no way to call for help.

Tossing his cigarette butt out the window, he opened the door, got out, and stretched. He started for the hybrid but a noise distracted him: the rabbit. Shortly after he'd arrived, he'd set up a snare nearby in the bush. To his surprise, it hadn't taken long to snag something — a small rabbit, too light for his wire noose to tighten and kill. It had been hanging there, kicking now and then, for the last 45 minutes. Dumb thing. Time to help it along. He pulled his hunting knife and cut its throat, watching the blood gush, then drip. Always the best part of the hunt. He dressed it quickly, dumped the pelt, offal, and head, and threw the carcass into his cooler for supper later.

Then, wiping his hands, he strode over to the girl's car. He'd need to move it to divert attention, but he could do that later. It would be much easier after he acquired the keys. He reached down behind the tire and picked up the satphone. There. Nothing to arouse suspicion. Now he could go be sociable. Smiling, he turned back to his Blazer.

The girl was hot, dusty, and frustrated. Things had been going wrong from the moment her Zen Tibetan Bowl alarm clock gonged her out of bed. Reaching a sleepy hand to hit snooze, she'd knocked it off the table and dented it, souring its tone. Trying to fix it had made her late, and then she'd forgotten her no-paraben zinc-based sunscreen and had to resort to the chemical stuff in the trunk. And now she was making poor time. She'd had to double-back once already because the trail she'd expected to use was a dead end. An hour later, she had to scramble up a rock face to get around a blockade of felled trees. Something was wrong: the valley had changed too much in three months. To her trained eyes, it looked like someone was deliberately trying to stop people from getting to the game preserve. Poachers, maybe. She'd have to stay alert.

At least the guy in the Blazer at the trailhead hadn't given her any trouble. When she'd pulled in and first noticed him, he'd had a hungry look she hadn't liked, despite his being preoccupied with whatever was in his lap. She'd wondered if he might try to follow her. But he'd shown no signs of stirring, and she'd left without incident, safe. And better, she was nearing the game preserve at last. She pulled a stray hair from her perspiring face and started up the next hill.

It was early afternoon, the hot sun just climbing to its apex, when it happened: a sudden loud click, then agony enveloped her right ankle and yanked it out from under her. She crashed face-first to the ground, her shriek ending in a whouff as the breath thudded out of her lungs. Chest heaving, spitting out pine needles and dirt between gasps, she struggled onto all-fours and flipped over, clawing at her pinioned leg for the source of the pain. It was a wolf trap, its teeth filed blunt: an arch of dull burnished metal holding her fast. Her fingers scrabbled at it, hunting for its release, desperate to prise it open and relieve the crushing pressure, but when she got a decent grip on its well-oiled surface, she couldn't force its jaws back apart. The leaf springs were too strong.

Quickly, she scanned around her for anything that might help. Her knife wasn't long enough to give her leverage. The largest branch she could reach pushed the jaws open just millimetres before breaking, tortuously adding to the bruising on her shin when it snapped shut again. Smashing the trap with a rock did nothing. And it was secured to the ground by a short, heavy chain and a thick spike: dragging the heavy thing back to civilization on her foot was out of the question even if she could dig the spike loose.

Twenty minutes later, tears of frustration poured down her cheeks. She couldn't budge the trap. Her ankle was purple and raw, blood welling from gouges where the metal had cut through the boot and peeled her skin away. Aching bruises had blossomed across her breasts and stomach from the fall. And worst of all, the satellite phone wasn't clipped to her backpack. She had searched the ground frantically for it, then dug through her bag to see if she'd moved it and forgotten, but nothing. Her lifeline was gone. With the first tremors of real fear coursing through her, she started to yell for help. And soon, guided by her voice, the man arrived.

He strode around the side of the hill and came straight towards her, as if he knew where she'd be, his boots crunching softly on the drought-baked undergrowth. He carried a carbine easily over a shoulder and a large dog kept meticulous pace by his side. She squinted at them as they advanced, her brow wrinkling: she'd seen that black cowboy hat and leather vest before.

Ten feet away from her, he stopped, cocked his head to the side, and lifted a gloved hand to stroke his unshaven chin in mock surprise. He ran his eyes along her prostrate form.

"My, my. What have we here?" he asked. His voice was deep, with a slow country twang.

Tear-streaked, shading her eyes, she stared up at him. It really was the creep from the parking lot. "It's — it's you," she said stupidly. Just great: today's lucky streak stayed all bad. Then, remembering she had limited options: "Help me! My leg is caught in some asshole poacher's trap. Get me out of it. Please! It really, really hurts...."

He pushed a branch out of his way and came closer, still looking her over appreciatively. "That does look like it hurts. And I will get you out of it. Because you and me have business."

"Business? What do you mean?"

"I know that you're here to steal from me. And I know what you're trying to steal." He smirked. "So I put out this welcome mat for you."

She sat aghast, not believing what she was hearing. "You did this?" she screeched. "Why? These things are illegal! The damage it's doing to my leg could be permanent, you son of a bitch! Help me! Right now, if you want to avoid a lawsuit!"

In two strides, he closed the distance between them and backhanded her viciously across the face. She fell onto her side with a yelp as her body twisted against trap's chain, wrenching her ankle. "Don't you fucking order me, bitch!" he spat. "You're on my land -- my home! You're a trespassing thief. I'm protecting myself like the Constitution says I can."

He put a knee down onto her trapped shin and leaned his full weight onto it. Pain rocketed up her leg: she screamed and threw her free arm up to hit him but he was ready: he snatched her forearm out of the air and levered it behind her back, fighting her flailing. Leaning in, he slid a weather-toughened hand beneath her body and grabbed the wrist she lay on, pulling it out from under her and behind her back too, holding them together with an iron one-handed grip. With his free arm, he pulled a length of rough rope from a vest pocket and looped it around her wrists, cinching them tight while she cursed and panted. Then he rose to his feet. She thrashed, arms twisting, struggling to sit back up and free herself. "Fuck! Seriously? Fuck! The university knows I'm here, asshole! The others will be here soon. I've... already called for help with my satellite phone!" She glared at him, shoulders back with adrenaline-fuelled bravado.

"That so? Well, we'd best be moving along then. I'll open the trap and let you up, then we'll take a nice little walk together to somewhere we can talk."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Ignoring this, he bent her knee until the trap lay flat on the ground, then put a foot on each leaf spring. The jaws went slack. Fast as a viper, she jerked her foot up into his groin. It wasn't a clean hit, but he staggered back, surprised. The trap snapped shut on air as his weight left it. She levered herself to her feet with fear-given agility, pivoted, and dashed away.

She got four steps before she stumbled and fell. Her foot was numb; her ankle blazed with pain when she put weight on it. She staggered back up to run again, her bound hands providing little help, but the man was already on her, sinewy and solid, his unyielding arms grabbing and pulling at her, knocking her off balance. A hand yanked her ponytail, dragging her head back; a fist hit her solar plexus and the breath vanished from her lungs. She hit the ground. She was fighting for air, fighting to get up, fighting like a cat to get out of the ropes that she could feel him winding around her.

Then she was lying immobile on her side on the hot earth, breathing hard, tangled hair across her face, looking sideways up at the man, the lengthening shadows from the trees reaching towards her like dark fingers.

"Champion calf roper when I was a kid," he said matter of factly. "Spent a few extra seconds with you to do it right."

She was hogtied. He'd secured her ankles together, then run a line up her back and around her neck, holding her partly strangled in an unnatural backwards bow. Tears ran sideways down her face to the ground. Her hands had been pulled high up her back and tied to the central line as well, so moving any of her limbs tightened her neck rope, cutting off her air. This she learned quickly from her first few struggles: she forced herself to lie still, her fingers twitching and clenching instinctively, fruitlessly trying to reach the knots. Her legs began to cramp.

"Now," the man said, "I'm betting your boss found out about the deed from the court records. Who is he, and why don't you tell me where he thinks it is?"

The girl blinked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" she grated out past the rope. "I'm here to track wildlife! See the radio tracker on my bag there?"

The man sighed, then stepped out of her line of sight for a few moments. She heard him in the brush nearby, snapping and splitting brittle branches. Soon he was back, carrying an armful dry wood. As she watched, he assembled it into a small pyramid about five feet from her belly and lit it. It burned bright and smokeless. His head swivelled towards her.

"Not gonna lie — I was hoping you might be a little difficult, might need some incentive to tell me what I want to know." He pulled a large hunting knife from his shoulder sheath, knelt next to her, and reached for the collar of her shirt. "I can oblige."

She promised herself she wouldn't scream or cry. "Wait," she said carefully. "Listen. Nothing that's happened here needs to be reported. To anyone. So just... stop now and let me go, and we'll forget this whole thing. Ok? Just... stop."

He guffawed, hooked a finger into the shirt's neck, and pulled the tight material up off her body. She flinched away from his touch, then jerked her chin high and away from the blade as he slid his knife into the gap and pulled it down. The cloth separated easily; under it, she smelled of soap and sweat and sandalwood: healthy, fit. Air warmed by the fire played across her shoulders and chest, contrasting with the cold metal as it slid lower, raising goosebumps, puckering her nipples. The urge to flee rose in her like bile: to kick him, bite him, something. Anything. She squirmed. Her neck rope tightened and she froze again. The blade parted the bottom of her shirt, and the man flicked the flaps apart to expose her teal spandex hiking bra.

"Mmm — pretty gift wrap," he murmured. "Let's see the goods."

"Wait. Wait!" she ground out again, and the man paused.

"You ready to tell me who's paying you? What the plan is when you have the deed?"

"This is crazy! I don't know anything about any deed! I'm telling you!"

The man rolled his eyes. With a few efficient cuts, he slit her sleeves and pulled the shirt off her torso in two pieces. He dropped one, then cut the other in two again. He tucked a large rectangle of the cloth into a vest pocket; she couldn't guess why. Then he stuck his knife blade-first into the ground and brought the remaining half to her mouth.

"Last chance to get off easy," he said.

"You're fucking nuts!" she yelled. He paused, surprised by her vehemence, and she continued. "Don't touch me, you motherfucker! You'll be sorry when—"

He crammed the cloth in. She squealed, the organic cotton stifling the sound, her eyes squeezing shut as he forced the scrap of t-shirt past her teeth, keeping his fingers clear. Her face elongated as her jaw was forced down and cheeks out by the thick wad. Stray threads dangled on her stretched lips, tickling them. Grunting furiously, she tried to push back with her tongue and jaw, to work the material back out, but the man jammed a knot of rough rope between her teeth to keep the gag in place and knotted the makeshift bridle behind her head.

"There. Let's hear the fucking attitude now!" The man raised his eyebrows smugly. The girl gave a few sullen squawks. Useless. After a moment, she lay quiet. He smirked, then picked up the other half of her shirt from where it lay and threw it onto the fire. It blackened and caught, glowing red holes opening in it like cancer, expanding until the material flamed up and vanished. Then he pulled his knife from the ground and brought it towards her, leaning forward in anticipation. She bleated and jerked, trying to pull back, big blue eyes wide, but he followed her body with his blade, touching her soft skin with its tip, dragging it more and more firmly up her gently-perfumed stomach, leaving a white scratch along her creamy-bronze flesh, until he reached her bra. Three more quick cuts and her amber breasts spilled out. She lay stiff and stoic, nipples rising in fear, as he ran the tips of his fingers over the meat of her tits, then hefted them — good-sized handfuls — and gave them a squeeze so hard she gasped and moaned behind her gag.

