Chapter 1
    
    A searing pain between her legs and the distinct feeling that someone or something was trying to remove her head slowly penetrated the thick haze in Chelsea's mind, and she instinctively tried to maneuver herself to a more comfortable position before she even opened her eyes. Her legs were bent awkwardly, and when she tried to straighten them, she discovered that she was apparently, in some manner, standing or crouching. Applying any force to either her right or left leg resulted in a painfully crushing, cramped sensation emanating from her feet, and an increase in the pain between her legs, resulting in a yelp and hiss from the young brunette.
    
    This was all horribly wrong. Chelsea began to slowly open her eyes, blinking to clear the haze, groggily beginning to register that she had no idea where she was, or how she got here, but that she must have been drugged because she had never felt this dazed before. It felt like the time she had fallen out of a tree and broken her arm, and the doctors had given her morphine to dull the pain which had knocked her out cold, only the sludge in which her thoughts were trying to navigate was much thicker now.
    
    Reaching up to her neck to attempt to remove whatever it was that was pushing her small mouth closed from underneath, she encountered thick, cold iron. Adrenaline began to pump in her little body, and she again attempted to stand, this time with force, only slam the tops of her shoulders and collar bone painfully into the metal, creating two new angry bruises to match the ones already developing under her face. A very distinct scraping feeling registered from between her legs, as if someone was raping her with sandpaper.
    
    She blinked, trying to focus. The room was dark, but across from her, maybe ten feet away, was what looked to be a large, free standing vanity mirror that was very well lit. Once her eyes cleared and focused, Chelsea could clearly see most of the sources of her discomfort, thanks to the mirror.
    
    A half circle of thick iron surrounded her throat, trapping it against the brick wall behind her. Thick bolts held the cuff in place, lending a terrifying sense of permanence. It held Chelsea in a place too high to kneel, but too low to stand, robbing her of any semblance of comfort and forcing her to either support herself with her feet in a very awkward crouch, or rest her weight on the underside of her jawbone.
    
    On her feet were wooden shoes that, had they been sized, appeared to be at least two sizes too small. They had the highest heels Chelsea had ever seen and forced her feet into the shape of a ballet dancer's foot when holding an arched pose. Chelsea was shocked to think of her feet actually being inside of the tiny things under her ankles, but the proof was in the terrible cramped feeling that shot up her legs any time she tried to rearrange herself. She could only barely feel her toes as they were bunched into an impossibly tight ball of agony, with nails slicing into flesh, as all five on each foot tried to occupy the same inch of space at the same time, somehow going deeper into the point of the inflexible wooden shoe with each attempt at relieving her agony.
    
    Her hands were free, but she was unable to remove the shoes, and eventually her questing fingers were able to feel out the reason: the shoes had been nailed together onto her feet. No less than twenty nails adorned the edge of each shoes, all the way around, connecting what she assumed was a top and bottom half. Along the seam, she could feel what she recognized as wood glue. The shoes would not be coming off without the help of a saw.
    
    She was wearing a long, loose white dress that she had never before seen, but acknowledged in the back of her head was sort of pretty. It had long sleeves and, where it lay against her body, was semi-transparent, leaving no questions unanswered as to what lay beneath it, which was nothing but Chelsea's flesh. A light zipper ran down the entire front of the dress. A simple ribbon tied around her chest at the base of her breasts added a tightness to the top part and, as the room was quite cold, enhanced the already obvious presence of Chelsea's pert nipples. The ribbon tied into a neat bow that settled directly on her solar plexus.
    
    Something was causing her great pain between her legs, penetrating fairly deep into her vagina and touching the entirety of its inner wall, including her clitoris, but the young woman could not discern what it was as her knees pushed the dress away from her body, making the area between her legs a shadowy mystery. Having had surgery at a very early age to remove the beginnings of ovarian cancer, Chelsea had known for most of her life that could not bare children, and had never developed much of a sex drive. She was a virgin, and wondered briefly if this was what a penis felt like, though she dismissed the thought almost immediately as she knew they were smooth on the sides, and whatever this was certainly was not smooth. The only thing she could tell about the object for certain was that, when she moved, it did not, causing a very painful friction on her womanly parts.
    
    Eighteen years old, Chelsea had worked on her family's farm her entire life, and rarely wore make-up. Someone had painted her face, however, with a skill that far exceeded her own. Dark eyeliner accented her long, dark brown hair, and a bit of blush highlighted her slightly chubby cheeks. Had the mascara not already begun to run due to tears cried now and in her sleep, she would have looked quite pretty.
    
    Fully awake, Chelsea tried to remember how she had gotten here, but came up empty. She remembered falling asleep outside on a hammock after brushing her father's horse. Her parents had not been home, but there had never been any reason to think anyone dangerous would come down their lonely country road. Try as she might, Chelsea could not conjure up any other memories. That was it. She fell asleep there, and woke up here.
    
    She was very disturbed to realize that, not only had she been undressed from her work clothes and redressed, but she had also apparently been cleaned. She had fallen asleep sweaty and hot from working, and though the pain and exertion of her position was causing her to sweat again, she could see in the mirror that her long brown hair, which had been meticulously brushed, was clean.
    
