Christine Zibbon-Smith awakes slowly, observing a surreal scene. Christine does
not panic, for she has often dreamt that she is awake, only to eventually
realise she is still dreaming. Christine is lying on an inclined padded bench,
looking out through polished steel bars. Beyond those bars, she can only just
see a whitewashed room illuminated by a large picture window. Christine hears
the sound of waves breaking on a shingle beach and smells her own stale
perspiration. Still half-asleep, Christine lifts her hands to rub her eyes.
‘What sort of nightmare is this?’ Christine shivers with this thought,
as she notices the tightly-laced boxing gloves covering her hands. Apart from
the thumb-less black leather gloves, she is naked. As always, Christine is
without body hair.
‘Whatever, I’ll see where this traumatic dream takes me,’ she muses,
struggling to stand upright.
Over by the cell’s bars, Christine squints, in an attempt to see more
clearly. Slowly she pieces together her surroundings, through the curtains of
her eyelashes. Outside the window, she can just distinguish distant waves
crashing underneath a grey threatening sky. Inside the room, she can make out a
flat screen television and an oversized circular analogue clock on the far
wall.
“Five minutes past ten; obviously it is morning,” Christine whispers.
‘Oh, Shit! This is real. I’m never shortsighted in my dreams.’
Christine feels sick to the pit of her stomach with the particular nausea of
fear. She turns around to look for an expedient location to vomit. Beside the
bench is a stainless steel lavatory, with a polished copper lid. Christine
kneels before it and tries to lift this cover, but it will not budge. The smell
of the glove leather hits her as she strains to lift the lid.
‘This is becoming weirder. I’ve more than enough grip to move a loo
cover. Somebody is playing a game.’
Christine sits upon the cold metal, opens her legs and leans forward to
press her labia against its surface. She flicks her long blond hair so that it
torments her large brown nipples to erection, because Christine knows that few
men can resist her firm curved body. Although not overweight, she would describe
herself as well formed and athletic.
“Are you going to come out and play with me?” Christine asks, sounding
so much braver than she feels.
‘Is it my husband or my lover? Is it some random stranger, perchance?
Don’t use any names girl, just in case.’
Her instinctive reaction is to use her teeth on the laces of the
gloves. However, the laces are made from hard leather, without a loose end in
sight.
Christine examines her cell, not that there is much to see. Apart from
matt white featureless walls, it contains the black leather padded surface,
sloping fifteen degrees from horizontal, that useless lavatory and a thick
polythene tube dangling above the highest part of the bench. Christine’s arse
and labia become too cold, so she moves over to the bars which form the front of
her prison; nineteen solid, shiny, chromium plated poles, just set close enough
together to prevent her gloves from passing through.
Christine reclines on the bench, studying her cell.
‘So where’s the door? The ceiling looks solid and so does the floor.’
To make sure, she pushes on the every part of the cell’s roof, but
cannot detect any hint of an exit through the padding of her gloves. Christine
repeats this process on the walls, and then uses her feet on the floor. She
notices that the light is fading and squints at the clock.
‘07:15 p.m. How can the time have passed so quickly?’
“What is going on? If this is a game then I am bored with it. Whoever
you are, show yourself!”
Christine lies facing the ceiling on the narrow bench, with her head at
the bench’s lowest point, then spreads her legs widely to rest her feet on the
floor. She is sure that somebody is watching and wants to show as much defiance
as she dare.
When an electric bell sounds, Christine jumps, landing in a heap on the
floor. This noise only lasts a second or two, but ten seconds later clear liquid
dribbles through the tube in the ceiling. Christine manages to catch only the
very last drop in her mouth.
‘Water! Cool clean water!’ Christine thinks, as the spillage drains
away before she can decide if she should lick it up from the floor or not.
‘Stupid girl! That could have been sulphuric acid. How can it be 8:10
p.m. already?’ However, the view through the window gradually turns red to
confirm the time, so Christine places herself, head uppermost, on the bench.
As the absolute darkness envelops her, she feels even more terrified.
Christine’s brain transforms each random signal from her eyes into unspeakable
horrors.
