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What begins as your everyday abduction ends with the big stunner, a martyrdom replete with a crucifixion.
She begins unhappy. Unwilling? On the floor of a straw-filled barn. She wears jogging clothes as though he caught her unaware. She struggles, her ankles and wrists locked into stocks made of metal rungs bolted through an old four-by-four. A feed sack has been shoved over her head. She moans and cries.
A pitchfork is the tool for her instruction. It pokes. It prods. It probes.
He fingers her through her shorts.
"You fuck boys with that, don't you?" he says.
When the feed sack is pulled off her head, her mouth is stuffed and taped. He tightens leather around her neck. He presses against her windpipe, urging her to be quiet. And he cuts off her clothes.
He wrings her tits as though milking, "Just like a cow." He beats her pussy with a dildo. He rubs her cunt roughly. He shoves the dildo in and threatens her to hold it that way while he's gone or he'll beat her, he'll suffocate her. She lies naked, up-ended in the stocks with a black dildo poking out of her.
He talks to her about her holes. How many does she have? Three? Five?
And he trains her. He teaches her to open her asshole for him, each time wider, until he can get the dildo in that hole too.
She is then stretched out wide, spread-eagle on the barn floor, her limbs forming the angles of a cross. The tines of the pitchfork caress her again. But this time, the handle is pushed into her cunt. He locks a box around her head. Rectangular box, her body naked, and the long handle of the pitchfork protruding from between her legs. She becomes nothing but Image, a foreshadowing of what is to come.
He ties her arms in a Japanese cradle. Ropes bind her breasts, chest, waist, crotch. Her clit is pinched between the two tight ropes. She is hung in an inverted suspension. He scourges her. He sits in front of her face and fucks her mouth with a dildo, domesticating her, making her usable to him.
Eventually she is his mare. He fits her with a bit and a long tail drooping from her ass. He drives her, holding the reins. A stream rushes beside the barn. Before her, the long green fields lead upward, into the mountains.
He compels her there, upward, pulling her with a rope that leads from the bumper of his truck to her crotch. She is naked, a heavy cross bound to her arms. She drags it behind her. And she is barefoot, her steps mincing as she makes her way along the gravel road. She climbs higher. Sunlight grows finer. Meadow weeds gleam.
The end of her long road, shot from behind, is the upright cross and her hanging upon it. The wide valley stretches before her. She bakes in the sun. Time passes. She struggles to find a purchase for her feet, but there is none. She writhes. She tires.
The sun dips down, showing her agony in gold, the light of evening. Not much longer, and her body is still. She hangs motionless, the final image, icon made flesh.
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