"Very nice," he complimented. "Big. Cute pink little nipples." He gave them a casual pinch. "Hoping to distract me with those before you started searching my place? Got a little Mata Hari in you?" He raked his eyes over her body again. "No tan lines. What's your secret? Tanning booth? Nude beach?" He chuckled.

Without ceremony, he pulled the bra's remains off her and threw it into the flames. She squeezed her eyes shut, moisture collecting under her lashes, doleful drops threatening to escape. She would not cry.

He moved to her feet, pulling the laces from her Arc'teryx boots and stuffing them into a pocket. She didn't want to speculate on why. He slashed the tooled leather until he got the boots off her feet, leaving strips hanging out from under her ankle ropes, then did the same with her socks. In another moment, both were ash, the pungent fumes of burnt leather and rubber piercing the night as the soles melted to an unrecognizable lump.

When his blade slipped between her hips and hiking shorts, she jerked again uncontrollably, her long legs desperate to carry her to somewhere else. The noose closed around her neck and her eyes and mouth popped open wide as she struggled to pull air into her lungs. Panicking, she convulsed, legs seeking purchase, arms urgently trying to reach and loosen the rope, and the noose drew tighter yet. Contentedly, the man watched her thrash, her face reddening, spluttering gasps muffled by the gag.

"Eh' ee," she choked out. "Eh' ee!"

A long second passed. Then, staring into her eyes, without a smile or a gloat, he stretched out a finger and thumb, took hold of the noose, and pulled it tighter. Her whole body went cold. With an effort, she brought her shaking limbs back under her control and lay still. The noose slackened. She stared back at him.

He returned to his previous task. Breaking her promise to herself, unable to repress it, she sobbed twice as he sliced her shorts into rags and pulled them off her. He emptied her pockets without comment, keeping her keys and cash, and committing her shorts and sundries to the flames. Student card. Driver's license. Gym membership. Gone.

She was left in her favourite casual panties: soft black cotton with "Just did it!" stencilled on the front in white above a red Nike swoosh. The man snorted at the joke, then slid his knife along the skin of her hip again until the point slipped beneath the cotton. He cut, cut the other side too, then slowly pulled the material up and out from between her legs, making sure she felt the friction along her labia and mons. Hot, stinging tears welled up — helplessness, embarrassment, rage — as her panties pulled free. He dangled them on a finger in front of her face, gave them a quick sniff, and tossed them on the fire. She watched without blinking, fighting to control the trickling teardrops, as her last vestige of protection evanesced into smoke. She was certain now. He would hurt her, fuck her, and she had no way to stop him. Yet. Venomously, she waited.

He looked down at her shaven mound approvingly, then tested its smoothness with a proprietorial hand, feeling her quiver beneath his calluses as he rubbed. "Wax job," he said. "Bet that hurt. Wish I could have seen it." He slid a finger down her bald pubis to burrow between her tightly-locked legs and rose petal pussy lips, then further into her dry slit. Muffled swearing rumbled up at him and he grinned. She was gorgeous. Feisty. Fit. No tats or scars, just a few beauty freckles. And a tight, hot, silken cunt.

He stood, wiped his finger on her thigh, and went to her bag. He pulled out a couple of long bungee cords, then looped one around a small nearby tree and the other through the wolf trap. She sobbed twice more as he cut her feet away from the neck rope and log-rolled her onto her back, her wrists digging into her spine. He stretched the tree's bungee cord around one ankle, the trap's around the other, then cut the rope that held her feet together. The elastic sprang back with a twang, yanking her legs apart, leaving him kneeling between her spread thighs.

He winked at her. "No kicking this time," he said, and unzipped his fly.

At the sound, her legs began to paddle comically, fighting the tension of the cords as she tried to pull her feet back together. Her rapid breaths, full of hate, whistled against his chest as he got into position above her — his belly against hers, smoke from his last cigarette stale across her face. She began to shake her head violently — no, no, no — but he grabbed a lock of free hair and stuck his knife blade through it, pinning it to the earth, the knife's hilt resting against her cheek. She flinched and froze again.

But only for a moment. She jerked as the tip of his hard cock touched her labia, parting them, sliding just into them and up and down, lubricating her with his pre-cum, making sure he wasn't going to burn his dick on her dry passage. Then, satisfied, the man put his mouth near her ear and whispered, "Is it worth what they're paying you, cunt? To screw a man out of his property rights? Well, here's the man screwing you back."

He bulled into her cunt: hard, fast, deep. She turned her head away as much as her skewered hair would let her and screamed as he drove in, the sound emerging thin and high from behind the wet cloth. Her inner muscles fought him, taut with revulsion, straining to force him back out. He gloried in the trembling in her pussy and stomach, her tightness, the slick heat of her as he thrust savagely, again and again, revelling in the clenching and rippling of her flesh, her pained grunts and smothered protests music to his ears. He put a hand across her mouth and nose, pinching them shut, and she bucked under him, straining for air. Her hips pushed up against him, trying to throw him off, driving his dick even further into her clasping depths; her torso twisting from side to side as panic set in, her breasts skidding back and forth across his chest, her hard nipples drawing hot tickling lines against his skin. He reached for them — she snorted air through a snot-congested nose — and wrenched her nubs viciously, crushing them between his knuckles, her world exploding in white-hot pain. She spasmed under him, her cunt locked around his dick, thrashing as he battered her inside and out, screaming at the sky through the sopping cotton as he pounded into her, until, with his groin mashed brutally against hers, his dick shoving into her every last inner wrinkle, he came hard, his muscles straining as he emptied his lust and hate into her.

He rested on her, his dick starting to soften inside her wetness, enjoying her soft whimpers, etching her face at this moment into his memory, playfully wiping a wisp of damp hair off her forehead. Then, his strength returning, he unsocketed with a jerk and leaned back on his haunches. He patted her belly with satisfaction, collected his knife, and rose to his feet to zip up.

"Not gonna lie: you're the best pussy I've had in months. Can't wait for a second round. But I need to make sure no one interrupts our private talking time, so I'm gonna have to do few chores first. Make yourself useful: hold this for me for a minute."

He walked out of her field of view and returned carrying his AR-15. Unceremoniously, he bent and rammed the fat barrel between her cunt lips and into her pussy, smiling at her sharp intake of breath as it sank deep, the jerk of her body as the flash hider struck the end of her passage. He braced the gun in place with a heavy rock against the stock, then straightened and stepped back to appreciate the view. It was good: her face pink from the tight noose; her hands under her shoulder blades arching her back and showing off her tits; flat stomach trembling; wide-spread legs straining; and his black steel tag-along jammed high up right where she didn't want it. He knew the gun wasn't hurting her particularly, and that there was almost no chance it would go off. But he was betting she didn't know that, and he liked the way it looked. Plus, a little head game would keep the thieving bitch guessing while she waited.

Long seconds passed. She lay petrified, hardly breathing, peering down the length of her body at the assault gun nestled in her cunt, its cool barrel slowly warming to the temperature of her flesh. She'd never even held a real gun before, and now this vicious thing was inside her, able to kill her in a hundredth of a second. She glanced back up at the man, unsure what he would do next, uneasy but not ready to believe he would actually kill her. He gave a whistle. With a rustle, his dog appeared and sat, head cocked. The man pointed at the girl. "Guard," he said. The dog's eyes flicked to her, then back to its master. It sat unmoving.

"There. Now as long as you stay still, the top of your skull will stay underneath your hair. I'll just be a sec."

His steps receded into the forest and, after a moment, she heard tree branches cracking and snapping, followed by rhythmic chopping. Humiliated, furious, she rested for a moment longer, gathering her strength, then heaved herself up into a sitting position —pausing cautiously as the carbine's barrel shifted inside her — and began worrying the knots around her wrists. There wasn't much give; she pulled more urgently on the rope, grimacing as the neck rope tightened, ignoring a low rumbling growl from the dog. Too slow. She gave up and began trying to slip the loops of bungee cord off her ankles instead, straining to flex her legs without moving her pelvis and disturbing the gun. The dog — god damn the thing — gave a bark; footsteps approached. She threw caution to the wind: she'd never heard of a gun going off without a finger on the trigger, so — ignoring the motion of the steel inside her — she yanked her feet towards her chest and from side to side, trying everything she could think of to shake the gun out, to bring her feet together and use one to slide the loop of bungee cord off the other. But too late. The man was back, wagging a finger at her.

"Very naughty!" he scolded. He reached down and yanked the AR 15 out of her, then spun it around and cracked her on the side of the head with the stock. She fell heavily onto her side with a grunt, hip joints wrenching in their sockets, head spinning, points of light flickering before her eyes. Blood from a small cut began to trickle down her face. The man waited for a moment, watching, making sure her fight was quelled. As he did, he brought out the section of her shirt he'd saved and gave the sticky inches of the barrel a quick wipe, outside and in. Then hung the gun over his shoulder and stowed the cloth.

"Usually I like a fighter, but you need to stay put while I'm away. I wouldn't want you to leave before we've had a chance to talk."

While the dog watched incuriously, the man unlooped the bungee cords from the girl's ankles. Disgust and loathing roiling inside her, she pulled her knees together and up to her chest protectively and rolled fully onto her side. She got no break, though. He moved behind her shoulders and hauled her to her feet, a controlling hand on her neck rope as she weaved, trying to keep her balance, favouring her good foot.

"I set up a place for you to wait while I'm away, right over here."

He shoved her towards where he'd been working. She took a painful, reluctant step, then another: he was herding her towards a gnarled tree, not big but strong, with several intertwined trunks. Just below waist height, a two-fist-thick trunk ran nearly parallel to the ground for several feet before curving up to the sky. At one time, branches had grown out of it, but the man had hacked them all away — except one, which been growing straight up. This branch the man had cut off at about 7" high and carved to a 2" wide dowel of rough wood and slivers, topped with a point. He'd also looped two lengths of rope over higher branches so that they hung down near the dowel about a yard apart. One length sported a noose.

The girl's eyes went wide. She understood instantly: he meant to put her on that perch, with the stick inside her. She took a pace back, head shaking, grunting "nuh-uh" behind the gag, then tried to take a second step. The man put a his hands on her shoulders, stopping her retreat.

"Now, now," he smiled. "It's good manners to offer a lady a seat. Even a fucking lowlife thief. So sit."

He lifted her like a post and carried her upright the remaining five feet while, in a burst of panic, she struggled and kicked furiously at his shins and thighs and groin, trying to lever herself forward, away from him. Ignoring her wriggling, he plunked her down next to the branch. For a moment, she stood shocked despite her pain and danger: she couldn't believe how strong he was, how easily he had deposited her here. It was enough time for him to throw the noose over her head and haul on the rope, whistling jauntily. She rose onto the balls of her feet, then her tiptoes, coughing, then gasping in alarm. He tied the rope off to the tree, cracked his knuckles, and slugged her in the stomach.

