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Viking Instinct
12/23/2010
It was during July of our last Northern California summer when I first noticed Christine. I had known who she was for the past three years, having gone to school with her and all, but it wasn't until I started playing football my senior year that I truly took a gaze at her voluptuous, half-white, half-Latina body in a cheerleading outfit. Standing 5'3" and weighing a feathery 105 pounds, she had the body to make a man's pulse thump. Such a darling young girl of 18. I, on the other hand, was somewhat of a brute: six feet tall, 190 pounds, buzzed hair, and hey, I'm not exactly what you would call meterosexual. That's why I went out for defensive nose tackle; I love thrashing, smashing and clashing, especially in the mud. The guys always messed with each other for one thing or another, and I happened to be the ginger of the crowd. I am mostly Scottish, but the Viking side of me I got from my mom makes me a buff ginger. Its the reason I can knock the other team's motherfuckers to the deck. Its also why I just can't help making rough love to the ladies, and talking to Christine for the first time is what struck that nerve in me once again. Young women looking their best equals my primal urges at their worst.
Everything started one afternoon, we had just finished our morning workout / drills, and when I walked up to my Chevy she was standing there. Her face was down towards her pink-cased iPhone, texting, but when I tossed my pack into my truck bed she put it away and said hi. She flashed me that devilish smile of hers, with the perfect white teeth between those glossy strawberry lips you want to kiss every time you lay sight to them. Then, all I could see was one dainty, manicured hand slide down that perfect ass as she stored her phone in the back pocket of her 12" skirt. Below the tattered denim, the whole world disappeared except for her two legs: skinny, yet perfectly and evenly shaped, colored the light brownish shade of fresh cedar wood.
After I broke out of my fascination, Christine and I talked casually for the next few minutes. I was sipping on a lime Gatorade while she asked me about how I liked being on the team and what everybody was doing the upcoming weekend.
"So how 'bout you, Hunter?"
"This Friday?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I don't really know. Might go to Aaron's party."
"Me, too!"
"Think it'll be any good? All our parties I've been to get busted by the cops or nobody shows."
"Yeah, I know, it's hella gay. But Aaron's parents are outta town, and they've got that huge house..."
"True that, true that." I nodded along.
Every now and then she suspected me (and was correct) of scoping her breasts, which made her blush slightly. She would try to hide her guilty smile and break eye contact for a second. It was such a shame to hide those hypnotic, sharp almonds she had for eyes. Every time we resumed conversation again she brushed her black, shoulder-length hair away from her baby-smooth face. Overall, Christine had inherited the perfect dosage of Cuban sexiness.
"And, get this: Carly got a fake I.D from her sister."
"Are you two bringing the booze?"
"Hell yes! Every one's getting so hammered. Oh, you have to come!"
"Long as there's Jager."
"No shit, Hunter, of course we're having Jager. Just leave the supply to us, me and Carly are bringing everything!"
It was adorable how she giggled and squealed with excitement. So innocent-looking. So cute. Like a life-sized, hot-pink teddy bear I wanted to squeeze and masturbate against.
Her ride pulled up soon after and we said bye to each other. I hated breaking off our time together, but was glad for the awkward chit chat to be over and actually starting to look forward to Friday night. Carly was Christine's best friend, a blond girl of equal beauty caliber, and the thought of those two getting drunk at a high school party (where the situation always got crazy anyway) inspired some happy hopes of getting laid. I tried my best to focus on driving as I pulled out of the parking space. Still, what guy in my position could be able to take his mind off such a matter? Especially me.
Whenever I thought of those young women, my longtime bondage fetish I'd had since childhood began to surface like a stealth submarine. Confetti rope, zip ties, handcuffs, duct tape, blindfolds; I loved them all. It had been quite awhile since I thought of these fantasies consciously, yet the recent news of my upcoming opportunity was mysteriously inspiring me to reconsider. I bore quite a list of additional fetishes / attractions: womens' designer jeans, redheads, highlighted hair, preppy girls, womens' boots, etc. Maybe it was because all the females I'd begun to hang out with around that time met such criteria.
