The Wrangler: The only thing standing between the beautiful kidnapped heiress and death was -- The Wrangler.

The Wrangler

By Pat Powers

Copyright 2014 by Pat Powers

"Sure, you can fuck her," said the Wrangler to the Agent. "Just be sure to shower first and to wear a condom."

"I prefer to shower after," said the Agent. He was a hard-looking dark-haired man, tall and muscular and who moved with a certain grace and economy of motion. He was one of five men who sat in the living room of a rented trailer tucked away on a remote bend of the Altamaha, a south Georgia river. They were all dressed casually, in jeans and shorts and T-shirts and polo shirts. They were supposed to look like a bunch of guys out for a weekend of fishing and drinking away from the wives. But none of them were drinking, though there was booze in the refrigerator. There was a baseball game on the television, and the men watched it, but without any real interest. They were not there to watch baseball. They were there to collect two million dollars.

"Unless you also like spending time in a jail cell, you'll shower first." said the Cleaner, a grizzled old white-haired man who looked like a former street tough, the only one of the group that had a paunch. "You leave any skin cells on her, it's DNA evidence, just like if you come on her or in her it's DNA evidence. Might as well just write your name, address and phone number on her butt. A shower will wash your skin cells off."

"I'm OK with a condom and a shower," said the Agent. "The shower sounds kinda nice, and staying outta jail sounds nice, too."

With those words, the Agent headed off to the showers. He wasn't one to hesitate once he decided on a course of action.

"What position do you want her in?" the Wrangler called after him. "Doggie would be easiest."

"Doggie it is," said the Agent. He didn't really care. A fuck was a fuck.

The Wrangler walked back into the bedroom. He was a compactly built man, average height and average build. In shorts and a polo shirt he looked like a racquetball player, muscular and lithe.

A naked woman lay tied on the bed in a half spreadeagle. Her hands were secured behind her back with ropes in Japanese shibari style bondage. Each wrist was tied securely to its opposite forearm just below the elbow. Ropes encircles her upper arms, tied together behind her back so she was unable to move her arms back and forth.

Her legs were encased in leather cuffs at the ankles, and tied to the corners of the bed so that they were spread wide.

The woman on the bed wore a sturdy leather collar around her neck and a hood that covered her head. A spray of lustrous brown hair spilled out from beneath the hood. A rope secured her collar to the headboard at the top of the bed.  The way she was bound made her large breasts pillow beneath her as they were pressed into the bed, and left the round globes of her butt stretched taught, as if in invitation.

Beneath the hood the woman's mouth was filled with a small ball gag. The ball itself was a wiffle golf ball, big enough to block screams and keep her tongue from working effectively, but with holes that would permit her to breathe through it if it her nose got clogged up, as sometimes happened.

A slight ring of flesh where her lips were compressed between the leather hood and the ballgag and the pink between her nostrils were the only portions of the woman's face that were visible.

Her name was Christine Willock, and she was the daughter of Arthur Willock, the heir to the Genegineering fortune. She was absolutely helpless, and terrified, and had been for the last several hours, most of which had been spent hogtied, gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car.

The men had spoken to her only once. They must have spotted her slipping out of the Stateline Liquors store where she sneaked out to get booze (her father was against booze, necessitating secret trips to the liquor store every so often).

A couple of miles from the store, on a deserted back road that ran between the highway leading to the nearest town with a liquor store, her car died. Probably her car had been rigged to do just that, because moments after it died two cars came down the road and pulled over, boxing her in.

When she saw that the men approaching her car wore masks and carried assault weapons, Christine knew she was in trouble.

Her first thought was to lock the doors and activate the alarm on her car. It was not your average car alarm, but a radio broadcast akin to a Lojack that went out to every law enforcement agency in the area, letting them know the occupant of the vehicle in question was in trouble.

Before she could do so, her whole body shook violently as the windows in back of her car shattered and the rounds that had shattered them punched holes through the far side of the car.

Christine screamed in terror, her impulse to push the emergency alarm gone.

The windows of the car were bulletproof, its doors, trunk and roof armor-plated. The bullets shouldn't have broken the glass.

"Git cher hands up now, bitch!" barked a hard male voice as a machine gun poked its snout into the car.

Christine raised her hands over her head. They were shaking. She was crying.

A hand reached into her car and opened the door from the inside. A moment later a masked man leaned over, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her roughly out of the car. Christine fell to the ground and a man crawled atop her. As she opened her mouth to scream, he shoved a ball into her mouth. She instinctively resisted, but he was very fast and very strong, and in a moment it was all the way in her mouth. There were straps dangling from the ball, and in a moment her attacker pulled the straps tightly together, and like that she was gagged. She could make sounds, though, because the ball that gagged her was plastic and had holes in it. That lasted only for a second, however, as her attacker pulled out a roll of duct tape and wrapped it twice around her head, very quickly. It pulled painfully on her hair as he wrapped the tape around her head, and Christine cried out in protest, but as the tape covered her gagged mouth, only the tiniest of sounds got out.

Next a bag was pulled over here head, blinding her. She felt the bag constrict around her neck as her captor wrapped another strip of duct tape around it, sealing it in place on her head, though not so tightly as to constrict her breathing.

Her captor rolled her over in the dirt and she felt straps securing her wrists and ankles behind her back. She struggled mindlessly to escape, but a quick, brutal blow to the side of her head left her seeing stars and quieted her down.