The noose kept her from doubling over at the blow. Instead, her legs kicked up, leaving her hanging by her neck for a moment, her cry strangling down to a hiss. He shook his arm out to loosen it, then threw more punches at her tits, kidneys, guts, rib cage — she twisted to escape the blows — lower back, thighs, tits again. With each meaty thud, she yelped into her gag and staggered, only the neck rope keeping her upright. After a dozen blows, she was nearly senseless, unable to regain her breath or balance, darkening bruises crisscrossing her torso and thighs. The man stepped back.

"It'll do your cunt less damage if you get onto your ride yourself, princess. Or, I can keep encouraging you until you're out cold, then put you on it myself and see what happens."

He pulled his knife and ran it from her breasts down to her belly. "But I think you should just throw a leg over your steed there and get comfortable."

Weakly, she nodded. Anything for a respite and unobstructed air. He reached behind her and severed the rope that bound her wrists to her neck. Then he sheathed the knife again and loosened the noose rope, giving her a little slack to manoeuvre. She lifted a foot gracelessly and stepped over the trunk, then shuffled forward until she was positioned over the dowel. She swivelled her head and looked daggers at him.

"Stop stalling, bitch: sit, or I'll help you."

She bent her knees and eased herself down, gritting her teeth at the dowel's roughness and girth as it slid into her, sucking in a breath as it pushed deep into her abraded pussy. Soon, her bound hands rested on the trunk behind her, supporting her as she sank down the last inch and the lips of her cunt settled onto the wood. Breath hissed from her nose as her labia took her weight. Her eyes squeezed shut.

"Good. Now I'll fix you there so you stay put there while I'm gone."

He pulled the second hanging rope down to her wrists and cinched it tightly around them. Then he hoisted her arms up behind her so that they were horizontal, parallel with the tree trunk. The position forced the girl to hunch forward; she groaned again as more of her weight shifted to the top of her slit — exactly where she didn't want it.

"Ake ee ‘own," she said huskily. "S'op it! Aaah!" Her knees started to straighten, lifting her again.

Immediately, the man bent and grabbed her ankles. She wanted to raise a foot to kick him, but relieving the pressure on her crotch was her body's top priority and she couldn't force herself to give up a support. Instead, she stood tottering until the man jerked both her feet off the ground and up to the height of the branch. Instantly she squeezed her thighs together against the rough bark, trying to hold herself up, to keep at least a little of her weight off her cunt. But no: he lashed her ankles to the trunk behind her ass, and her pain redoubled. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, forehead wrinkled, and she let out a surprised, drawn-out, unhappy moan.

"Aaah! Aaah! S'op it! Ake ee ‘own!" she pleaded. " ‘Lese! Aaah! Now! ‘Lese!"

"I haven't even finished putting you there! Patience." He considered pulling her knees apart by anchoring them to tent pegs in the ground — the faster she was resting completely on her pussy, the faster she'd truly be screaming — but decided against it: her thighs would tire soon enough, and she'd have fun fighting the inevitable. It seemed to be what she did. Instead, he retightened her noose until it kept her neck and spine straight but didn't take any of her weight. Then with a flourish, he stepped back and looked at her secured astride the makeshift torture horse: bruised, exhausted, ropes rubbing her skin raw as they held her in place, her full weight borne agonizingly on an inch of her most delicate and sensitive flesh, a fat dowel up her hole to remind her of her place in the world, her dirty skin sweating from pain, her hair hanging like a tangled curtain in front of her face, her mouth panting in anguish and despair, sobbing now and then into her gag.

Beautiful. He reached out and tickled the sole of a foot, watching as the unexpected sensation made her shake painfully in her seat, spluttering. Then, ruminatively, he pinched her right nipple.

"You know what — you need something to wear, so you won't be all naked and ashamed if someone should come by," he said.

He collected the bungee cords from where he had left them and picked up a couple of thick sticks from the debris near her seat. She watched apprehensively as he placed the first stick on, and a second under, her tits. Then she began to bawl in earnest as he tied their ends and centres together with the bungee cords as tightly as possible, creating a simple press. Her tit flesh bulged between the sticks, their bases brutally flattened to an angry red inch. He grunted with effort as he pulled the elastic tighter and tighter, arms straining until her sobs turned to despondent whooping gasps at the pain. Satisfied, he knotted the cords behind her back like a bra, holding the press in place. He relaxed with a grunt, job complete, casually tweaking her right nipple again. It protruded like a hot-pink pencil eraser from a swelling purple ball, and he earned a gasping, stifled scream. He grinned and pinched her left nipple twice — just for symmetry. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he pulled some fishing line from his vest and tied a beautiful, transparent bow around each puffy nub, the nylon so tight it disappeared into her tender flesh, bands of cutting agony that throbbed with each heartbeat, leaving her howling and juddering.

"Ok, bitch: I want you to really think about this. In a few hours, I'll be back, and we're gonna talk about who you're working for and your plans for the deed. And I can make your current situation better, or I can make it so much worse. Your call."

He patted her flank and turned to stamp out the fire, savoring the muffled, tear-filled curses she shouted after him. He knew how much she had to be hurting even though it had been only a few minutes, and how much worse it would get as time passed. She'd be broken by the time he got back. He checked that he had her keys in his pocket — shame her nice car would never be seen again, even if it wasn't American — and started walking away. Then he swung back.

"Oh: you dropped this." He took something from his pocket and held it in front of her face. After a moment, her eyes focused: the satellite phone. He listened with glee to her renewed sobs of fury, frustration, hopelessness, then put it down in the crook of a branch two feet in front of her. The yellow case shone happily in the afternoon light. He smiled. Stupid bitch. He almost wished there were a way she could get her hands free and reach it, just to see the expression on her face when she learned he'd taken out the batteries.

"Don't go nowhere now, you hear?"

He turned and started walking. The look of frantic disbelief in her eyes would keep him grinning until he got back: the realization he was really going to leave her there, astride the tree trunk, where she would go on hurting, more and more, without respite, unable to stop it, unable to get help, unable to do anything but sit there and take it until he returned and deigned to let her down, hours and hours from now. If indeed, he did so deign. And then there were other games he could play with her, until he found out what he wanted to know. And maybe after. He walked on, a spring in his step and a gleam in his eye.

The minutes crawled by, more horrible than she could have imagined. In the back of her brain, she knew she should be plotting escape from the fucking psycho who had done this to her, teasing the ropes loose, trying to reach the satphone. But it was impossible: the pain in her cunt blotted out all conscious thought. She could do nothing but sit and suffer, alternately screaming despondently and cursing into her gag or, now and then, fainting from the agony, reawakening a short time later to an even worse hell.

Her skin flushed pink where the light touched it through the leaves, then as the hours trickled away, reddened angrily into sunburn that ached at any small movement. A sheen of pain-sweat covered her. Birds cawed; foliage rustled; insects buzzed lazily, itching as they meandered across her still skin, biting, scuttling, stinging, feasting on her succulence. The moments passed interminably. A slow line of ants marched across her thighs and up her hips and stomach, exploring, nipping, each tiny bite another star in her constellation of anguish, the black hole of pain in her crotch at its centre.

The light was orange-red and the sun setting by the time the man returned. She sat motionless, perched on the tree trunk as he had left her — head hanging, the matted hair that veiled her face and shoulders glowing in the setting sun. Idly, he wondered when she had lost the scrunchie holding her ponytail together. It didn't matter, though: she was beautiful, though from a distance, he couldn't tell if she was waiting for him, unconscious, or dead of shock, which happened sometimes when the pain was prolonged over many hours. He was just starting to get concerned when sound of his boots crunching in the leaves roused her. Her head lifted and her tits rose as she took a shuddering breath. Then she looked at him with red, wretched eyes.

" ‘Lese..." she whispered. " ‘Lese! Ake ee ‘own. I' ur's.... I'll oo haw'ev'r oo wan'. ‘Lese!"

"Right now, you're already doing what I want," he said, and kicked the tree trunk. She screamed into her gag as the vibrations reawakened the nerves in her pussy, the agony flaring like fire. He kicked again, extracting another scream, and tears began to pour down her cheeks, her head shaking hysterically back and forth as waves of pain flowed through her. He watched her distress with interest, then extended a finger to collect a tear. He brought it to his tongue: warm, salty, a bit coppery. He smacked his lips, then gave her abdomen and thighs a smack, feeling her hard shivering muscles and round curves and soft skin. Then he stepped back and kicked the trunk one more time, watching her fingers and toes curl and strain and twitch from the pain. The bulge in his pants grew.

"Reckon you've enjoyed your ride long enough, cowgirl," he said. "First you're going to go back to work for a spell, and then you and me is going to chat."

He loosened her arm and neck ropes, and instantly, she dropped her numb hands to the trunk and scrabbled at it with paralyzed fingers, trying to lift herself a little, to take any tiny fraction of her weight off her cunt. He cut her ankle ropes and her bloodless feet fell to the ground. Her knees jerked. But it was several long minutes — during which he removed her wooden bra and nipple bows — before she regained any use of her legs and, with much hissing and spluttering, raised herself up, muscles quivering. The dowel, dark from moisture and pink-stained, slid out of her as she rose.

He gestured for her to step over the trunk but the ride had taken too much out of her: she couldn't lift her leg that high. With a sigh, he helped, then balanced her on her feet, but when he let go, she collapsed to the ground with a groan. He looked down at her: nearly insensible, tear-streaked, slowly moving her limbs to try to find the least painful way to position her stiff, aching body, the agony in pussy changing tenor but not decreasing as blood returned to her crushed cunt lips and clit. Perfect. He stepped forward and kicked her legs apart, unzipping his pants again. Time to put her back to work.

An hour later, the man was relaxed and happy — mostly. One irritant gnawed at him. It wasn't the fucking: he'd come so hard staring down into her hate-filled eyes that he thought his jism would blow the top of her head off. Nor was it her responsiveness: she'd slowly gotten more lively as he'd pumped, slamming his dick into her tender slit so hard her body slid along the ground at each thrust. At first, she'd just moaned, but then she'd started to squeal and buck as her energy returned until finally his juice filled her.

But she'd taken a clumsy kick at him as he'd lifted himself off her. She hadn't hurt him, and probably hadn't really expected to, but it showed she had fight left. He pursed his lips in thought. He'd best secure her now, then chat, then supper. No sense giving the cunt any opportunities.

The girl had decent recuperative powers, he had to give her that: she was able to stand when he pulled her up. He dragged her, stumbling, unprotesting, over to a large pine, straight and tall, with no branches below eight feet. Its bark was rough and warm and smelled of resin as the air cooled in the dusk. Still dazed, fallen brown pine needles pricking the soles of her dirt-covered feet, the girl did no more than push weakly against him as he spun her around and put her back against the trunk. He took her right wrist and walked it around to the back of the tree, then reached down and around the trunk from the other direction to grab her left ankle. He yanked it up and back, forcing her onto one foot, her crotch opening, pussy lips springing gently apart, a drop of his pearly cum hanging there. She gave a confused yelp, then swore tiredly into the gag as he tied wrist to ankle, pulling them tightly together around the tree, holding her pinioned against it. She swung her free left arm behind the tree at him, flailing feebly for something to hit — a mistake she'd made before. He caught it nimbly and secured it temporarily to the stub of a broken branch. Then he came back around the tree to face her.