    There was no arranging herself in a less painful fashion. No matter how she moved, or how hard she tried, every possible position was intensely uncomfortable, and every time she rearranged, she felt intense, gnawing pain in her nether regions. Hot tears of frustration and agony began to stream freely down her face, and she moaned piteously.
    
    “Hello?” she said, quietly at first, with a shuddering voice, “can anyone hear me?”
    
    Other than a disturbing echo, there was no response.
    
    “Please,” she begged into the darkness, “please help me...”
    
    She futilely tried to pull at the brace around her neck, accomplishing nothing but verifying its solid rigidity. That it was the only thing keeping her in place was doubly frustrating, but unless she somehow removed her head, it would continue to keep her immobile. If she had a tool, she could try to get the bolts off, but they were far too tight for her fingers to turn, though she certainly tried.
    
    “Please!” she yelled, becoming more desperate, “there has to be someone out there! Please let me go!”
    
    She could hear the panic rising in her voice as it bounced off the walls and returned to her own ears, heightening her anxiety. Her hands on the iron around her throat, she flailed back and forth, wracking her shoulders and jaw repeatedly, oblivious to the additional pain and injury that she was inflicting upon herself, yet always aware of the sawing feeling between her legs each time she moved her body up or down.
    
    Pleeease...” she cried, between sobs, “oh god please help me...”
    
    “But God has brought you here, to suffer for the benefit of all mankind...” said a voice from the darkness.
    
    “Wh...what? Who...please help me!” Chelsea said, feeling hope for the first time at the sound of another human voice, yet experiencing dread at his words. What did he mean, “suffer for the benefit of all mankind?” She strained her eyes in every direction, but the bright light bouncing off the mirror blinded her.
    
    “But I am helping you,” said the man earnestly, while coming into the light. He looked very ordinary, skinny with a bony face and a short haircut. Except for his eyes. In his eyes, Chelsea saw insanity. “I am helping you fulfill your role as mother to the holy savior, should you be chosen.”
    
    “What are you talking about?” Chelsea asked. She considered explaining that she could not be a mother to anything, ever, but decided to keep her mouth shut as she did not want to antagonize this obviously unstable person.
    
    “Through me, you may become the mother of God's child,” the man said, matter of factly. “I will prepare you, and insert within you his seed. If you are lucky, it will take root, and you will give birth to His offspring. If not, you can still be happy with the knowledge that you were among the selected, even if you failed, and that the last thing you did was a service to all of humanity.”
    
    “I'm not going...” Chelsea began. Then the gravity of his entire statement hit her.
    
    “Last!? What do you mean last!? You're going to kill me!? Let me go!” she screamed at him, and began struggling anew.
    
    “Of course I will not kill you; I am no murderer,” said the man in a manner that suggested Chelsea was being completely silly, “but I must ensure that no hope or dreams of yours pollute His essence. Even your pleasure, your comfort, must be eliminated, to ensure the purity of the child's soul. The child cannot be born of sin, and as the Lord has tasked me with bringing his child to the world, I must take steps to be sure that you do not enjoy the act of conception. You can be rest assured that I take no pleasure in what I must do to you to make this miracle possible.”
    
    “I...wh...I don't understand,” Chelsea sputtered, “please, just let me go. Please!”
    
    “The time for questions is over, beautiful one,” he said, his voice ever soft but stern. “The time for preparation has begun.”
    
    As he walked toward her, she watching him warily. From his pocket he withdrew a plastic air bladder with a detachable pump on the end. When he came at her mouth with it, she tried to clamp it shut. A swift, sharp punch to her stomach, however, viciously delivered without pause by her captor, left her gasping for breath with her mouth wide open like a fish out of water. By the time she was again able to breathe, the man had inserted the bladder into her mouth, behind her teeth, and pumped enough air into it that she could not push it out with her tongue. She tried to fight with her hands, but he simply grabbed her wrists, and pinned them painfully against the brick wall above her head while he continued to squeeze and release the pump, still staring her in the eyes. He was not terribly strong, and she could feel that she could almost pull her wrists out of his grip, but he held them far enough away from her body that she was not able to exert her full, farm working strength, and was therefore able to keep her under control. She wiggled and yanked on her hands, scraping their backs raw against the bricks, but was unable to pull them down.
    
    Her jaw felt like it was going to be dislocated, yet still he pumped. Regardless of what he had said, she could see in his eyes that he was indeed enjoying torturing her. Her tears, along with her bulging cheeks and distended mouth, were turning him on, and he did not even attempt to hide the leering grin on his face. On the occasion that Chelsea did dare look at him, she was further terrified as his stare never left her.
    
    He twisted a knob on the pump and, feeling it begin to deflate, she was hopeful that he was going to remove the horrible thing inside her mouth. He only let it go down a bit, however, before closing the valve. Letting the pump hang, he then reached into her mouth and disconnected the pump and hose with a light “psht” sound, leaving the inflated bladder filling her cheeks and smashing her tongue into the bottom of her mouth.
    
    Then he walked away. Chelsea “awwwg'd” at him, but was ignored. Using her again free hands, she explored the thing that kept her mouth painfully spread. It was still entirely too large for her to remove, using hands, tongue, or both, and her own teeth did an excellent job of keeping it in place. She could feel and see in the mirror where the hose had connected, and tried pushing on it, hoping it would work like a tire valve, but was not so lucky. Her mouth remained completely stuffed.