In my younger years I satisfied such urges with the occasional peek at Google images after my parents had gone to bed. Drawing S&M-themed comic strips was another outlet. Women in bondage sent my synapses into ecstasy, and while I was mostly focused on how to party with my peers, a few minutes were spent wondering how incredible the sensation could become if I actually acted out my fantasy for once. Those few minutes turned into quite a preoccupation, and it all came to fruition the following Friday night.
Our school's population was comprised of the middle and upper class people of town, mostly white, and Aaron's family owned one of the houses up on the hill. Perfect place to hold a mass party under the right conditions, and that night, the conditions were perfect in my favor. A few beers may have loosened me up, but I was still completely in control. In fact, a small amount of alcohol always got me right in the mood, as did a little bit of freak dancing. It didn't hurt that Aaron's house was thronged by 40 or so flawless females.
Between the loud music and crowded rooms, I eventually located a semi intoxicated Christine and convinced her to come into one of the kitchens with me, where we were keeping all the liquor. Said I had a surprise for her. The room was empty, well-lit, and with a back door that led to the real surprise waiting outside.
She had come that night dressed to impress, and after she turned around and I closed the door behind us, I took a second to admire the prized catch I was about to claim. Right as she started to open her mouth and ask questions, I grabbed her from behind and put her in a powerful choke hold. It completely blocked off her airway, silencing her. I enjoyed the 30 seconds I spent holding Christine tight, and of course, the struggling was my favorite part.
She flailed her legs about, kicking me some of the time, so I held her out in front of an open area where she wouldn't knock anything down and cause attention. I couldn't wait to get more of that, but for then, I needed her to pass out, which she did shortly. I'm not into dead bodies or anything, don't get me wrong, but I got quite a thrill out of cradling her limp body. She was just asleep now; I could feel her breathing as my arm constricted her chest. That experience gave me enough of a boner. How could I have known how much further the adventure ahead would take me?
I gently laid her down on the floorboards of the backseats, folding up an old sweatshirt into a square and placing it under her head. Christine's wrists were small enough that I had to click down the handcuffs to the max. I put the chain through a door handle and cuffed her other hand, tugging on each one to make sure she was fully secured.
The next step was the gagging. I got out a thick strip of white cloth, an old towel or something, and tied two knots in it's middle. I pressed both cheeks, popping her mouth open a little, and with three fingers stuffed the wadded cloth in between her teeth. I ensured her tongue was suppressed underneath it, then tied two knots in the back of her head.
I sat on top of her for a few minutes, taking pride in my latest prey. Arms restrained above her head, cleave-gagged, moaning and groaning quietly as she began to rouse from unconsciousness, it made me absolutely giddy. Oh, the shock she would feel when she came to and found herself utterly helpless! I knew we really had to get going, but I impulsively decided to indulge myself just one minute more. Rubbing her inner thighs and slithering my hand up her skirt wouldn't be any fun till she woke up, so I moved further down her legs, where I removed her tan, sheepskin Uggs and blue socks. Christine's feet were as small and delicate as her hands, and I couldn't wait to start massaging them for her, maybe give them some tickling. For then, I simply crossed her ankles and tied them with a short strand of confetti rope.
"That's right, sweetheart, get some sleep. You've got a long night ahead of you."
Hopping into the driver's seat and starting up the engine, I realized what a broad, muscle-fixed grin I had. It was as involuntary as the veins throbbing in my erection.
My alibi was genius: earlier I made sure to tell everybody that I had to bail from the party, plus my mom and step dad always went to bed before me and never knew what time I got home anyway. No record, no brushes with the law. For 20 or 30 minutes I drove, with a pleasurable buzzing in my head, getting high off the excitement. I was more careful than ever not to be pulled over. There aren't a lot of patrol cars out near my house that close to midnight, but I sure as Hell wasn't taking any chances.