He pulled her shoelaces from his pocket. Dangling them in front of her face, he asked, "Guess where these go." His eyes bored into hers, then pointedly dropped to her tits. She made no reply, but looked away into the woods as he wove a miniature noose around the purple-blue base of each breast, the bruises from his stick-press gilding her soft skin. He threw the ends of the laces over her right shoulder, returned to the back of the tree — her breathing grew rapid — and braided them into the rope from her waiting left arm. She waited stoically, eyes closed. When he let her arm go, its weight yanked the loops around her tits tight, strangling their blood supply until they reddened, darkened, began to swell and burn again. She moaned at the familiar discomfort and raised her arm awkwardly as much as she could to loosen the shoelaces, blood-starved muscles trembling, then gave a muffled scream as reached around from behind the tree and tweaked both her engorging, aching nipples hard, squeezing and twisting them, his fingernails gouging thin ribbons of skin from her flesh.

Her noises devolved to panting groans as he returned to her front. He watched her shudder, shoulders trembling at the aftershocks of the titty twisting, bare right foot scrabbling in the rocks and pine needles at the tree's base, leg muscles tense and rigid. It took him a moment to work it out: she was trying to take her weight on her bound limbs so she could kick him with her free leg, but couldn't quite work up the gumption. He shook his head, amused: it was always something with this one. She just didn't quit. He opened his hands and simultaneously gave each purple mound a hard slap.

"Mmwahh!" she squealed, eyes popping. He did it again. Such beautiful music. He couldn't remember a time he hadn't found a woman's bleats of pain erotic. In high school, he'd gotten his share of pussy because he'd been decent looking, muscular, and willing to push the issue. That was also how he'd learned that sex was best for him when the girl was averse and resisting, at least a little. The conquering, the taking — it put zest in the act, making it both battle and prize, and him strong and powerful, the victor. Over time, he had refined his techniques. If his date offered up a resigned blowjob or a get-it-over-with piece of ass to stop his advances, a little pain reminded her who'd won and made her wriggle pleasantly, her inner muscles tightening to milk him deliciously. And for the rare girl who was enthusiastic about fucking him, a little pain what was she deserved for being a whore, a slut, a cunt with no self-respect. The first time he'd subdued a particularly recalcitrant bitch in the back of his dad's half-ton with some cargo straps, his tastes were sealed. The sight of her spread open on the cold metal of the truck bed, still struggling, hating him, unable to stop him doing whatever he wanted, forced to take whatever he gave her, whatever he did to her, whatever he put in her, was a high he would never forget. Everything about the sight of her that way had made him want to torment her, hurt her more, make her viscerally understand his power over her. And he had. Not too much, not enough to make her go to the police — though she had never come near him again — but enough to give him the fattest hard-on he'd ever had and, when he pushed it into her unwilling pussy, the strongest orgasm too. Strong enough that he knew he had to do it again, harder and longer.

The imprints from the slaps were fading from the girl's tits. He stepped in towards her, so close she flinched involuntarily, then chucked her gently under the chin. "One thing left, bitch," he said.

He moved to her sole supporting leg, grabbed its ankle, and jerked it up and around to the other side of the tree. The girl slid gracelessly down the trunk, bark scraping along her scratched, muddy back, groaning as her legs pulled apart, the tendons of her inner thighs straining until she rested in the gravel and pine needles on widespread knees. Her breath began to hiss again as her leg cramped; she could feel him looping rope tightly around her ankle, then working the rope's other end, pulling, knotting. It soon became clear why. He reached around from the far side of the trunk and dropped something over her head: another noose. He worked it down to her neck, then let go of her leg. It fell, and the noose tightened. She gave a gargling cough as her leg jerked to a stop, awkwardly bent, yanking the neck rope tight the same way her arm's weight tightened her tit nooses. Her leg cramp intensified and she whimpered hoarsely. She couldn't straighten it without strangling herself. Her face began to darken to the same colour as her tits; green pine needles and grey flakes of bark stood in stark Christmas-like contrast to the flush of her cheeks. Her small choking noises intermixed with her wheezing half-breaths to stain the evening air.

He finished by looping the bungee cords tightly around her torso and the tree a few times, just in case of struggles, then turned to her.

"Play time's over, bitch," he said. "It's time to talk. When I take that gag out, you're going to tell me what you were going to do after sneaking onto my land. Who put you up to this? What makes them think they know where the deed is? Or were you just supposed to search blindly and hope I didn't catch you?"

"I ‘ont know any'ing a'out a ‘eed! ‘Ere's no ‘lan! ‘Oo ‘ave ‘oo ‘eleev me! ‘Lese' ‘Lese!"

He gazed at her wrapped around the tree like a pretzel and smiled. Then he reached into his breast pocket for his pack of Marlboros and Zippo lighter, drew out four cigarettes, and lit them. He puffed for a moment.

"There's no plan, huh? When you're ready to talk, hum some of ‘I Walk the Line.'"

"The wha? I ‘ont know ‘aht ‘ong! I ‘ont know it!"

Lightning fast, he shoved her head back against the trunk and stuffed one of the cigarettes filter-first an inch and a half into her right nostril. Her head jerked back into the hard wood, then from side to side, eyes clenched from the pain and shock, but he grabbed her jaw and held her head rigid to shove a second cigarette deep into her other nostril. They stung and itched, her eyes watered, the embers flared as she sucked in a breath. Hot, harsh smoke filled her virgin lungs and she exploded into coughs, smoke leaking from around her gag. Eyes streaming, she tried to blow the smoke back out through her nose and dislodge the cigarettes, but they wouldn't move. There was an unfamiliar cool, tugging sensation on her cheeks and then, after a moment, on her areolas below her nipples. Red eyed, she could make out the man setting down her yellow roll of emergency duct tape. He had taped the cigarettes in place.

Their tips brightened again as her lungs demanded oxygen. She was starting to get lightheaded from the smoke, headachy, nauseous, her sinuses stinging and clogging. She risked looking down at her breasts and her next fear was realized: he had taped two other cigarettes vertically across her nipples so they would smoulder down across her tender flesh. And soon. She took another breath to whine, to beg through the muffling cloth, but coughs racked her again, then a sneeze. Her leg jerked behind her back and tightened her neck noose, and the world began to spin. Without thinking, she strained further against the ropes. Her tits sang in agony as their loops tightened, her breath rattled in her strictured throat. She started to convulse in panic.

A clicking sound broke through to her. She raised her head, bleary-eyed, consciousness wavering: the man was snapping his fingers near her face to get her attention.

"I don't hear no humming yet...."

He held up a large pine cone, seven inches long and two around, its scales open and dry, waggling it from side to side in front of her face. Then he set it against the skin between her breasts and pulled it slowly down along the length of her stomach, past the bungee cords, down to her pubic mound, letting her feel its sharp tines, leaving fine white parallel lines along her flesh as she coughed and choked. As it slid over her mons, his other hand reached between her widespread legs and parted her labia. Her torso jerked as the pine cone touched her opening, the prickles dragging across her cunt lips and the sensitive flesh of her vestibule.

"‘Lese'! I'll hum! I'll hum! ‘Ow ‘oes it go? ‘Ust ‘ell me ‘ow it goes!"

He started to push, the pine cone scratching and tearing her passage. She clenched tight, trying to keep it out, her abdominal muscles shivering, and the man gave the it a vicious twist. Her smoky scream pushed through the sopping gag, her inner grip faltered — and he shoved it deep into her.

But not all the way. She shrieked again as it grated in, but at the 6-inch mark, he stopped and dusted off his hands, leaving an inch protruding from her cunt. For a split second, she was relieved — until he picked up a second pine cone and pressed it between the cheeks of her ass, against her brown star. She squealed, a long, drawn-out "NNNnnnnnnHHH!" into her gag, rising in pitch, smoke streaming from the sides of her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as he pushed, sharp scales ripping into her sphincter, drops of blood trickling into the intricate fractals of the pine cone as he crammed it up her ass.

But once again he stopped before the cone disappeared entirely. She sobbed almost gratefully when he pulled his hands back a second time, her head bobbing, cigarette ash falling from her nose and sticking to her tear- and drool-wet face and collarbones. Then she heard the click-hiss of his Zippo and the light of its flame cut the air.

He touched it first to the hollow of her throat, then slid it unhurriedly down the trail of scratches between her purple breasts, swollen into excruciating balls from the shoelaces. He detoured to each side, left then right, letting the heat kiss the underside of each deformed tit so that they bounced and shook as she spasmed, muscles taut, shaking for breath, face swelling as her thrashing foot tightened the neck rope again, the cigarettes on her nipples painting red trails in the darkening air as their embers reached her bursting nubs, began to char them, their tips blistering and blackening as the cigarettes burned lower. Then he eased the flickering torment down to her navel, languidly over her abdomen to her hairless mound, pausing on her clit, relishing the frenzied gagging noises she was making, then lower still.

He grinned. "Unless you talk, you're about to be the hottest piece of ass for miles around," he said cheerfully.

"No... ‘lese! ‘Lese! I ‘ont know any'ing! Re'ry I ‘ont! I ‘ont'! Aah! Aaaah!"

He moved the lighter lower.

The dry pine cones, well ventilated and coated with resin, caught in an instant, drawing the fire up inside her like a wick, scented grey smoke curling up from her crotch, the heat searing the insides of her passages, sizzling and crackling as it scorched her most sensitive membranes, tender flesh cooking and peeling, inner muscles straining to force the agony back out. Her desperate howls and frantic wriggles offset his guffaw delightfully, the more so as it was choked off a moment after it began: her right leg had given an involuntary kick and snapped her neck rope tight, embedding it in her soft tissue, her eyes bulging. Her strangulated, cloth-muffled bellow turned raw, animal — sustained until she ran out of breath, then turned to wheezes and hacks as she pulled for air that just wasn't there, the cigarettes' embers nearing her nostrils.

The man crouched in front of her, eyes sparkling, savouring her jerks and her wide-eyed, panicked stare, watching the flames and smoke wreathing up from her pussy and ass, hoping they wouldn't die out too quickly. He selected another fat pine cone from his pile, then turned back to his entertainment, waiting for the lights to flicker out.

He was pretty sure the grunts she'd made as he'd forced the third set of pine cones into her hadn't been humming. Just moaning, with maybe a bit of begging and cursing mixed in. But it didn't matter. As the cones had begun to smoulder and catch, the combination of oxygen deprivation and searing agony across her nipples, in her nostrils, and up her cunt and asshole had proved too much for her. She'd fallen into a stupor so deep even hard slaps couldn't rouse her. With a sigh, he removed the tape from her tits and cheeks and stamped the cigarette stubs out. Though given the heavy clouds forming in the darkening sky, he wouldn't need to worry about fire safety for long.

