Peder’s cruel words and actions, at dawn this morning, have left Christine humiliated,
disgusted and dejected. She does not notice the gradual changes to her surroundings as she
continues plodding down her solitary trek. Christine’s tear laden eyes only focus
downwards onto the never-ending dirt road. She mumbles,
“I hate Peder; I wish that I had never cast eyes on that conniving con artist. How
could I have been fooled so easily, not just once but twice?”
Christine holds her heavy copper medallions in her hands, so that their chains will
not pull too heavily on her nipples and elongate her breasts.
It is late afternoon before a menacing rumble interrupts her gloom. Christine
reluctantly lifts her head, glances around the downhill dirt track and decides that the
cliff to her right is not climbable. To her left, she sees a steep embankment constructed
from frigid dry earth and stone. Christine clambers halfway up, to obtain a better view,
using her medallions to dig into the structure.
‘Oh, shit!’ Christine thinks, as a convoy of oversized armoured jeeps rush towards
her at sixty miles an hour. She scrambles to the top of the bank, ignoring the storm of
sand and acrid black diesel fumes, and then presses her naked flesh onto the top of the
freezing embankment.
‘If they see the copper sparkling in the sunlight, then I am in terrible trouble!’
However, Christine now spots huge military trucks heading her way. They pass just feet
from her face, punching her naked body with their slipstreams.
At last, as this convoy passes into the distance, Christine takes a deep breath and
looks over the other side of the bank. She screams in terror, looking down at several
thousand foot of sheer scree slope, with a raging torrent at the bottom. Before she can
return to the road, Christine hears the thunder of a gigantic low-loader racing up the
incline with its engine screaming at its task. As this vehicle rounds the bend then pounds
towards her, she watches it, transfixed like a rabbit trapped in headlights. Its huge
wheels ride up onto both sides of the narrow road, causing the dirt beneath her body to
rumble and start to crumble. She screams into the shadow of a titanic military tank as it
towers beside her, just inches from her head.
More low loaders, each with an armoured tank on its back, follow at intervals of
thirty second, in clouds of dust and fumes.
‘Do I have time to climb down, and then try to clamber up that rock face?’
contemplates Christine. Unfortunately, before she reaches her decision, a tank’s loose gun
barrel is skimming the top of the embankment, threatening to crush her.
Time seems to slow as she lowers her body over the steep side, ramming in her
medallions for support. Christine yells out in terror as the enormous gun barrel skims her
head, and stones violently strike her naked skin. She feels sick, chokes and splutters as
more fumes, dust and pebbles rain down upon her. Then she starts to slide, exceedingly
slowly, down the scree slope.
The tank’s gun barrel swings out ahead of her, at a right angle to the road, and
then the front of the low-loader crashes through the embankment. More debris rains down
upon Christine as she continues to slide.
When the dust has cleared, she looks up at the overhanging vehicle. Although she is
still slipping gradually down the slope, Christine watches in anticipation as the
traumatised driver climbs up onto the roof of his cab and begins his uphill struggle over
that dusty polished roof.
With an eardrum shattering crash, a second transporter crashes into the first.
“You blind bastard!” yells the driver, as he leaves the roof of his cab,
catapulting into the thin air. Christine watches as he defiantly spreads his arms and legs
to attempt to control his descent.
“Well done, sir! Well done indeed, brave man. Enjoy your last few seconds of life,”
Christine shouts, before screaming in agony when a medallion slips from her grasp.
‘Oh, shit! I am going to have my right nipple ripped away,’ Christine conjectures
as the copper drags through the sharp stones. She curses her body’s unwanted arousal, from
the excitement and pain, as she enters a mild orgasm.
However, these are the least of her concerns. A third low-loader truck rams into
the carnage above. The first truck in the pileup demolishes the embankment, tips sideways
and rolls towards Christine. Its load snaps free from its fixings and the huge war machine
flies over her head. As both vehicles roll and slide downwards, they drag the surface of
the accumulated rocky debris along with them, accelerating Christine’s plunge towards
distant oblivion.
Her huge metallic medallion breaks free from the stones and Christine pulls on its
chain, to hold the metal in her hand once more. Although still accelerating, she is now
descending with the frozen stones trapped underneath her naked body.