Finally we arrived at the old abandoned winery, less than a mile from where I lived. A few days before, I'd set up a little playhouse for us inside the half-charred wine cellar. If anybody later asked why my truck had been parked outside an abandoned building I could just 'admit' to going there to smoke weed.
It was a chilled summer night in a valley of wine country. The horizons were blocked by large green mountains on each side, and above their ridges every twinkling constellation in the sky could be viewed. I took a look around, a few deep breaths of fresh air, then opened the side doors and climbed in to the back seats, where I squatted down next to Christine.
She was fully conscious by then, yet surprisingly mellow. Frightened, no doubt, though she wasn't struggling as much as you'd expect. I chuckled briefly, reached out and patted her slowly on her jewel-pierced belly, knowing the taunting would piss her off. She squirmed and wriggled around. Bit down on her gag and grunted into in quietly. Batted those long lashes at me while the eyes teared up, as if to beg for mercy. Such a sight only pleasured me more. I fell in love with the pathetic sadness in her eyes; how disappointed she seemed after every unsuccessful attempt to break free from the cuffs. Or every time she brought her head up to look at her bound feet and realized the rope was too strong.
However, my favorite part came when I decided to free her legs: I pulled out my 8" bowie knife to cut the rope with, then discovered a great chance to have some fun with Christine. I showed her the knife, waved the blade in front her face a little, touched the icy steel (the blunt side, of course) to her warm skin. As I expected, she started thrashing around a lot harder, squinting her eyes shut, sobbing and screaming into her gag, so I mounted her again and enjoyed her struggling against my weight. She calmed down after a while, still breathing quite hard, and that's when I finally sawed the rope off. I sheathed the knife and could tell she was glad to be untied. Not for long.
"See, 'ya dumb bitch? I was just cutting your rope."
I firmly grasped her neck with one hand, giving it a slight squeeze, and let her know she'd better respond.
"Mmm-hmmm" was the noise that came out. She nodded.
"Now don't take this personally, okay?"
Christine looked at me, confused. This was obviously very personal; I was just fucking with her.
"Can't have you seeing where I'm taking you, can we?"
I took a black foam sleeping mask and held it over her eyes, adjusting the strap in the back until it fit perfectly.
"You know what happens if this ever comes off without my say-so, right? Or if you try to pull any stupid shit?"
"Hmmmm?"
I made an exaggerated croaking noise and ran a finger swift across her neck, adding: "Then I'll kill 'ya. So just be a good girl, alright?"
"Mmm-hmmm" she responded nervously.
I twitched all ten finger tips about, tickling her inner thighs. I couldn't get enough of it; watching a restrained / silenced / blinded Christine jump and shake helplessly as I teased her skin. My curious digits progressed up her skirt, causing the girl to give out some delightful and terrified squeals, and soon found themselves fondling a lace pair of red panties. I stripped them off and stuffed them into my pocket. She wouldn't be needing them anymore.
I had been waiting so goddamn long to see her pussy. I reached overhead to click on the truck's ceiling light, then forced her legs wider and lifted her skirt up to her belly. Christine began crying again, I could hear it, biting down on her gag even harder and whimpering louder. There it was: a clean-shaved, nubile pussy, running vertically down that precious space between her legs. Fresher than a ripe Georgian peach snatched off the orchard, Juicier, too. Better than I was anticipating. I'm not down with under aged girls, 18 and up is my policy of attraction, but the most subtly beautiful and sublime thing I've ever seen in nature is the uninterrupted sight of a females smooth vagina. I'm not racist, either, though I was ecstatic to realize that she had inherited her snatch from her mother; it was pink like a white woman's.
I sat there for about five minutes, gently stroking her crotch. It was cool to watch her chest start heaving up and down faster and faster, to watch as her breathe quickened and toes and fingers wiggled. It's adorable how scared / ashamed some girls are of their own pleasure. Prescription: some strong, quality loving from a Viking man.