He regarded her cauterized nipples and the blistered, sooty skin of her inner thighs and crotch and felt his dick stir again. The first day with a new cunt was always the best: so full of unexpected discoveries and pleasure. Particularly with a bitch as stubborn as this one. It was almost time to put her to bed for the night -- he'd see if she was more tractable in the morning -- but watching her squirm and choke had definitely revved his engine back up. She'd taken what he'd dished out and hadn't talked. Surely that kind of bravery deserved a reward?

He pulled his hunting knife from its sheath and hacked down six branches about two inches thick from a nearby tree. He ran the knife down them in long strokes, stripping the twigs and leaves away, carving them into rough stakes, two feet long and evil-looking. When he was satisfied, he returned to the clearing and pounded them halfway into the ground in a half-circle five feet across. He carefully angled them away from the centre of the circle — he didn't want a struggling limb to be able to dislodge them.

Then he cut the girl's slumped body down from the tree, dragged her to the middle of the half-circle, and dropped her. She fell limp, her head between the two stakes at the top of the half-circle, an arc of three stakes running down each side of her body. He ran rope around and across her neck, twisting it tight, anchoring it to the two stakes alongside her head so she couldn't sit up. Her hair was a matted, tousled mess after her hot day and hard evening; he made a mental note to help her wash it tomorrow. Smiling at the thought, he pulled each of her arms out to a 45 degree angle and secured them to the stakes at the bottom of the half-circle. She groaned and stirred a little; good thing he was almost done. With a grunt, he folded her double, pulling her slack legs up against her torso so that her knees were in her armpits and her feet up by her ears. Leaning on her body for balance — the pressure and warmth of her against his groin making him swell even more in anticipation — he spread her legs until her feet were by the 10- and 2-o'clock stakes and lashed her ankles tightly to them.

He stepped back to look at his handiwork: he now had unfettered — he sniggered: fettered, actually — access to both the girl's holes. He grinned again; he knew which one he wanted this time. The man crouched and patted the back of her right thigh, then slid his hand over to her breast and squeezed, enjoying the pliant firmness of her flesh, watching it turn white as the pressure drove the blood from it. She groaned again and her knees bent a little, pulling against the stakes. He pondered, then as a precaution ran some loops of rope between each knee and its respective elbow, cinching them tight to reduce her leverage. With a nod, he turned away, stacked some dry wood into another Boy Scout pyramid, rekindled his small fire, and gathered the other things he wanted.

The square of cloth he'd cut from her t-shirt was still in his vest pocket, and his water flask was with his gear. He rooted around in her eco-friendly reclaimed-canvas backpack until he found the tube of sunscreen from the trunk of her car. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he sat down next to the fire, picked up a small piece of wood, and began to whittle slivers from it, occasionally toasting his creations to a hard, deep almond in the flames. It wasn't long before he had made enough. He stood and looked down at the girl, wondering if this would be the thing to break her. Then he began.

She groaned groggily at a pricking under the nail of her left big toe. Then she shrieked into wakefulness as the sensation transformed into a bolt of agony. Her eyes popped open, fingers furrowing the ground where her hands lay, her calf shaking as she strained to jerk her foot away. Blood oozed from the sharp wooden splinter jutting out from under her toenail, knocked deep into the quick with the butt of his knife. He gave it another whack, forcing it a few more millimetres in, leaving two inches protruding, and she shrieked again, the sound dying to a bird-like keening after a few moments. She was mumbling something through the gag in a wheedling, pleading tone; he listened appreciatively, then picked up a second splinter and positioned it a few hairsbreadths away from the first.

"You got a name for me yet?" Her sounds didn't change.

He grinned and hit the butt of the second splinter, driving it under the nail into her flesh, watching the blood well and drip. She shrieked a third time, ass jerking up into the air with the blow, muscles shuddering, straining to pull her leg free, before she sank back down hopelessly, moaning.

He picked up another splinter, blew a speck of sawdust off it — pride in workmanship — and set it on her other heel. Slowly, he dragged the sharp point up the ticklish sole, prodding her twitching skin and protruding tendons, watching her eyes tense and dart, her toes clench and jerk, until he arrived at her right big toe. He positioned the splinter under her nail, waited a moment to let the tension build, then struck it in. It was as satisfying as the other two, as was the the splinter that followed it. Each drew a fresh peal from her, gurgling and rasping out through the muffling cloth, fading to a quiet wail that continued with each breath she released. He considered doing all her toes, wanted to in fact, but he needed her to be able to walk tomorrow. She was tough: he was going to need the right gear to crack her open, and that was at home. She'd be half-crippled with her two maimed big toes shooting agony up her legs with every step as it was; he couldn't afford to do more. In fact, he'd have to find ways to ensure she didn't slow down too much.

He dropped his other toys by her head, then loosened the rope through her lips and pulled the sopping cloth from her mouth. She groaned and worked her jaw, stiff from being forced open for so long. He was expecting a barb, but all she croaked was, "Water...."

"Oh, you'll be getting water real soon," he said. An unfriendly smile crossed his lips. "But first: you ready to tell me what your plan was? I admire your spunk, but you gotta know I'll get it out of you sooner or later."

Slowly at first, then faster, her chest began to convulse and she burst into great heaving sobs. "I don't know what you want!" she wailed hoarsely. "I'm just here to count deer! I don't even know who you are! Why are you doing this to me? I'm don't know anything about this! Fuck! How can I convince you? How?"

He began to brush the ash and burnt pine cone scales out of her pussy and ass with the drool-wet rag, digging deep into her nooks and crannies to ensure there were no pointy surprises lurking.

"Then how come," he asked with cool logic as he worked, "my place was marked on the map I found in your glove compartment?"

"What? I don't know where your place is!"

"Near the bend in the river. You know. Where the red dot on your map was."

"The bend! I was marking the river bend! Animals come to drink there. It's a good place to track them!"

"A good place to hunt ‘em, sure. But that seems like an awful big coincidence to me."

Cracking her ass cheeks apart, he squeezed sunscreen around her asshole and into her passage, remembering with special glee her sour expression as she had looked at its ingredients so many hours ago. He doubted she cared much what was in it now.

"It is coincidence! It is! Stop that! Oh, God!"

He positioned himself, listened to her cry for another moment, and pushed. She squealed through her tears, teeth gritted, eyes clenched, her asshole stretching agonizingly to accommodate his thickness. As the head of his dick slid past her muscular gateway and her anus tightened around his shaft, his mouth opened in silent appreciation. Heavenly. He plowed deeper, her mewl rising higher and higher in pitch, until he felt the curve of her buttocks against his hips. He thrust hard once, twice — then, well-seated inside her, he paused and looked down into her dirty, tear-streaked face.

"Here's where you pick up the work," he said. He picked up his lighter from where he'd left it next to her head, flicked it on, and held the flame to the splinters under her left toenail until they caught.

She began to shake and twitch under him as the flames reached her. In a heartbeat, her abdomen was quivering and squeezing him — she was about to scream; he could feel it; the pressure was intoxicating. He reached for his next toy.

Her world suddenly went dark. Something was covering her face: soft aqua-blue material — the piece of her shirt. It smelled of gunpowder, the bleach scent of semen, and her own pussy. A dash of cold water hit the cloth covering her mouth and nose, cutting off her airflow. She couldn't see, she couldn't breathe.

Involuntarily, her lungs heaved. Nothing. She strained to reach up and pull the the cloth off — her hands wouldn't move. She started to panic. The pain in her toe erupted in into fresh agony: it was burning, the splinters sizzling and dying in her toenail bed. She had to scream; she couldn't get air; she struggled and shook; his dick was thrusting and jerking and tearing the inside of her ass; she shrieked and fought; more water poured down onto the cloth, choking her, it was impossible, she couldn't survive, it was unimaginable for this to be happening, that no one would stop it. But it went on and on and on.

He smiled as he looked down at the outline of her face under the cloth, mouth open, retching, sucking at air that wasn't there, and poured more water onto her, luxuriating as she wriggled and shook under him. His dick — the perfect reward for her bravery — slid further in, massaged and milked by her ass spasming and clenching, bringing his orgasm ever closer. He exchanged the canteen for his lighter, repositioned his weight, and reached towards her other big toe, flicking the Zippo open, letting her hear the strike of the flint and hiss of the flame, playing it along her calf and the sole of her foot en route to the waiting splinters. Time to turn his pleasure up to 11.

The sun had long set and the fire was low when she passed out. And that was all right: giving the bitch her reward had been fun, but he was tired from his hard day. It was time to settle down for the night. They both needed time to bounce back — long walk tomorrow, after all. And the sky was clouding over. He didn't want to be caught outside when the storm broke: it rarely rained on his land, but when it did, it rained big.

Picking up her tent, he looked about for a flat spot with good drainage to pitch it. It took only a moment to find one, but to his disgust, someone — or rather, some two — had camped there earlier and left behind their trash. Food wrappers, condom pouches, a broken air pump, an old bucket. Fucking kids. No respect for the land. He gathered up what he could and stuffed it into her backpack to carry it out.

But as he picked up the bucket, a thought struck him. He looked at the motionless girl, pondered, then examined it more closely. It was dented but watertight. Good. He crossed to her and untied her. For a moment, he gently traced the indentations and angry red burns the ropes had left on her skin, feeling the patterns the weave had transferred to her body, a stamp of ownership. Like the bruises on her thighs and stomach, tits and arms. A brand. His brand.

He flipped her onto her stomach, grabbed her pony tail, and roughly separated it into several hanks of hair. Then he pulled her head back and braided them into a short length of rope so they were tightly intertwined. She gurgled, semiconscious and exhausted, while he roped her ankles together, bent her knees and pulled her feet up towards the back of her head, then knotted her hair rope to them. She gurgled again, her head craned uncomfortably back, her body forced into a straining bow. The awkward stretch roused her a little; she began to flail her hands clumsily, trying to reach her ankles and free them. Grabbing her wrists, he wrenched her arms up high between her shoulder blades and tied them together there. She moaned as he anchored them to her torso, ropes encircling her body, the man completing knot after knot. Her consciousness was trickling back like the water that had taken it.

"What...." She coughed and started again. "What are you doing?" Her blackened and bruised nipples throbbed painfully against the cool ground; the blistered, scorched skin of her vulva and pussy burned and stung.

He shoved her knees apart and jammed a two-foot-long stick between them. Whittled points at each end dug into her flesh as he fastened it into place, keeping her thighs spread.

"Just hanging out with you."

"Fuck you."

"No, I fucked you," he grinned. "And you were smoking hot, thanks to those pine cones."

"Yeah, and I could tell why you need to tie women up to get sex," she whispered acidly.

For a heartbeat, he was silent. Then he burst out laughing.

"Christ, you've got a mouth on you," he chuckled. "If only you'd use it to tell me what I want to know."

"You're fucking delusional," she rasped. "I'd get you help if I weren't going to kill you the fucking second I get free."