Minutes later, Christine turns her head at the sounds of two huge splashes, but
distant clouds of spray are the only evidence of the lost vehicles.
Once more, she hears an impact above her head. Then Christine hears a helicopter
and immediately its downdraft engulfs her in irritating, stinging grit.
“Christine, grab the ladder!” orders an amplified man’s voice from within the
maelstrom.
“Where are you, Peder?”
“Just take hold of the rope ladder! I was only joking this morning,” Peder replies.
Finally, she feels the rope briefly touch her leg.
Rifle retorts follow the sounds of two pings from metal on metal. Christine’s joy
evaporates as quickly as it had returned. She watches Peder shouting unheard words into
his megaphone from halfway down the ladder, which rotates with the slowly spinning
helicopter. Although Christine is still sliding with the scree, Peder is descending
faster. She watches as the pilot battles to get away from the slope, to control his
rotation and to slow his fall; his brave struggle is hopeless.
Christine sobs silently as the minutes tick by and she realises how badly she had
underestimated the size of her entrapping scree slope. She watches as the pilot refuses to
capitulate, when he lands upon the torrent, keeping his rotors turning. His partially
submerged machine stops spinning round and bobs along, like a parody of a child’s toy. Her
eardrums pop once more as her protracted plummet continues.
All things must end, and scree slopes are no exception. The termination of
Christine’s descent is uneventful, for she gradually slows as the slope bottoms out, near
to the cacophony of this enormous torrent.
“Goodbye, Peder. I forgive you!” she whispers, shivering as she rises to her feet.
“Hello, Christine! Time to get you out of here!” yells a male voice from behind her
head. Before she can turn, he lifts her by her long blond hair and dumps her onto a pure
white stallion. He wraps her nipple chains around the horse’s neck, pushes her flat onto
the animal’s bare back, and then ties a horse blanket over her back and under the horse’s
belly.
“Hold on tightly and don’t make a sound,” he orders. “You have made some vicious
enemies today, and many of them know precisely how to run down a scree slope.” The man
then sets the horses to a gallop. Rifle fire concentrates her mind, and the sound of heavy
artillery speeds their journey.
Underneath her blanket, Christine presses the side of her head into her stallion’s
neck, holds her arms tightly around that neck and grips its belly with her legs. Even with
the retaining straps over her back, Christine’s position feels precarious. She can see
little, apart from the uneven rock below, which flashes by. Occasionally she catches a
glimpse of a man’s powerful legs, encased in black leather, astride another fine white
horse.
Despite the tension and her fear, or maybe because of these, Christine cannot stop
herself becoming aroused again. The hot sweaty steed beneath her uncovered flesh is
clearly unaware what its firm, rhythmical, muscular contractions are doing to the naked
female body pressed into its back.
‘It’s so good to be warm. I wonder if this man is my rescuer or my new captor,’ she
contemplates.
However, the horse’s movements and its painfully sharp hair continue to force
Christine towards her orgasm. She grips her teeth tightly as she reaches her climax, so
that she will not make too much noise. Christine panics as her grip on the horse’s neck
slips. She grabs hold of its mane, but moves onto another, more intense climax. This time
she cannot stop herself from yelling out. She reasons,
‘He certainly can’t have heard me, above the sounds of the torrent and the hooves,’
but a sound whack on her arse, from his riding crop, corrects her assumption. Although the
blanket spreads the pain, it is still too intense for her to ignore and only intensifies
her passion. He applies strike after strike to silence her cries, but only succeeds in
prolonging and strengthening her erotic spasms.
This man’s temper snaps and he repeatedly thumps her arse, back, shoulders and even
her neck with his crop. Again, this agonising stimulation only heightens Christine’s
arousal, driving her into further orgasmic fury. On and on, he delights in delivering blow
upon blow, forcing her into an orgy of agony and gratification.
Suddenly, after well over a hundred blows, the man stops both his horses and her
punishment. As Christine continues to grind her clitoris into the stallion’s harsh rump,
she thinks,
‘That bugger is enjoying my performance. What an arsehole!’ but she refrains from
speaking.
He waits patiently until her body stills, and then resumes their gallop. Christine
notices that huge snowflakes start falling and settling upon the stony ground.
| 