The small space of my truck was getting uncomfortable, plus I really wanted to get down to my setup in the cellar so we could finally fuck. I pulled her skirt back down and searched my pocket for the keys. I uncuffed one hand and, maintaining an authoritative grip on each wrist, forced her to sit up. I was nice and decided to give her a bit to shake out her sore joints, then after a minute brought both hands behind her back and locked the steel again.
"C'mon, get on your feet."
I dragged her out the door and yanked her upward till she was standing, holding on to her right bicep to guide her. Naturally taking such a smaller step than me, she took too long to walk to the main entrance (in this case, a collapsed wall). I had to give her a couple kicks in her sexy ass to send the message. I simply loved how she yelped every time I struck; its a shame she did start walking faster and that I couldn't keep it up for longer.
The wine cellar was small and compact, and best of all, sound proof. The brick walls and floorboards would make sure of that. A heavy-duty battery-operated lantern provided the light, with plenty of backups. Two mattresses were stacked in the corner, covered with more than enough pillows and blankets.
I literally picked Christine up at the waist and threw her onto the bed. I pounced a few seconds later, landing right on top of her and feeling like a lion during mating season. This time she lay on her stomach, and when I re-cuffed her hands I chained them to a metal pole built into the wall's corner right above the mattress. Doggy style just feels so much more natural to me; I simply had to use it with Christine now that I was so far down in my animal instinct.
Up came her pink-tinted, vintage T-shirt, which I pulled up far enough to reveal her white bra. I ripped that off with minimal effort. Time to get to business, and the business was playing with Christine's tits. They weren't cone-shaped or sagging down or anything nasty, exactly the right size and the right level of perkiness. Real close together, too. I had her on all fours, mounting her from behind, practicing a little dry-humping. My crotch gyrated and rubbed against her ass while my hands squeezed both her breasts. She screamed and thrashed around in her helpless position, trying to buck me like a pony. I was just getting warmed up. I slapped them around a bit and savored the moisture building up around those tiny, tender nipples.
Being little more than half my body weight, it was easy to force her down flat on her stomach and pin her legs open. I was developing another fetish for the high-pitched cries for help she made from behind her gag, in fact, I rested my head on her shoulders just to have my ear closer to her mouth. The noises made my erection harder and harder. Once it was a full 6.5 inches I folded her skirt up again and piloted my thumping dick deep into that sweet, sweet pussy of hers. It fit so snug in there I couldn't believe it.
As I began thrusting back and forth, penetrating her deeper and deeper, her noises turned into long, amplified moans. I grabbed hold of her arms and yanked them back, tugging them against the handcuffs, reminding Christine of her restraints. It also helped maintain my boner; looking at her weak position, her wrists in shackles, the blindfold over her crying eyes, and my personal favorite, her gagged mouth. I kept riding her till my own thighs felt like they might begin cramping up. I straddled the little bitch so long she went numb, burying her face in the pillow and just taking it. I fucked until my eyes rolled into the back of my head. I fucked her stupid.
When I finally finished, it was by far the most intense coming I'd ever experienced. I stayed inside her for about two more minutes, taking forever to pull out. The sensation was too damn good; I wanted to preserve it forever.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, wiping the sweat from my forehead and trying not to focus on my extreme thirst. I could easily see that Christine hated having my hot, syrupy semen linger in her pussy, the way she clenched together and squirmed, trying to shake it out or something. Coming inside them or on them is a way of marking territory. I gave her a couple soft spanks on her bare ass to remind her who she belonged to now, but was disappointed by how unresponsive she'd been towards the end. It just wasn't gonna fly. Good thing I had the perfect idea of how to fix the fantasy.
Five minutes later, after securing the cellar door behind me and finding my way to the back seat of my truck once again, I fumbled through Christine's purse until I located her pink-cased iPhone I recognized so well. Thank God she didn't have a password, because it was easier than I thought to go to her contacts page, look up "Carly", and send a message of my own:
"Meet me outback in 15" was all it read.
I received a response text of "OK". That is what secured the heavenly continuation of this episode I was sure lay ahead. The only thing better could be a little girl-on-girl action thrown into the mix, and that's what I aimed for.
To Be Continued
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