"Well, that won't be anytime soon," he said. "And I'm through giving you chances to talk today. When you start feeling chatty in the middle of the night, tough luck. You made this bed; lie in it."'

He tossed the hair/feet rope over a sturdy tree limb and heaved. She groaned as the tension on her body grew as he hoisted her up, then gasped at the unexpected pain of her hair taking her weight. When she was four feet off the ground, he tied the rope off to the tree trunk. Slowly, she started to revolve.

"Uugh -- aaah! Stop it! Put me down!"

"Pretty," he said, watching her turn.

"Put me down! Let me down! Please! It hurts! Aaagh!"

In answer, he looped some rope around her neck and began to weave the now-familiar noose.

"Oh, God -- not again. Not again! It hurts enough like this; you don't need to do anything more. Please don't. Don't!"

The man ignored her begging and kept working. Fiercely, she drove her fear back down, biting her tongue and bracing for the inevitable. She wouldn't give him any more satisfaction. He finished the noose, then picked up the bucket and gleefully tied it to the rope a foot below her head. Her brow wrinkled in confusion, a few early drops of rain spattering against her body, smudging her soot streaks, making her skin glisten.

"Get it yet?" he asked.

He opened her canteen and poured the last of her water into the bucket. The weight in the bucket tightened the noose slightly around her neck, and she coughed. With a metallic splash, a raindrop landed in the bucket, then a few more. Her eyes opened wide.


He looked her in the eyes. "Yes," he said.

"You fucked up excuse for a man! Come on... don't do this."

He twanged her neck rope like a guitar string. Her mouth opened wide as it tightened a hair more.

"Crack wise some more, smart girl," he said. "You could have just told me what I want to know: the plan if you found the deed. I hope you're being paid well for your loyalty."

"Why won't you believe me? I. Don't. Know. Anything. About. A. Deed. I'm just a university student. My thesis advisor found me a job checking on the health of the wildlife. I'm no danger to you! Please! Just let me go!"

He reached for her hanging tits and squeezed them until her pale flesh bulged between his fingers. She gasped and scrunched up her face, her eyes watering. "Here's the thing," he said, giving them a twist that made her shriek. "While I was taking care of your car, I ran into a couple of hikers in town. They claimed they were here to do the quarterly ecology survey, but their car broke down so they were waiting for it to be fixed, then coming back in a week. Seems like one of you is lying."

Letting go, he stepped back and picked up some tent fly cord. He measured out two two-yard sections, then wound one tightly around the base of each breast, compressing her tender flesh, her tits turning a familiar purple as the blood flow slowed.

"Care to tell me which?" he asked.

At the bottom of each cord, he began to weave a sort of basket.

"Different study," the girl said through gritted teeth. "I know them. They're looking at plants, not animals."

The man picked up two fist-sized rocks and showed them to her. She closed her eyes, lips trembling.

"And here I thought ecology was about the interconnectedness of shit," he said. "Why wouldn't you all come together so you could compare notes?"

He slipped the rocks into the cord baskets, and her tits stretched into pear-shapes, swollen and agonized. She began to sob again. The rocks swung in rhythm, thunking gently against the bucket now and then, the stones darkening as raindrops struck them.

"I don't know! We just didn't!"

"Uh huh." He tweaked her nipples hard, her burnt skin peeling off in flecks as he worked his fingers, her eyes popping open and mouth curving into a shocked O of pain. "I think you need a couple of cockroaches up your cunt so you can feel them crawling and tickling inside you all night."

He reached under her, walked a couple of fingers up her thighs to her pussy lips, slipped them inside, and wriggled them suggestively. "Good luck trying to sleep through that."

"Aah! Stop it! Bastard! You wouldn't!"

"Would and did: it was quite a sight, watching that bitch wiggle. But it's too dark to find ‘em now, so you'll have to settle for something else instead."

He pulled his fingers out of her, then took a fat cigar from his breast pocket. Casually, he trimmed it with his knife, lit it, and took a couple of deep puffs with gusto. Then he leaned forward and blew smoke directly into her dripping face. She erupted in a paroxysm of coughing, raw lungs aching anew from the tobacco's stench, as he contentedly watched her purple tits bounce.

"That's no way to appreciate quality!" he complained. "This is way better than the smokes I gave you before!" He brought the ember towards her nose. She flinched away from the heat, squeezing her eyes shut, tears slipping down her face and mixing with the sprinkling of raindrops.

"Don't... Please don't..."

He held the cigar millimetres away from her damp skin, watching her twitch involuntarily from the heat, trying to pull away.

"Say you're sorry." He touched the glow to the very tip of her nose. She screamed and her shoulders jerked; she began to slowly rotate again, clockwise. As the ember pulled away from her flesh, it left an angry red-and-black mark behind. She began to sob harder.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry...." she croaked, lungs heaving.

"That's better," he said, satisfied. He watched her spin a few more times, Then, putting on his gloves, he stepped into the trees. Rustles and snaps came from the undergrowth. After a minute, he returned, carrying a bouquet of thistles.

"See, if you're nice, I can be nice too." He held them under her nose; she flinched. "Now what have you got to put them in?"


"Close." He waited until her rotation presented her crotch to him, stepped between her open legs, and parted her bruised labia with the fingers of one hand. Then he shoved the flaying stalks into her passage while she screamed and swore. Soon, thistle heads and jagged leaves nestled snugly between her cunt lips, cheerful purple and green sprigs against her dirty, reddened skin. Drops of blood fell from them to the ground.

"Now ain't that festive. Look at you, all in touch with nature."

"Take them out! Take them out! Please! I'll... I'll fuck you. I can squeeze you like a tube of toothpaste. I do exercises! You've never felt anything like it!"

"I know your pussy muscles are strong. They were squeezing me earlier when you were screaming." He looped a short rope from her bound arms behind her back, down her spine, between her parted legs, and back up along her abdomen, where he tied it around her torso, making a rough g-string. "And I gotta say, it was good." He pulled the rope tight, embedding it in the crack of her ass and the lips of her pussy, the rough hemp first abrading her tender flesh as it slid, then crushing the nettles into her groin. He stepped back. "But a little pain will get those cunt muscles nice and tight any time I want ‘em. So I'm gonna need a better offer than that."

He spun her back around and leaned towards her face. "Now, you may think you're gonna wake me up with your yelping when your noose tightens. But you're not. You're gonna stay quiet, because if you wake me up, I will replace those thistles with my fist and feed your tits to my dog for breakfast. Got that?"

"Don't leave me like this!"

He sighed then shoved the soaked, dirty scrap of her shirt back into her mouth, followed by a fat peg of wood, and tied them into place. Muffled, unintelligible, panicked pleading emerged from behind the gag.

"Unpleasant dreams, cunt."

There was a clap of thunder and the rain thickened to a drizzle. Smiling, listening to the noise of the downpour and the drops thrumming into the bucket, to the girl's rasping for breath through her nose, watching her hair start to drip and wet skin goose-pimple as the rising, chill wind swung her back and forth, he whistled for his dog, then slipped into the tent and undressed. He pulled her soft sleeping bag over himself; it smelled of clean laundry and sandalwood. He drifted off to sleep, thinking of what was to come tomorrow.

The sun was up by the time he woke. He sat up and stretched, stiff but relaxed and happy. Yesterday had been a good day, and another was coming. Shrugging his clothes and boots back on, he unzipped the tent and stepped into the fresh morning air. The rain had washed the dust from the sky: the forest gleamed like it had been polished, smelling of pine and promise.

He looked towards the girl. She hung motionless, the bucket nearly full of water, the noose embedded in her flesh, digging agonizingly into her throat, her face swollen and deep purple. For a second, he thought he was too late, but then her nostrils flared and her stretched breasts heaved, the rocks swinging gently, as she slowly, painfully dragged another breath into her lungs. He walked over to her.

"Morning, sunshine! How's the laughing girl?" He put a hand under her and tickled her stomach.

Her eyes opened a crack. They were red and puffy, with pricks of red shot through the whites. A whispered, ragged sound came from behind her gag, then a whistling rattle as she tried to force another lungful of air through her stuffed-up nose and down her constricted throat.

"Rough night? Yeah, that happens when you don't fucking do what you're told." He ran his finger over the noose. "But I do want to give you something for giving me such a good time yesterday. And seeing you like that, in such a fix, I know just what."

He stepped in front of her face and undid his fly. Then, taking careful aim, he began to piss into the bucket. The rope quivered as it took even more weight, the bucket swaying from the jet. "Ah, God, that's good — I thought I was going to burst. I didn't get up in the night to take a whiz or anything. I saved it all for you." Her next breath was a panicked rasp as his stream ran on and on, making the water in the bucket dance and bubble. By the time he squeezed out the last couple of drops, her chest was shuddering, lungs heaving. He leaned in to hear her tiny gasping wheezes as she tried to suck just one more bit of air past the rope. But she simply couldn't get enough: at the edges of her sight, darkness begin to creep in.

He didn't bother to zip up. "What, no insults? No smart comments? Where're your jokes, bitch?" His cock began to rise, and he stroked it, enjoying the sight in front of him. "See, I like my women like I like my coffee: obedient." His hand moved along his shaft faster, harder, as he stared at her near-throttled form, her abdomen shaking from the effort to get that next breath, body weakly jerking with involuntary spasms from lack of oxygen. She could see him jerking off to her anguish, and he could see her watching him: baffled and horrified at how he could find pleasure, such enormous pleasure, in doing this to her. The knowledge that her pain was deliberate, as much for his entertainment as information; that he was willing — no, excited — to watch her strangle for one more orgasm, that he would cheerfully and good-naturedly keep hurting her in ever-more unpleasant and inventive ways without caring if she died, cut her more deeply than his knife. His back arched, his orgasm approaching, his hand flying up and down his dick until, with a long grunt of satisfaction, his hot cum sprayed across her face, her eyes, her nose, her stopped-up mouth. She felt it dripping down her cheeks, stinging in her eyes, coating her top lip so the tiny amount of air she could get smelled of his semen.

"Guess it's more than just the chicken I can choke." He smiled.

But the light was fading; the sound of his voice vanished into the ocean-like hiss of her blood pulsing in her ears. Darkness closed over her and she knew nothing more.


She awoke with a tremendous headache, not recalling for a few moments where she was or what had happened. She groaned and tried to move; the effort made her wince. Her breasts and body ached and stung, her joints and muscles were stiff from her overnight ordeal, her throat raw inside and out, and her crotch inflamed, blistered, and throbbing. Her burns and scratches screamed for ice and benzocaine, but something else waited instead.

"I thought you were never going to get up," the man said.

She was lying on her side on the ground; he was on his feet, looking down at her. She could smell coffee in his mug and desperately wanted some. She wasn't gagged or hogtied anymore. He'd freed her feet from her hair and separated them: her ankles were now hobbled by a two-foot length of rope. Likewise, the bucket had been detached and the noose loosened; it hung down her front as a leash. She winced as it rubbed against the seeping red band last night had left around her throat.

Her arms were still bound behind her, so he helped her sit up. Pain lanced through her as she realized he hadn't removed the crotch rope or the nettles.