When the strapping was through she was hogtied, her hands and feet connected to iron bars which connected together behind her back. She wasn't sure what was connected to what, all she really knew was that her hands and feet were somehow connected back there and she couldn't move them at all.

She felt herself being picked up, picked up by someone for whom it was an easy task. He carried her a short distance and shoved her into a confined space -- the trunk of a car. She heard a muffled "thunk" and the air was suddenly still. The lid had been closed on her.

The sound was somehow awful and final, like the darkness that now enclosed her. It felt like the darkness of the tomb.

She heard muffled thuds and felt the weight of the car shifting. Then she heard and felt the car crank into life and begin to roll. For a long time, that was all she felt -- that and the terror.

She tried to escape her bonds. She felt them carefully and figured out she was cuffed to a metal "X" with shackles at the end of each arm, shackles which now enclosed her wrists and ankles. The clinking sound she'd heard was locks being locked on each shackle.

She tried working her wrists and ankles free of the shackles, but they had very grabby inner linings that simply tightened when she pulled on them.

The heat and the air in the trunk were quite oppressive. South Georgia in the summer was tough even if you were used to living in it without air conditioning. Christine was not used to spending a long time in an enclosed space without air conditioning. She sweated in a most unladylike manner, with rivulets of sweat running down her face and her body constantly. She was wearing light clothing, just a leopard skin tube top, jeans shorts and tennis shoes, fairly common dress for women her age in the South in midsummer. That helped a little.

Most annoying was the sweat that ran down her face. She couldn't wipe it off with her hands, all she could was rub her face against the fabric-lined floor of the trunk.

She knew her father would be searching for her, but she didn't know how long it would be before he knew she was in trouble. She'd sneaked off many times before to get liquor and meet boys and whatnot, and the staff was accustomed to covering for her to a certain extent. Now, of course, the ones they'd be covering for -- unknowingly -- would be her captors.

The worst part was the terror. She was afraid they were going to kill her. It happened to people who got abducted. Not often, but it happened. Mostly, their families or corporations gave up some money.

Thinking about these things as a scary and distant possibility was one thing, but experiencing them while bound and gagged and locked in the trunk of a car driven by men with guns was a horror that made her struggle against her bonds with far more strength and determination than she would have given herself credit for having. To no avail.

After a time, her leg muscles began cramping in the heat and the confinement. There was no way she could stretch her legs by more than a tiny amount to relieve the cramping, but the pain was unbearable, so she screamed and moaned into her gag and twisted and writhed in the trunk, trying to stop it. The ballgag in her mouth and the tape over it made a very tiny sound of her screams, and her bonds made her painful writhing very limited in extent.

The terror did not end when the car stopped a long time later. She did not know how long she rode, only that it seemed to take forever.

By the time the car stopped, she was in a half-doze, too full of fear and too cramped from her bonds to fall asleep, but with nothing but silence and darkness and the steady thrum of the car engine, it was hard to remain fully awake.

When the trunk was finally opened, she was unable to do anything to escape. She made noises, of course, but she was well and truly gagged and she felt a sick certainly that there was no chance that anyone could hear her who might help her.

Hand seized her and roughly dragged her out of the car. Then she was carried a short distance, up a small flight of stairs and in through a door.

A moment later she was casually dumped on the soft surface of a bed. No one spoke around her, which was frightening somehow.

("We don't talk until the headset is on," said the Wrangler when they were planning the job. "It won't take long, and it'll keep the clue levels down.")

Christine had anticipated that she would hear the men who'd abducted her talking -- some kind of conversation, no matter how banal, would have been reassuring somehow.

She had also expected her bonds to be loosened somewhat, so she was relieved when she felt the hood coming off.

A blaze of light greeted her eyes, such a blaze that her wide-open dilated pupils couldn't make out a thing in the second or two between the hood's removal and the placement of a new, tighter hood over her head.

This hood was leather, and it had a zipper up the back. Her captor pulled it over the front of her head, blinding her anew, then ripped the duct tape covering her mouth off. She expected the wiffle ball gag to come off next, but it didn't. Instead the hood was pulled farther down over her face. There was a hole for her nostrils and a hole for her mouth. When her captor zipped the back of the hood down -- snagging her hair painfully once or twice in the process -- the leather that ran over her upper lip and under her chin was pressed so tightly against her that her lips were almost sealed against the ball that sealed them shut. She could breathe through the holes in the wiffle ball, and she could make more air come in and go out by pulling back the corners of her mouth from the ball. There were also holes for her nostrils, she discovered.

She was dismayed, however, when she puled her lips back and a big string of drool spilled out of her mouth. It hit her emotionally because it was the culmination of how little control she now had over what happened her. She did not want to drool, but it didn't matter -- she was going to drool.

She tried to talk to her captor, it was the only thing she could do. Even with the ball in her mouth, she could make something like words.

"Eeh, no," she said, her tongue sliding repeatedly against the slick surface of the ball as she tried to speak. "Le' ee ga."

For her trouble, she felt a hand pressed over her mouth for a minute or so. She laid there and felt her breath whistling through her nose. She got the message. She was not supposed to talk with them.

She also wasn't supposed to hear them. She did not see the Wrangler duct taping a pair of headphones over her hood. They were the wireless kind. Their transceiver was hooked up to a small portable CD player, which was at this moment running on outlet power. The Wrangler flipped the switch on ...