Excruciatingly slowly, she begins to remember recent events. Christine
squeals with delight as she recalls her husband giving her a gift for her
thirty-second birthday; the original keys to a fully reconditioned, vintage
Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. She remembers driving it to her lover two days later.
Christine giggles at how mischievous she felt when comparing it to the much less
expensive gift from that lover.
Christine remembers their quarrel, when her lover pinched her nipple
and she told him, in explicit terms, that she did not enjoy pain. Then the big
argument, when lover-boy did not want his wife to discover them. He told her
that she was an arrogant bitch, for parking such an ostentatious car near to his
private apartment.
Christine’s mind goes blank as the clock starts to glow green.
‘It can’t be 04:00 a.m. already!’
She watches that clock; there is no second hand, but she can almost see
the minute hand moving. Then Christine recollects fucking her lover, more with
anger than passion. She remembers they drunk too much Champagne and he had
fallen asleep with his cock still inside her. Christine had stormed out in a
rage.
‘Think girl! What happened next? Did you go back to lover-boy, sleep in
the car or drive home?’ Christine’s mind is blank; she recalls nothing.
Eventually, the despicable truth dawns and Christine recalls starting
to drive the unfamiliar heavy car, with a turning circle worse than a bus,
whilst extraordinarily drunk. Christine vaguely recalls only the first few
miles, then nothing more until she found herself in this cell.
***
Natasha Cowsun comes to, in a much less pleasant environment than Christine’s
cell. Her hands are encased in the same type of boxing gloves as Christine’s and
her head is tightly restrained in a leather hood. Natasha cannot see, cannot
open her mouth and her ears hurt from the compression. She quickly determines,
cautiously feeling about with her feet, that she is in a small padded cell,
which appears to have a drainage hole in one corner.
By her empty feeling and sore anus, Natasha works out that she has been
given an enema. Her extremely painful body tells her that she has been given
colossal cunt torture and humungous nipple torment, perhaps while unconscious.
Natasha cannot determine if her eyes are covered or if there is no light in her
cell.
However, she has less trouble than Christine did recalling the events
that led her to this place. She had been driving a tanker, full of liquid
petroleum gas, along a deserted road in the middle of the night, when she saw
the flashing blue lights behind her.
When she was stopped, Natasha expected that she would have to endure
plenty of stereotypical racial and sexist abuse, but the cop seemed dumbstruck
as he opened the cab door. He stared at Natasha in disbelief, unable to
reconcile his perceptions of a truck driver with this six-foot six inch, ebony
black woman, clad in a sleeveless bright yellow jumpsuit and showing excessive
braless cleavage. Natasha pumped up the muscles in her arms and thought,
‘What will he start with, my height, my muscles, my tits or my high
heels?’ To her surprise, she had only received polite, but stern, instructions
from this officer of the law.
“Follow us at a distance of a hundred yards. When we stop and show our
hazard lights, park your tanker, leave the engine running and run to this car!”
Natasha had tried to ask for reasons, but they had sped away. She
recalls following the police car and struggling to keep up on the twisty, dark,
narrow road. Then nothing, totally zilch.
***
In her padded cell, Natasha waits patiently for something to happen, but it
does not. An old tongue twister is repeatedly playing in her brain,
“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?”
Natasha thinks that she has almost made it to her thirty-second
birthday and speculates where she has heard that chant before.
Still waiting in her cell, Natasha does not conjecture who has placed
her into this predicament, for Natasha is a villainess not a lorry driver. This
part-time occupation is only for the benefit of the tax authorities, to divert
their attention from her minor thefts, extortions and frauds. Any one from many
thousands of enraged victims could be behind her incarceration. As she is still
alive, Natasha expects that her almost certain death will be slow and painful.
Purely to distract her mind, Natasha playfully punches her lower
abdomen until her cunt finally springs into action and starts to lubricate. She
gently punches and rubs her clitoris to increase her stimulation. A high-pitched
‘fingers on a blackboard’ squeal invades her padded cell, slowly growing in
intensity. Natasha is virtually uneducated, but she knows how to survive on her
wits. She places her hands by her sides then the screech abates.
‘This is a sodding no frigging area. Pity!’
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