"Ugh..." she whined. The prickles dragged along and between her labia as she moved, within and along her passage. Wincing again, she opened her legs wider.

"Opening the shop for business, huh? Most times, I'd be right there to get me some of that fine pussy. But not now. I want to get back to the house, and it's a long walk. You need some breakfast."

She stared at him, then forced a hoarse "Why?" through her raw windpipe and chapped lips.

"Most important meal of the day, right?" he said. "Keeps your strength up."

He held the mug to her mouth. She looked up at him, surprised, and took a sip, gasping at the pain as she swallowed, even as the warmth took a tiny portion of the edge off the roughness in her throat. He gave her another mouthful, then switched the cup for his water bottle and gave her a long swallow from that too.

"Why go there?" she mumbled, turning her head to wipe her lips on her shoulder, trying to avoid her limp, snarled hair.

"Because you and I have unfinished business. You owe me some answers. And we'll be more comfortable chatting there than here. At least, I will."

Grimly, she considered this. He held a piece of peanut butter granola bar out for his dog. It licked it twice, then bit a piece off and chewed it happily. Pulling the remains back, he held it up to her mouth.

"Breakfast. Open wide."

"You're not serious."

"It's this or walk hungry, princess."

"Why are you doing this? Why won't you believe me that I don't know anything?"

"Because your story don't make sense! A girl working for the people trying to take my land comes into the woods alone and makes a beeline for my place, which is marked on a map, and that's coincidence?" He grabbed her nose and held it until her mouth opened slightly, then he stuffed the morsel in. Instantly, she spat it out.

"I work for the university; they're not trying to take your land!"

"That so? Then how come during the trial that professor lied about where the boundaries are? Called my family map invalid?"

He nodded to the dog and then the food; it padded silently over and snaffled it up.

"Up you get, bitch," he said, and yanked her to her feet.

She screamed as the pain from her wounded big toes – the nails dark blue, peeling off, the flesh underneath dark and hot – lanced up her legs. And her limbs, weak and stiff from hours of immobility, refused to take her weight. She staggered, unable to balance.

"God - I can't walk! It hurts!"

"Can and will, princess. Or my pooch here will give you some incentive." The dog looked up at him, ears cocked, waiting.

Grimacing, she took a painful step. Then another. A pine needle stuck into the sole of her foot and she squealed, then shook it away. They began walking in earnest.

It was an hour before he gave her a rest. By then, she had fallen and clambered back to her feet more times than she could count, since he delighted in yanking her off balance with vicious tugs on the leash. She was lurching dangerously from side to side, exhausted, her legs rubbery, toes bleeding freely, ankles and pussy lips chafed raw, when he finally sat her down on a large rock. She panted, grateful for the reprieve, and listened to the thrum of rushing water that had been getting steadily louder. After a moment, she began to examine the small cuts and bruises on her legs and feet from the sticks and sharp pebbles along the way. To her surprise, the loop around her right ankle had loosened while she had walked... and her blood had made it slippery.

Her captor had gone further up the hill; he hadn't said why. Carefully and quietly, with the toes of her left foot, she began to work the rope, stretching it, pushing it down with gritted teeth. She had to time it right: get the rope off and run before he came back, but after she had caught her breath. She could hear him whistling cheerfully — was he en route already, so soon? With a heave that took more skin from her ankle and brought tears to her eyes, she slid the rope down and around her heel and then off her foot.

Frantically, she switched feet, kicking at her left ankle loop — without success. Abandoning it, she forced herself to her feet and made for the river as quickly and quietly as she could.

One minute, two, sliding through the woods... hope was starting to bubble up inside her... three... maybe the nightmare was over... four... and then she heard the barking. Forgetting caution, she sprinted as best she could, hair streaming, lungs heaving, trying desperately to stay upright. To lose the dog at the river like she had seen countless times on TV was her only thought. She could hear it charging after her in the undergrowth, yapping, slavering, and further away, the man cursing and crashing.

Without warning, the ground in front of her vanished. She pulled up short at the edge of a low cliff: the river, deep and blue, was 15 feet below her. The man was approaching from the hill above; the dog on her trail from behind. She turned to run downhill, but a jumble of brush and fallen trees blocked the way — and then the dog was there, teeth bared, hemming her in. She looked around hysterically, hesitated, and jumped.

The chill of the water shocked her, dirt and sweat from the hot walk sluicing away, numbing her cuts and abrasions. Instantly, she began to kick, trying to surface, her arms twisting uselessly in the ropes, air bubbling from her mouth. Her head broke through to air and she sucked greedily, then coughed and choked as a huge splash sloshed over her face. An enraged hand grabbed her hair.

"You stupid bitch!" the man screamed at her. "I do one nice thing for you and this is how you pay me back?" She started to shriek, but he shoved her head down into the water and held it there, pulling her back up when her attempts to reach air became frenzied and panicked. "You want to spend some time swimming? Fucking around in the creek? Huh? Well, I can arrange that."

She kicked blindly in his direction; a fist smashed into her nose, then into her left cheekbone. The pain paralyzed her. Blood poured into the water. Suddenly quiescent, she floated shocked and gasping and as he struck out for the sand at the far side of the creek, towing her behind.

In a few moments, he had dragged her coughing and crying up on to the shore. Her arms flapped weakly as his foot swung viciously into her stomach and the breath whoofed out of her; her mouth opened like a fish, diaphragm heaving, as she tried to pull air back into her lungs. His boots connected with her shins and she jerked her legs up protectively, then they hit her back, painting her flesh red and purple, and then the tender flesh between her legs, her body grunting and shaking as each blow landed.

Suddenly, she was on her stomach, breathless, sand filling her nose and eyes and mouth as he yanked at her ropes, tearing them from her body, leaving red burning lines behind. She flailed feebly as he yanked the nettles out of her, kicking at him, her membranes scratched and raw, drops of blood staining her thighs, but he grabbed her feet and flipped her back over. The sound of a zipper opening electrified her — eyes streaming, chest heaving, coughing and snorting sand out of her nose and mouth, she tried to scramble backwards, crab-like, away from him, but he was already on her, his weight bearing her down, his cock pressing against her. She cried out again as the tip touched her labia, parting her lips, slipping into her resisting pussy. His hand pinned her wrists and he slowly drove himself into her, pushing as far as he could up up her cunt, ensuring she felt him deep inside her, violating her, her inner muscles fighting him, squeezing him, her passage stinging from the grit that slid into her along his shaft, her heels thrumming against his back, her hips twisting, trying to shake him off as he pumped, mouthing wordless protests as he pinched and twisted her nipples while his dick thrust, until as his orgasm neared he grabbed the little finger of her right and snapped it, just snapped it like a twig, wrenching it to the side until the bones of the joint shattered, the bolt of pain so strong it blotted out everything else for a moment, wringing a scream and a convulsion from her that gripped his cock like a velvet vice and he came hard, hot spunk pumping into her as he spat down onto her face. She gagged in agony and disgust, working an arm free to beat against his shoulders, and then his fist connected with her temple and she collapsed, head lolling.


She awoke choking, something small and painful stuck in her windpipe. She coughed and snorted, trying to reach up with her hands to clear it, her broken finger throbbing agonizingly, but immediately, pain wracked her elbows, hips, and tits. She coughed again, kicking in a frenzy, bleating in confusion at her inability to make her limbs move as she wished, hacking until she dislodged the thing enough to gulp it down. Then, hysteria abating, she looked down at herself through tear-blurred eyes.

She was tied again. Her back was arched over a thick, four-foot stick that jutted out from under her to either side of her body; her skin itched where it touched its rough bark. He had threaded her elbows behind the stick and tied them there, so she couldn't pull them forward. Her legs were folded up against her chest and each wrist was lashed to its respective ankle. More rope ran from her knees around the stick, forcing her legs apart and holding her in a tight package, pinioned. Adding insult to injury, he had wound tight ropes around each breast and fastened them to the stick as well, so any large movement she made stretched and pulled them. But worst of all, he had wound tape around and around her head, across her mouth and nose, sealing them shut. Her breath whistled in and out through an air pump hose he had taped between her teeth.

"You stupid cunt," he said, and dropped another pebble down her breathing tube. She yelped and gargled as it hit her tongue: it was hot. She could smell smoke from a small fire nearby; meat was sizzling; the stone was burning in her mouth but she couldn't spit it out; she couldn't push it back into the tube and blow it out; it was blocking her breathing — she hacked it forward in her mouth and swallowed it.

"You do not fuck with me!"

Pain lanced through her left nipple; a muffled wail escaped the tube and her leg jerked, yanking her arms and breasts. The wail intensified, then faded. "Did a little hunting while you were out and got these porcupine quills," he said. He speared another quill through the same nipple, making a perfect X. Her pain redoubled, and he turned his attention to her right nipple. She squealed again as he gave it the same treatment, but stopped abruptly, hacking, as he calmly dropped another heated pebble down the tube. Then, concentrating carefully, he took a pinch of purple breast skin just above her aureola and slowly drove a quill through it, listening to her pant and whine. Then he did it again. And again. And again, continuing as long as she was silent. By the time he finished, her tits had two concentric rings of quills embedded in her swollen flesh and he had fed her eight hot stones. He looked down at his remaining handful of quills, then thoughtfully back at her splayed body. She shook her head, moaning as he repositioned himself, sliding his hand possessively down her stomach to her pussy. Then, with a grin, he took a pinch of skin on the back of her thigh and raised the next quill. Soon both her thighs and the bottoms of her feet were adorned with quills too, and so were her cheeks above the tape and her throat below it.

"The Pocahontas look suits you. Wish I had some beads for your ass." He stood, went to the creek, and knelt to wash drops of her blood off his hands. Then he crossed to the fire, picked up the gloves that were drying in front of it, and put on the right-handed one.

"Now thanks to you, I have to go back across the river to find my pack, since I dropped it when you did your little gallop." He picked something up from next to the fire and came back towards her. It was a large river rock, oval and smooth, about eight inches long and three wide. "And that pussy's gonna to stay hot while I'm away."

A strange hooting came from the tube as she tried to form the words, tried to beg him not to do what she knew was coming. It went up an octave as he opened her cunt lips with his free hand and brought the stone close. Her legs spasmed at his touch, agony shooting through her breasts again as the ropes yanked them, and then the fat rock was sliding into her, her pleas changing to a bellow, her hips bucking, fingers and toes clawing the air, her passage stretching and searing as he drove burning pain up her pussy, his gloved hand hammering the scalding thing further and deeper into her body.

He watched her convulse for a moment, his cock thickening at the tremors shooting through her muscles, then he moved to her head, grabbed her shoulders, and pulled, dragging her over a sand bank into a 3-foot hole she hadn't realized was there.

"You'll want to close your eyes," he advised, then grabbed the breathing tube and holding it upright, he shoved the sand mound down into the hole on top of her. The noises from the tube got wilder; he took a second to tape over its top while he worked, tamping the first layer of sand down — particularly near her toes, where it was churning — then wetting it with some splashes of water before starting on the next layer. After a moment, he took the tape off again, enjoying the whistling the air made as she tried to suck it in, the garbled screams as she forced it back out. He smoothed the plot, packing the sand down around the top of the breathing tube, stamping on her a few times. Then he called down to her.

"I'm leaving now. Enjoy the hot rock massage. You're far enough from the water that you should be ok unless it starts to rain again, though it's looking cloudy. Good luck!" He looked with satisfaction at the inch of blue rubber protruding from the ground, kicked some sand over his fire to extinguish it, gathered his stuff, and headed for the river. Then, spinning around abruptly, he picked up one last pebble from the fireplace, dropped it down the tube, listened happily to her spluttering and howling, and went on his way.

Despite her simmering rage, she almost cried with happiness when she heard the scrunch of the small shovel in the sand above her. Being immobile in her constricted pose was agony: encased in damp sand, she was shivering with cold and aching with stiffness, muscles cramped and trembling, skin goosebumped and itching from the grains scratching and worming into every crevice of her body, the quills through her flesh a constant burning that couldn't be reached or soothed. She couldn't stand the position, the claustrophobia, the helplessness, a moment longer.

Not, she thought greyly, that I have a choice.

She didn't know how long he had left her there, but it felt like hours. Or days. For the first eternity, she couldn't think, just strained in the dark and screamed through the tube as the rock seared and blistered the inside of her pussy. When it had cooled enough to be bearable, the pain of the quills and the terror of her situation overwhelmed her: what if he never came back? Would she starve to death, buried alive? Would something block her air tube, ending her in a hundred slow gasps, each harder than the last, like the previous night? She couldn't go through that again. She couldn't. Tears leaked from beneath her squeezed-shut eyelids, her thoughts skipping like a record back to how she had ended up in the hands of this psycho, what she could have done or said differently to change things, how she could have fought him off. She knew it had seemed too good to be true when the sheriff offered her thesis advisor a special grant to inventory the wildlife in case of poachers. Damn him and his map!

And now here she was. Roses are red; violets are blue, she thought. They'll need dental records to identity you.

She fantasized escape plans. And revenge: she would stay alive and on the lookout for any opportunity, she would get loose, she would find a way to take him down and smash his head in with that stupid unendurable rock, kill him before he killed her. And then... And then...

A bit of liquid trickled down the tube. She squawked in surprise but gulped before she inhaled any of it. It was water, and welcome in her dank hole. Greedily, she sucked at the tube, hoping for more, and more liquid came — but now, it was something else: salty, acrid, warm. Urine. She spluttered, her gorge rising, retching, but she knew she couldn't vomit here, not like this; she'd inhale it and aspirate, drown in it. He wants me alive, she rationalized feverishly; he'll stop in a moment. He has to. Gagging, she swallowed, then pulled in a quick breath of air as his aim strayed from the tube's narrow opening. Her stomach heaved and a bit of piss reappeared in her throat; she forced it back as more streamed down the pipe. With a wail that became a gurgle, she swallowed a second time. The flow slowed to pungent drops, then stopped — it seemed she'd been right: he didn't want her to drown just yet.

Everything was quiet. For long moments, she could hear only her breath hissing thinly through the tube. She waited, hating, hurting, stomach churning. Finally, the sound of the shovel reached her ears. The weight on her body lessened and the darkness turned to an orange-red haze as the late afternoon sun poured into her squinting, gritty eyes. His hands dusted loose sand from her face and goosefleshed body, heaping it back up into a mound next to the hole, sliding around her sides, hips, legs as he loosened the imprisoning earth, and then he was pulling her, dragging her out of the hole by her shoulders, her back sliding across the rough sand, her skin abraded and stinging. He dumped her down.

For a moment, she basked — feeling the sun warming her chilled flesh, stretching her stiff neck, flexing her numb fingers and toes, rolling her cramped hips, then her elbows and ankles as much as her ropes allowed, blinking the dust away from her stinging eyes. He watched, smirking, until she noticed what he was doing and froze. She had come to know that expression.

"Happy, cunt?" he asked. "What do you say?"

"Uhk ‘oo," she grunted through the hose. The first word could have been "thank" but he didn't think so.

"That's what I thought." He reached for one of the quills piercing her right thigh and slowly drew it out: a thin, white-cold shiv of pain. She squealed, her fingers grasping uselessly, hands attempting to drag her unmoving ankles to the source of the pain.

"Forty-nine to go. Did you know ‘4' and ‘9' are unlucky numbers in Japan?" He flicked one of the quills in her left nipple and watched her jerk, then reached back down to her thigh and slowly pulled out a second quill, taking in her long, drawn out moan.

"I was gonna take them all out for the rest of the walk," he said sadly. "But that kind of ingratitude means I'm gonna have to leave most of ‘em in."

One by one, taking his time, moving the quills agonizingly within her flesh — turning, twisting, spinning, gouging — he removed the ones in the bottoms of her feet and the backs of her thighs, leaving red holes that bled freely. He left the quills in her tits, nose, and neck. Finally, he cut the ropes holding her ankles to the stick behind her back, pulled her to her feet, and shoved her ahead of him into the forest.

"Ok, bitch: walk," he said, and whistled for his dog.

She heard the whirr a split second before the next electric jolt burned into her cunt. Involuntarily, she folded in half again, her abdominal muscles contracting agonizingly, her head snapping up to the level of her waist, wires trailing in her body's wake. As her head left the tub of water on the ground beneath it, her long hair lashed the air, throwing a glistening arc of drops that pattered as they fell shining to the earth. Hanging upside-down and doubled over, she shrieked full-throated, long and loud, spraying more water through the leather-wrapped metal ring jammed behind her teeth and buckled tightly behind her head, pulling her cheeks into a grimace. She dangled from a sturdy tree limb by ropes on her wide-spread ankles, the wood shaking and creaking as she heaved and bobbed, keeping time with the man as he turned the handle of an old telephone magneto, her sounds stuttering away into squawks and plosives as her breath ebbed.

He stopped cranking and watched her body fall back into a vertical line, her head splashing down into the tub, her face slowly surfacing a moment later, coughing and spluttering, as her cramping stomach muscles painfully dragged her head back up to the air for another breath, her sides aching and trembling as they tensed yet again. Water bubbled out of her nose and gaping mouth, washing away the taste of his salty cum on her tongue and the splotches of blood on her face. Her purple hands, bound behind her back and secured to her waist, flailed in the scant distance the rope afforded them, unable to decide which direction to go, desperate either to dislodge the electric wire attached to the piece of old exhaust pipe protruding gracelessly from between her bruised labia or else to grab the sides of the tub and lift her head a little further above the water, taking the strain from the throbbing muscles in her torso. Her fingers grasped the air uselessly, the pins under her nails clicking faintly as they collided and tangled.

The man grinned, rose from his Adirondack chair, and stretched. He picked up a few more long wires from where they lay carefully coiled on the ground, their ends tipped with alligator clips, then separated three, clipped an end of each to a terminal on the magneto, and advanced.

"The deed, bitch. Who's paying you to find it? What was your plan if you did?"

"Na... ‘lease," she gasped. A large safety pin through her tongue stopped her from pulling it back into her mouth, making her words barely intelligible. Blood slowly dripped from the pin into the tub, where it wafted and faded away. It, like two other safety pins through her nipples, were connected to wires and the other terminal of the magneto. Two more pins ran through her earlobes, but they had no wires yet. Neither did the metal barbecue skewers he had punched through the meat of each breast in a star shape, nor the second piece of exhaust pipe that the man — with many jokes and wry observations — had forced deep into her ass. She knew the wires for all them were coming.

"Ah cah't — ah cah't — I doh't know anythin! Na plahn! Na plahn! Pleath! Pleath!"

He ignored her, following the movements of her head to clip wires to her earlobe pins as she swung and dodged as much as she could. Then he reached up and, rubbing a bit of rust off the metal to ensure good contact, connected her ass pipe. She was so close to ditching her dignity and just begging now, so close to having no fight left at all: the intolerable combination of pussy and ass shocks would be the thing to break her. At least for today; tomorrow, he knew, she'd have regained a measure of hatred and resistance. And he would stamp it out all over again; that was one of the joys of having her. But at the moment, he was almost at her bedrock.

The new connections secure, he rolled up a sleeve and fished the willow branch out from the bottom of the tub where he had left it soaking, keeping it flexible. There was no rush to return to the magneto. He swished it through the air a few times to dry it, letting her apprehension grow, then with a crack added another bright red stripe to the ones already criss-crossing her skin. She bucked and he lashed her a few more times, listening to her howls turn to glugging noises as her muscles failed and her head slipped back below the water's surface. Marks rose on her torso and thighs, white and purple and black. When his arm was tired, he returned to his chair, took a swig of beer, and regarded her. Pretty, but she still needed... something. He picked up his BB gun from where it leaned against the chair and aimed it at her stomach, but replaced it unfired. That wasn't it. He needed her to still be in decent shape when the sheriff arrived for his share of the fun -- part of their little arrangement. Until then he could do something like... like.... He had it: cigars burning their slow way along the soles of her feet, so she couldn't run again. Perfect.

But first: he reached for the magneto's crank and gave it a vicious turn. Her head jerked up out of the tub again with a surprised wet wail at the increased intensity of the shock, her abdomen fluttering as the current flowed through her most sensitive spots. Nice. Another wire for her clit and perhaps one or two more for the skewers and it would be a very pleasant evening. Funny how much entertainment a mere 80 volts & 250 milliamps could generate — pun intended — and no internet, TV, or connection to the grid required. He turned the crank again, first slowly, then quickly, then slowly again, contentedly watching her jerk, suffer, and bray.

A half-hour later, at the sound of an SUV engine, the man got up and disappeared from her sight. The girl hung listlessly, conserving as much energy as she could, holding her face just above the waterline, the settling waves lapping at her cheeks, rivulets of her tears mixing with them freely. Her head was bursting from the blood that had drained down into it and her throat ached: raw from screaming, esophagus bruised where the knob of the man's cock had bashed it over and over as he thrust deep into her mouth, the involuntary recoiling of her tongue caressing him as she tasted his musk and pre-cum, the metal ring preventing her from biting as he ploughed deep, his shaft plugging her airway, choking off her breath in a new and horrible way, his hands on the back of her upside-down head shoving her face against his groin and her nose to his balls, him holding her there and watching her redden, feeling her gagging and shuddering, her neck muscles straining and flexing, massaging his suffocating dick until he unsocketed and spewed his revolting goo along her tongue while she retched and shook.

Turning her head slightly, she could see a collar and leash meant for her draped across the back of the man's chair, and a little way past their tree and torture playground, an old barn, paint long flaked away, its doors open and beckoning. In the dimness, a small cage rested on some straw, door ajar, waiting for her, her ransacked backpack leaning against it like a placard on a table. And behind it, along the wall of the barn, a row of six other backpacks, dusty, the material fading but still showing the bright colours and patterns that had been popular with college girls in past years. Near them, in a warm corner, the dog happily gnawed something long and white.

She heard two sets of footsteps returning and looked to see who the man had met, what fresh horrors were coming her way. Soon, the men's explanations and laughter over, her screams resumed. The sun sank and darkness settled across his land.

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